The Ups and Downs of Being Dead

by M. R. Cornelius

  As Sam wandered near Maggie, she faked a yawn, patting her wide-open mouth with her hand. Evidently, Sam got the message, because his arms dropped to his sides.

  “My point is,” he said, “we are speeding into a technological future that most of us cannot comprehend, much less predict. All we know is that every exponential jump gets us closer to being reanimated.”

  An appreciative burble of agreement rumbled through the room, although there was no applause. Robert had actually tried to clap before he realized it was futile.

  Once Sam sat back down at their table, Stuart Greyson returned to the front.

  “Thank you, Sam. It’s always reaffirming to hear your positive outlook on the future.” Stuart paused before continuing. “And now, hot from Hollywood, our link to the stars, Madeline Wingate.”

  A woman sitting directly behind Robert rose amid chatter from others nearby. Dear God, the woman was a walking advertisement for cosmetic surgery gone wrong. She had the gaunt cheekbones of skin pulled too tight, set against voluptuous lips bulging from too much collagen. Robert guessed her age at mid-seventies, yet she flaunted perky breasts in what must have been a thirty-eight D. How many times had she had those babies hiked back up?

  At the fireplace, Madeline began running through a list of Hollywood celebrities and their illnesses. Robert missed the name, but the folks in the row behind him burbled with excitement when Madeline mentioned some Hollywood icon who had recently slipped into a coma.

  “Just last month,” she said, “four of us were there when Alexander Jordan died. What a talented young man he was, to be struck down with lymphoma at such an early age. And so charming. He visited with us for over two hours. Told us absolutely scandalous stories about himself and Lily Cantrell. He had us laughing hysterically with behind-the-scenes stories from a movie he’d made with Joel and Ethan Coen.”

  Turning to Maggie, Robert whispered, “Is she serious?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Maggie nodded. “There are several death groupies among us. They keep tabs on who is dying so they can be on hand for the event. That’s the only way they’ll ever meet big-name stars. A couple guys do the same thing with sports legends. They want to meet their favorite baseball hero or golf pro. So when they hear they’re sick, they go hang out nearby.”

  Robert snorted in disbelief.

  “There aren’t too many young athletes or musicians, though,’ Maggie said. “You never know when they’re going to get shot by a girlfriend or overdose on drugs. Movie stars have more predictable diseases like cancer and AIDS.”

  “They hang around their deathbed waiting for them to kick,” Robert said.

  “Basically,” Maggie replied. “Obviously, there are celebrity spirits out there, but unless you stalk them, how do you know where they are? It’s not like you can read about what they’re up to in the Enquirer or on some Internet chat line. Every once in a while, there’s a dead celebrity sighting. Someone swears they saw Paul Newman at the Indy 500 a couple years ago. And Madeline swears she met Gilda Radner at some department store. Says they’re the best of friends now.”

  “Has anyone run into Elvis?”

  Maggie laughed. “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Several other members took turns announcing their plans for the next six months. One man rallied last minute interest in the Super Bowl in January; a woman was organizing a trip on the Orient Express.

  A man in the back of the room stood at his seat.

  “Just a warning here,” he said. “I went with a senate fact-finding committee to the Middle East. Let me tell you, there’s nothing like a room full of politicians to make you glad you’re dead.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Seriously though,” he continued, “I wouldn’t recommend a trip to the Middle East anytime soon. Even the dead ones hate us.”

  A young man, maybe in his mid-forties, sprinted to the front.

  Maggie turned to Robert and said, “Check this guy out.”

  “Many of you know me,” the man said. “I’m Eddie Baldwin. Several of you have requested information on the next shuttle launch. NASA is sending up a shuttle on February ninth to deliver yet another module to the International Space Station.”

  The noise level in the room rose to a raucous pitch of chatter.

  “Oh, Robert!” Suzanne gushed. “We should do that!”

  “Go up in the shuttle?”

  “Yes! Did you ever, in your wildest dreams, think that one day you would get to go into space?”

