The Ups and Downs of Being Dead

by M. R. Cornelius

  Amanda’s share of the estate had seemed a bit too generous for Robert, but then Martin always had a soft spot for her. All she had to do was stick out that bottom lip, or let her crocodile tears pool in her eyes, and Martin obliged.

  When Robert became a member of the Cryonics Center, his relationship with Martin cooled, especially when Robert retained Jackson Burke to write up his Living Will and Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care. Robert tried to explain that Jackson specialized in that type of law, but Martin was miffed. And when Robert chose Anne from the center as his health care agent instead of Amanda, Martin vehemently objected.

  He just didn’t get it. If Amanda knew an autopsy would botch Robert’s plans for revival in the future, she’d be the first to demand one.

  * * *

  Atlanta boasted several ‘old money’ neighborhoods like Druid Hills and Buckhead. Amanda wanted a Buckhead address, and if she couldn’t live right on West Paces Ferry, she certainly had insisted on Tuxedo Park.

  How strange for Robert to step off a MARTA bus at the corner of Valley Drive and West Paces, and walk the rest of the way home with a brigade of cleaning ladies.

  He stood for a moment at the end of the long driveway, wishing he had half the money he’d sunk into that gothic revival monstrosity, all in the hopes that with a prestigious address, Amanda might fall in love with him.

  Passing through the front door, Robert took in the two-story foyer with its Italian marble floor. He made his way past the sitting room, the game room, the study, the formal dining room. How many rooms did the house have that Robert rarely set foot in?

  Comfort had never been Amanda’s goal. She wanted the house to be featured in Architectural Digest, and she didn’t stop spending until it was. Who could have guessed that once she reached that lofty goal, she would sink into a depression that only cream puffs and cheese blintzes could relieve. She must have gained another fifty pounds before Robert had a guest room on the pool level renovated into a small gym.

  When he didn’t find Amanda in the kitchen, he made his way up the back staircase and down the hall to the master bedroom. He heard the shower running and poked his head through the glass door. The sight of Amanda was so shocking that Robert jerked his head back through the glass as though he’d accidentally wandered into the wrong house. He gazed through the frosted glass at her leg propped up on the tile bench while she shaved. Yes, that was Amanda. Robert slipped back into the shower for a closer look.

  Her thighs were more taut than when he’d first met her. He knew she’d lost weight, but when had she done all this? Had he really been spending that much time away from home?

  Even her breasts looked rebuilt. She’d had no desire to breast feed either Robbie or Rachel, but during her pregnancies, her breasts still swelled to gargantuan size; and once they shrank back, they were forever marred by stretch marks.

  When she straightened to allow the water to rinse her leg, he saw how high and perky her breasts rode on her chest. She’d had them reduced. That was nothing short of a criminal offense.

  Her stomach flattened into a classic washboard, and all that excess flesh from pregnancy was gone. Her upper arms and shoulders hinted at muscles. This wasn’t just diet; she had to be working out for hours to sculpt that figure.

  Evidently, she’d hired a personal trainer. An image of some sleazeball in spandex, rubbing his sweaty body next to Amanda’s, pissed Robert off. The dirtbag should have seen her after Rachel was born: the rolls of sagging fat, the thighs that slapped against each other when she walked. The figure Robert had worked so hard to promote had been utterly destroyed.

  She’d been the Audrey’s girl; her picture in every fashion magazine from McCall’s to Mademoiselle. He’d even thrown good money on ads in Vogue knowing those readers would never lower themselves to shop at Audrey’s. But he’d done it for Amanda.

  After that first photo shoot at the Empire Hotel, Amanda had agreed to dinner. She babbled about the other models who missed their marks causing yet another retake. She groaned about her aching feet from so many trips down the catwalk. But Robert caught the glimmer in her eyes. She was finally one of the girls. By the end of dinner, he was holding her hand.

  And when the advertising agency provided him with layout proofs, he hand-delivered the boards to her apartment so she could see that her photo was by far the most prominent. She threw her arms around his neck and crushed her lips against his.

