The Dead Celebrities Club

by Susan Swan

  I could guess why he came. Earl belongs to a committee of wealthy businessmen who are advising the Administration Division of the bop on how to cut prison costs, and I often see him on the prison television talking about the need to privatize our jails.

  A few hours later, a C.O. escorted me to the warden’s office, where Earl and the warden were looking at pictures taped to the wall above the warden’s desk. They were photographs of security drones, large and small, along with drawings of handheld shields used by swat teams and prison guards.

  The pair stood studying a diagram of a full-body shield that fits over a man like a life size plastic doll. Its metal mouthpiece gave the thing a Darth Vader aspect. I shuddered at the thought of a human wearing something so claustrophobic.

  Warden, are you thinking of Star Wars costumes for our C.O.s? I asked. The two men whirled around in surprise.

  Heck no, Dale Paul, they throw in this futuristic stuff to get our attention, the warden said. Closing the door gently, he went out. As soon as the warden left, Earl sat down in a chair by the open window and loosened his baggy shirt; the style of his loose garment reminded me of the maternity blouses Esther used to wear when she was carrying Davie. Did I say loosened? He undid his shirt all the way down to his belt, as if its ample cloth didn’t give him room to breathe. Point being, Earl has always felt free to let his guard down with me. However, this degree of inhibition was something new. Then I understood: his throat had grown a dewlap the size of a football. How did he keep his shirt done up over something like that? Lord knows what else was hiding under his capacious clothes. He saw my raised eyebrows and smiled.

  Your condition … I hesitated.

  Yeah, it’s a hell of a lot worse. But nobody seems to notice, okay? Or maybe they just don’t give a shit. He turned his head in the direction of the open window and closed his eyes. He seemed to forget I was there, and for a moment he sat warming himself in the sunlight flooding the warden’s office. Then he sat up abruptly, as if he had been caught napping. He pointed at the warden’s photographs of the drones, and I realized he was letting me know that he was still the same old Earl.

  See those drones, he asked. They’re designed to avoid objects. And they return home when the batteries get low. These fuckers will come in handy in a war, okay? His shirt was still open, so I could see his dewlap pulsing a light shade of pink. While I stood there, staring, the colour of his throat deepened to a wine red. Possibly, the prospect of doing battle with the drones was triggering aggressive feelings in him.

  I guess you know why I haven’t called, Dale Paul.

  You tell me.

  Look, you’re a good guy, but the world doesn’t know you’re a good guy, okay?

  I experienced an involuntary twitch. When Earl says okay, it is like a poker tell that signals he is about to deliver a load of tripe. It’s all right, Earl. I’m not angry with you.

  He seemed to relax. Old friends, right? You can’t beat ’em. Look, Nate says you run a workshop on financial skills. It’s a waste of tax-payers’ money, okay?

  It helps the men get jobs after they leave.

  You mean so they can screw some sucker when they get out?

  So they won’t come back, Earl.

  Something flickered in his heavy-lidded eyes. Surprise? Interest? An acknowledgement of what I had just said?

  Well, I don’t know about that. Your workshop might get cut, okay?

  He rubbed his hairless head, which gleamed under the ceiling light as rich and soft as new pigskin.

  It rankled to think of him destroying something I had created. I pulled out my notebook and began to doodle. Hands this time, doing magical tricks.

  Are you listening, Dale Paul?

  I listen better if my hand is busy, I replied. It was the same thing I’d told Meredith, and he nodded doubtfully.

  Okay, yeah, I see. You must have some skin in that dead pool you set up, right? His broad smile exposed his high pink gums. Remember what the teacher wrote on our report cards? All Dale Paul and Earl Lindquist want to know is — what’s in it for us? He chortled.

  Earl, my workshop is a helpful pedagogical exercise, and I’d like to keep it going. I helped you once. Remember?

  My memory is shit, but yeah, I remember a few things. And you know what? I never saw anything at Munson Hall to get excited about. It was all dumb crap. Cold weather. People talking in British accents …

  Nobody spoke in British accents, good sir.

  Yeah, whatever. Okay, let me tell you something. You used to be a class act. Nobody could break your chops. You had sharp clothes and your daddy’s limousine. And now look at you, okay? How come you were stupid enough to get caught? But look, I gotta see the next guy. Tell me how to fix this dump. In five minutes. No, tell you what. Write me a letter. I’ll make sure the warden sends it to me.

  Do you recall what Thompson did that afternoon in the forest … how he and the other boys humiliated you? I paused, letting him absorb the word humiliated.

  That day in the forest … you mean the shit hole called Norgate?

  Yes, Norgate. Do you remember what happened there?

  The scaly flesh of his dewlap turned a chalky shade. Perhaps his thoughts were drifting back to that deathly lonely place where an icy river winds through an unending clot of skinny maple trees.