  Robert was too embarrassed to admit that he’d never had the slightest desire. Instead, he asked Maggie on his other side, “Who is this guy? Was he an astronaut?”

  “No. But he worked for NASA in the control room. He tried to get into the training program, but he had some kind of heart problem. I guarantee, when Eddie comes back, he’ll command the first moon colony, or be chosen for a deep space voyage. He knows more than anyone else at NASA. He’s either auditing classes at MIT or hanging out at Kennedy and Houston. Once they fix his ticker, there’ll be no holding him back.”

  Stuart raised his hands to hush the crowd. “I promise we’re just about done here, and then you can all get details from Eddie on the shuttle.”

  A woman seated next to Suzanne tsked the idea.

  “I went with them two years ago. What an awful place,” she bemoaned. “I was expecting something like the Starship Enterprise. But that Space Station is abysmal. Cramped passageways, cables strewn everywhere, on the floor, along the ceiling. And the sleeping quarters! My God, those astronauts sleep upright in these tiny closets, hanging in sleeping bags like bats.”

  After thanking Sam and Asa and Esther for their services, Stuart asked for volunteers to serve as greeters at the Cryonics Center until the next meeting in June.

  “We also have to vote on where our next meeting will be,” Stuart said.

  People nominated Sydney, Paris, and London. When a husky man stood and shouted, “Katmandu!” everyone laughed.

  “Good old Pete,” Maggie said. “He suggests that every time. But over the years, we’ve learned that it’s better to pick a city where English is common. It’s tough enough getting around in a strange city when you can’t ask anyone for directions. It gets a whole lot tougher when all the signs are in a foreign language.”

  Once Toronto was chosen for the June meeting, the group broke up. Sam cornered Robert. “You’ve got to meet Jess Baxter.”

  He ushered both Robert and Suzanne straight through the dining tables to a burly man standing in the back, his chest thrust out, his hands clasped behind his back like a general.

  After quick introductions, Sam asked Jess, “When did you get back?”

  A huge smile parted the man’s heavy beard and mustache. “About a week ago.”

  “And was it incredible?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, indeed.” Jess shook his head, the smile still radiating. “I still can’t get over how much preparation goes into a climb like that. You know, it took sixty yaks to haul all the teams’ provisions to base camp. And the sherpas are just amazing.”

  The smile wavered into a smirk. “Although a couple of the climbers were total jerks. This one guy was always making exaggerated hand gestures at his sherpa, treating him like an imbecile. And he’d make disgusting cracks about his sherpa cozying up to his yak at night. One of the other climbers finally reminded him his life depended on that guide. Sure enough, on the way back down, the guy lost his footing and tried to self-arrest.”

  Turning to Robert, Jess explained, “That’s where you roll onto your stomach as you’re sliding, and drive your pick into the snow. If the pick doesn’t catch, you roll again and keep driving that pick into the ice. Sooner or later, you can gain purchase and stop your slide. But this idiot panicked. Couldn’t roll. His sherpa went after him.” Jess pursed his lips. “Saved his sorry ass.”

  “So, what was it like, being on top of Everest?” Sam asked.

  The smile broke through the shaggy beard again. “It was fantas
tic. Unbelievable. I wish I could say breathtaking, but—” He shrugged, and Sam chuckled.

  “They call it the death zone up there, don’t they?” Sam said.

  Jess nodded. “The air is so thin, most men don’t climb without oxygen these days. And that’s after they’ve spent four or five weeks at middle camp, acclimating to the altitude.”

  “Five weeks?” Robert blurted. “What do they do all day?”

  Robert got the same dull-eyed look he’d gotten from the golfer, and the football enthusiast, and now even Sam. The disbelief that Robert didn’t find climbing Mount Everest the most fascinating adventure of all.