  The day Mademoiselle hit the newsstands, he bought her a copy from the vendor on the corner. Her hands shook as she flipped through the pages. And after studying the spread forever, she looked at him with tears in her eyes.

  Then she dragged him up to her apartment. He’d barely gotten the door closed when she was pushing his jacket off his shoulders, and tugging at his belt. They went at it right there on the living room floor, moaning, clawing, grunting their lust like animals.

  He wondered if she’d been faking even then.

  * * *

  Wrapped in a plush towel, Amanda strolled into their bedroom. Robert followed, sinking into a chair to watch her step into a black lace thong. She ran her fingers delicately under the front panel to smooth the edges, then peered over her shoulder at the mirror to check out her perfect buns. She was still putting on a show.

  Robert remembered times, especially after they were married, when she would prop a leg onto the chair he was sitting in, giving him a quick peek at the hidden treasure between her thighs before slowly drawing a stocking up her leg. She would dust her breasts lightly with powder, swirling the puff around her nipples, and then bend to drop those wonders of nature into a lacy brassiere. It was like a strip-tease in reverse that drove him wild.

  By the time she was dressed, he was hard as a rock; but of course she pushed away any advances, insisting that he not muss her makeup or hair. He usually finished himself off in the shower.

  He’d like to give himself a little personal attention right now, watching her stretch that black jersey dress over her thighs. She hadn’t worn anything that sexy in years.

  “Mourning becomes Amanda,” he muttered.

  The tasteful Crane’s vellum announcement of Robert’s memorial service was wedged into the corner of her mirror.

  She reached into the cup of her bra to plump her breasts. Her reduced breasts.

  Robert sadly shook his head. “You shouldn’t have.”

  As she clacked down the marble stairway, she pulled her cell phone from her purse. Robert pressed his head against the telephone to see who she was calling. Somewhere a phone rang several times before a sullen, groggy voice grumbled, “What?”

  Robbie.

  Amanda’s face locked into a smile. “Are you all packed? You need to call a cab by ten-thirty if you’re going to make your flight.”

  “I’m in fucking bed, Mother. So you can knock off the fucking good humor bit.” It sounded like Robbie rolled to sitting. “What time is it?”

  Her smile morphed into a sneer. “You promised you’d come to Atlanta. This is your father’s funeral, for Godsakes. I sent you the ticket. I have a driver coming to Hartsfield to pick you up. All you have to do is catch a cab to LaGuardia.” Her voice rose to a higher pitch with each sentence. She ended in a whine. “How will it look if you’re not here?”

  There was a pause on the other end, followed by Robbie sucking in a breath of air. A cigarette? Or his first inhalation of the drug de jour?

  “He’s not dead, so why do I need to come home for your little charade? You can pretend this is a funeral, but sooner or later people are going to find out the truth.”

  She escalated to screeching. “You promised you would come!”

  “No, Mother. I said I’d think about it. Now when was the last time I thought about anything and decided to do it? Never?”

  Amanda slumped into the Louis the Fourteenth chair in the foyer. Why was she so surprised? Robbie was twenty-six and still hadn’t worked a day in his life. Why should he? She sent him a monthly allowance, to
say nothing of the million and a half she’d ‘invested’ in a condo for him in Battery Park.

  How much had she shelled out over the years to bail Robbie out of scrapes with school officials, duped girlfriends, and the police? The way she squandered money, she’d go through her share of Robert’s estate in ten years. Would she end up having to sell this house?

  If she cut Robbie loose, she’d be quite comfortable living off her interest, but if she let Robbie keep eating away at the principal—?

  “I just think you could show your father some respect—”

  “Respect?! And this coming from a woman who called him a loser and an imbecile, right to his face!”

  Amanda massaged gently between her eyebrows to keep the muscle from contracting into lines. “I was angry. He was dying and I couldn’t do anything to save him.”

  My God, her voice even cracked when she said that. She may be too old for modeling, but she had a promising career in Hollywood.

  “You found out he was going to freeze-dry himself and keep most of his estate.”