  Then he got a simplified explanation, as though Jess were speaking to a child. “Well, they go on short climbs each day. They practice using their picks and ropes. They learn how to stop a fall or slide. And most important, they get acclimated to the lack of oxygen. Some of those climbers come into it thinking they’re in top shape, but believe me, they come back to camp at night panting like dogs.”

  When Robert didn’t react with the proper enthusiasm, Jess turned back to Sam.

  “I wish I could have felt the cold, just for a moment. Or struggled to breathe in the air at the very top.” As Jess spoke, Sam nodded as though he understood perfectly. “You can’t truly grasp the experience until you’ve walked across a flimsy bridge and stared down into a chasm so deep you can’t see the bottom. It’s only when your heart is in your throat that you get a real sense of the risks.”

  More nods from Sam.

  Robert took a quick peek at his wrist, but of course, his watch was not there. How much longer would he need to hang around these macho men before he could slip away?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Robert spotted Suzanne and Maggie, conferring off in a corner.

  “What are you two plotting?” he asked.

  An anguished expression washed over Suzanne’s face, almost like she wanted Robert to bail her out of something.

  “I was at the Metropolitan Museum yesterday,” Maggie said. “They have a fascinating Egyptian exhibit. It got me wondering about tombs that are supposedly cursed. Maybe its really just lost souls. Like Stan in Florida.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Robert said, going for a droll expression. “Why don’t you go investigate that theory?”

  She smiled at his insolence.

  “I am. As soon as I can get a flight,” she said. “I’ve been trying to talk Suzanne into going with me, but she’s not interested.”

  “You don’t want to roam through dark, musty tombs? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I’m going back to St. Louis to see how Angie’s doing,” Suzanne told him. “And then I think I’ll check out some place warm. I’m tired of gray skies and slush.”

  “You can’t even feel the cold.”

  “I know, but everyone else can. It makes my shoulders tight just watching people all hunched up and shivering.”

  “St. Louis is cold and rainy,” Robert reminded her.

  “I know,” she said, then wagged her eyebrows. “But Cancun isn’t.”

  “Cancun?” Robert snorted. “Are you going to go get wild with the college girls?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m going on a cruise. Maybe to Saint Thomas. Or Aruba.”

  The idea of being stuck on a cruise ship for a week made Robert cringe.

  “Would you like to join me in Egypt, Robert?” Maggie asked.

  “Heck, no. I definitely don’t have a sense of adventure.” He took a moment to glance around the Carlisle’s lobby. “I guess it’s too late to catch up with Madeline Wingate and her death squad.”

  “Come on, Robert,” Suzanne coaxed. “It’ll be fun. Calypso music, scantily-clad babes.”

  He returned her lascivious smile with a blank stare.

  During the meeting, he’d listened to lots of people talk about exciting things to do, and exotic places to go. None of their suggestions had sparked an interest with him. His decision came down to one simple question. Did he want to part company with Suzanne?

  * * *

  It was raining and gray in St. Louis, as Robert had pointed out in New York. Pedestrians had their umbrellas aimed at the assault, leaning into the wind.

  The visit to Angie was just as dismal. Suzanne’s father sat in the corner of the hospital room reading a newspaper while Suzanne’s mother, Eloise, sat on the other side of Angie’s bed, watching The Price is Right. Angie was asleep.

  When the program ended, Eloise woke Angie to tell her it was time to get ready for dinner.

  “What?” Robert blurted. “How does she get ready for dinner? Change into a fresh hospital gown?”

  But he soon saw. Eloise came out of the bathroom with a washcloth and proceeded to wipe Angie’s face. Then she carefully brushed her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail before painting on a little powdered foundation. She finished off with lipstick.

  Draped over the back of the chair was a lacy pink cape which Eloise wrapped around Angie’s shoulders and tied up with a jaunty bow to the side.

  “Where did she find that?” Robert guffawed. “I don’t even think my dearly departed Aunt Esther would wear something like hideous.”

  “I think my mother lived a previous life in the Victorian age,” Suzanne said.

  Dinner arrived. There was a bit of arguing over Eloise trying to feed Angie, and Angie insisting she could do it herself, so a towel was draped over the cape and cinched tight at her neck.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” Robert asked. “Did you have to dress for dinner every night when you were a kid?”

  Angie managed to cut chunks of mushy meatloaf with her left hand, but more than half of her peas rolled out of her spoon before she got it to her mouth. Eloise was right there like a crow, snatching up the renegade peas and tossing them away.

  Angie had pretty much finished off her pudding when footsteps in the hallway got granny into high gear. She rolled away the table, yanked off the towel, and hastily blotted Angie’s mouth just as Mark strolled into the room.

  “I should have known,” Suzanne said. “My mother is playing matchmaker.”

  For the first time, Suzanne’s father laid down the newspaper. The two men shook hands, and Eloise insisted Mark sit in the chair beside Angie.

  After a chaste kiss to the forehead, Mark perched beside Angie and took her left hand in his.

  “I spoke with your doctor,” he said. “He thinks you can go home by the end of the week.” He looked up to address Suzanne’s father. “If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d like Angie to come home with me for her recuperation. I can have a bed put in the den at my house. And I’ve contacted a convalescence service that can come by twice a day to check in on her. Help her with meals. See if she needs anything.”

  “Oh, no,” Suzanne moaned. “That’s it. She’ll never break away from him now.”

  “Why should she? He’s a great guy. He’s offering to play nursemaid, he’s willing to disrupt his home and his life to put her first.”

  “You wait,” Suzanne said. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”

  * * *

  Since their cruise ship didn’t sail until Sunday, Robert decided to drop in on Rachel in Atlanta. He played it safe and went directly to Audrey’s corporate headquarters rather than the house in Ansley Park.

  The offices of the Audrey’s Corporation were sparsely decorated in quiet elegance: hardwood floors with plush area rugs, floor to ceiling glass with a view of the Peachtree Westin and Centennial Park beyond, and beneath accent spotlights, an oil reproduction of Amanda in the famous champagne gown, lounging on the chaise; the picture that had launched Audrey’s into the mega-corporation it was today.

  He poked his head into his old office, now Rachel’s office, but she wasn’t there. An unfamiliar personal assistant sat at the desk out front, typing at her computer.

  “Maybe she’s at lunch,” Suzanne offered.

  “Let’s try the conference room.”

  A staf
f meeting was in progress. Pictures of little girls in darling outfits were propped on easels along the wall. Robert recognized a couple manufacturers’ reps, a half dozen Audrey’s buyers, and possibly the attorney who had replaced Martin, all seated facing the easels.

  Rachel stood at the head of the table and addressed the group as they munched on deli sandwiches.

  “I’m tired of seeing little girls dressed in miniature versions of women’s clothes. I saw a young girl at a reception last week. From a distance it looked like she was wearing a strapless gown. When I got closer, I saw that the dress was held on with a sheer mesh bodice and capped sleeves. The child could not have been older than eight or nine!

  “What are we doing to these young girls? They think they’re all grown up by the time they’re twelve. They don’t play with dolls, they text on their phones. They don’t ride bikes, or play soccer, or jump rope.”

  Rachel drifted to the first easel. “American Girl Corporation has an incredible market share on girls’ clothing from seven to fourteen. I want to get in on the trend, only at lower prices.”

  She held up a hand when a buyer sucked in a breath to ask a question. “I’m not talking about the birthday parties, or the luncheons, or the dolls. I’m strictly interested in the clothing. Our advertising campaign will emphasize age appropriate activities.” She gestured to the easel.

  The setting was a small park with a paved walkway. One girl in the picture wore roller blades, the other girl rode a scooter. They both wore shorts and knit shirts, but the shorts hung mid-thigh, not cut up to their butt cheeks.

  How long had Rachel been playing with this idea? She’d never mentioned it to Robert. Did she think he wouldn’t approve?

  He studied a picture board with two girls in frilly velvet dresses, standing in the lobby of an elegant theater.