  She scraped her teeth across a corner of her freshly-glossed lips, debating. “I told you if you didn’t come home, I was going to withhold your November allowance.”

  Robbie scoffed as he blew out smoke. “Don’t threaten me, Mother. You’re so bad at it. And listen, when you transfer the funds, you better add a couple extra thousand. I had some unexpected expenses.”

  He hung up.

  By the time Amanda got to Harrison’s, she’d stopped fuming. After expelling one last breath of frustration, she painted a smile on her face and stepped inside the restaurant.

  There sat Martin, at the bar. Big Surprise. Amanda had no doubt set up a meeting to find out if she was going to be filthy rich, or just independently wealthy. She let those hips do the talking as she swaggered toward Martin.

  He swung off his barstool looking quite dapper. When had he stopped buying his suits off the rack? And were those Italian shoes? Martin was definitely the anal-type—too preoccupied with business to be bothered with personal appearance. For years, Robert swore Martin’s closet was filled with identical blue suits, white shirts and striped ties.

  As Martin ushered Amanda through the restaurant, his hand settled on the small of her back. Did she find the contact as revolting as when Robert touched her? She probably wanted to slap Martin for his insolence, but fought the urge—at least until she found out what sort of loopholes he’d found in Robert’s Trust.

  Martin held her chair, telling her how lovely she looked. She tilted her head back and graced him with a smile.

  “Don’t fawn over the woman,” Robert muttered. “Can’t you see how she’s playing you?”

  The smile on Martin’s face twitched a bit at the edges, like the plaster he’d used was about to crumble. He must have made arrangements earlier, because a cocktail waitress magically appeared with a fresh cocktail for Martin and a glass of wine for Amanda. Good thinking. Did Martin have some small talk rehearsed while he waited for Amanda to get some wine in her? It was going to take more than a little merlot to get her through this.

  The color in Martin’s cheeks had faded to a pasty white as he slumped into the chair opposite Amanda. Slowly, he wrapped the fingers of both hands around his glass in supplication.

  Reaching across the table, Amanda touched a palm to his white knuckles. “Looks like the meeting with Jackson Burke didn’t go too well.”

  Oh, yes. Robert had done the right thing, turning over his final arrangements to Jackson Burke. If he’d let Martin handle the trust, Amanda would have somehow cajoled him into getting the terms changed to her advantage. He’d seen her do it plenty of times when Robbie needed bailing out.

  The only question was how: the helpless damsel in distress, the ball-busting wench routine, or had she thrown caution to the wind and used the sexy vixen approach? Dear God, had she gone so far as to sleep with Martin?

  Amanda pried his fingers off the cocktail glass. “Martin?”

  Oh, boy. Was she going to toss Martin’s cocktail in his face? Very dramatic. That would probably get her a mention in Peach Buzz, the celebrity column in the Atlanta newspaper.

  “The man’s good, Mandy.”

  Mandy?

  “He’s a genius.” Martin squeezed her hand. “And we’re screwed.”

  He let the finality of his statement hang for a second before he continued. “Our intention was to contest the validity of the trust. Claim that there was no proof that Robert would ever return, or that he was of unsound mind at the time he had the trust drawn up. But Jackson Burke has a video Robert taped, and he looks pretty damn sound. He also slipped in a no-contest clause to the original document, and as far as I can research, it’s good.”

  “What does that mean?” Trying to feign calm, Amanda sipped at her wine.

  Martin gazed right into her eyes. Good God, how many drinks had the man had that he was willing to face her down? Right now, his balls should be receding in protective mode; he should be scoping out the nearest exit.

  Once Amanda set her glass back down, Martin continued. “If a judge agreed that there was no ascertainable beneficiary—no Robert anymore—or that Robert was indeed incapable of making decisions, the judge would find probable cause and nullify the trust. But if someone contests, and the judge does not agree, according to the no-contest clause, the beneficiary who challenges is disinherited.”

  Amanda didn’t understand all that legal mumbo-jumbo, but she sure picked up on the magic word: disinherited.

  Her voice cawed, “What?”

  Martin fanned her with his hands, trying to keep her from coming out of her seat. “I’m sure they put that in there for Robbie. Sort of an all or none clause. You can challenge, but if you’re unsuccessful, you’re out—with nothing. Being disinherited can be a powerful psychological deterrent.” Martin took a long pull on his own cocktail, no doubt savoring the flavor before he sprinted for the door. “Like I said, the guy is brilliant.”

  Robert took a bow, even though Martin was probably referring to Jackson Burke.

  Now it was Amanda’s turn to gulp her drink. Bet she wished she had something stronger. She’d probably like to blame the scene she was about to cause on drunkenness.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” she sighed. “This is so like Robert. I wonder if the whole point was the hope that I would challenge. If the media got a hold of the news, I’d be branded as a heartless gold-digger like Anna Nicole. Or that bitch who scammed Paul McCartney.”

  “Robert’s not that smart.”

  Hey!

  “Are you kidding?” Amanda said. “Remember when I asked him to drop his damned exclusive clause in my contract? Do you have any idea what I might have earned in endorsements? But he couldn’t stand the idea that I might make more than he paid.”

  “Well, there isn’t anything in the trust about that. Maybe you still could.”

  “What am I going to endorse now? Hormone replacement therapy? Depends?”

  “Come on, Amanda. You’re still a beautiful, vibrant woman.” Martin reached under the table.

  What the hell? Robert slipped his head through the tablecloth. His attorney had his hand on his wife’s thigh; and she was letting him!

  “Look at all the cosmetic companies with their rejuvenating facial creams. Or weight loss programs.”

  Under the table, she laid her hand on top of his. It was about time the true Amanda showed herself. Robert watched to see her manicured claws dig into Martin’s knuckles until he dragged his paw off her body. But she guided his hand farther between her thighs and squeezed!

  “You think someone will pay for a testimonial about how, with the right man, a woman can do anything. Even lose a hundred and thirty seven pounds?” She giggled.

  Martin gave her a big smile. “We could show before and after pictures of both of us. You in a moo-moo and me in a dorky wool blend suit.”

  Just like that, she reached across the small table and grabbed Martin’s tie
. She literally pulled him out of his seat, rising up from her own chair as well, and planted a deep lingering kiss on his mouth.

  Queasiness washed over Robert that he hadn’t felt since those first moments after his death. His chest felt tight, and a high-pitched squelch rang in his ears.

  He’d never seen it at home growing up, but he’d watched enough movies, he’d heard enough songs to know what he was seeing. Love.

  He ran. Through the cut-glass doors of Harrison’s, across the parking lot, and up Peachtree Street; running as hard as he could to get away from what he’d witnessed. Questions tumbled over each other: How? When? And the most painful of all: Why Martin and not me?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Exhaust-belching trucks and careening cars flowed beneath Robert like a polluted river. He stood on an overpass of the northern section of the beltway, miles from Buckhead. The setting sun perched just above Marietta to the west. Had he run all this way? He didn’t feel the least bit winded. Only defeated.

  After debating the possibility of finding a cab this far from the city, he began aimlessly walking. He killed hours at a sleazy strip club featuring girls with too much belly fat and sagging breasts. All of the strippers came out for the finale, strutting and squeezing to Donna Summer’s ‘Last Dance’. More like last chance for the remaining drunks to slip dollar bills into panties, while fumbling fingers drifted clumsily toward restricted areas and got slapped playfully away.

  Then it was on to the Waffle House on Piedmont where drunks hung out after the bars closed down, combating the booze with scrambled eggs and raisin toast.

  It was still dark when Robert ended up back at his home in Buckhead, but the birds were tweeting restlessly in the trees, so dawn was near.

  Even though he knew what he would find, Robert tortured himself by climbing the spiral staircase to the master bedroom.

  Amanda lay nestled in Martin’s arms, her lips just inches from his neck. Robert wedged himself between them, wanting to feel her soft, warm breath against his own skin. He couldn’t.