  Look, I’ll help you keep your workshop, okay? he said finally. If there’s a way, I’ll do it. I’d even get you a pardon.

  A pardon?

  He swivelled his head slowly from side to side. Sure, a pardon. You’re innocent, right? You shouldn’t be in a dump like this. And don’t tell me any more garbage about the old days. Okay, let’s see your funny money. You got some on you?

  I handed over a c-coin with Zsa Zsa Gabor’s name.

  Isn’t she the crazy bimbo with thirteen husbands? He made a snickering noise; then he turned away to perform some function with his mouth. I couldn’t see what he was doing, although hand on heart it looked as if his tongue was licking his right eye, washing it clean with a froth of saliva.

  Nine husbands.

  Okay, nine. But look, no matter what happens to your workshop, no hard feelings, okay, Dale Paul? You and I did some crazy shit together. You scratched my back. I scratched yours. He did up his shirt and heaved himself to his feet. What I’d been allowed to see was once again well hidden. He was all saurian intent now.

  And with that, Tim, our old schoolmate walked out, calling over his shoulder to me: See you around, pal.

  Best regards,

  Dale Paul

  12

  May 27, 2013

  Dear Tim:

  Something distressing has happened. I saw the lights again when the Michael Jackson dancers did one of their routines. They were doing it for Earl and Nathan Rickard, who were reclining on lawn chairs by the tennis courts while I stood behind the fence with the other scofflaws — a sad reminder of my altered circumstances.

  John was there too, with his runners. When he spotted me, he waved me over. Banging the arms of his wheelchair, he turned toward his women. Hey, ladies! Meet the great Dale Paul. Maybe you read about him in the New York Times? And now he’s enjoying the prestige. I don’t blame him. World-Renowned Hedge Fund Manager Runs Financial Workshop Inside the bop. When he gets out, that story is going to pay off big-time. I’m not trying to get a medal, but he is.

  I could feel myself turn red. Tim, I haven’t blushed since public school and likely not even then. Why does John keep picking on me, you might ask? Because our ten celebrities are still alive! It’s absurd. Nobody can control their health.

  Pretending John’s barb was all in good fun, I directed a gentlemanly bow toward the women and then we all turned to watch the dancers doing their high-stepping military drills on the empty tennis courts. As I watched, from out of nowhere, tiny golden sparkles began to flash in front of the men’s b
odies; the lights were small at first, and then grew larger, forming patterns that evoked the bright streaming lines in time-lapse photographs of night traffic. I am not sure how long the lights danced and flickered, but when I came back to myself the rehearsal was over and John was tugging impatiently on my arm.

  I believe he was telling me the value of Bitcoin has skyrocketed. Despite some ups and downs over the past months, one coin is now worth one hundred and thirty dollars. If it keeps going up like this our Bitcoin jackpot could be worth millions.

  Best regards,

  Dale Paul

  June 2, 2013

  Dear Tim:

  Thank you for asking for my version of what happened at Norgate. You haven’t forgotten, have you, Pilot?

  I’m talking about the May weekend that you and Earl and I took part in the school games at the country estate that some fatuous old boy had donated to Munson Hall. Pater and Googie were too busy to attend, but Meredith and Mr. Eric came along with the other parents to watch us race rafts made from logs left behind by nineteenth-century lumbermen. Nobody cared that the half-submerged barges might come apart at any moment.

  After the boat races, I set off to find Earl, who was nowhere to be seen; as you will recall, he often stole away to escape the taunts of our schoolmates. He didn’t understand the school code: Don’t brag like a bully. Take what you want, but act like a gentleman.

  Near a high granite outcropping, I stumbled on a group of boys tormenting something. When I crept closer, I saw Earl spread-eagled on his stomach, his trousers in a nearby heap. Several of the boys were holding Earl down while Thompson tried to shove something up Earl’s rectum. Some of the boys were yelling at Earl, who was yelling, too, and Thompson was swearing at him to shut his mouth.

  Without thinking what I was doing, I began screaming for our geography master, Mr. Cootes: Lord help us, old Cooties! Save Earl from these bullyboys, these thuggish poltroons, these clay-brained knaves! I beg you! When Thompson turned my way, I screamed even louder: Help us, Cootes, in the name of Justice and Mercy!

  I have no idea why I invoked his name. The scenario was something our pervy teacher would have enjoyed.

  When they saw I wasn’t going to stop, the group melted into the trees. After several fumbling attempts, Earl removed the Pepsi bottle and staggered to his feet.

  Without meeting my eyes, he threw the bottle as hard as he could at the tall granite cliff, and we heard the satisfying sound of shattering glass.

  13

  Meredith Paul

  ON A LATE August day, Meredith sits reading on a patio chair the movers have left behind. She is finishing a chapter about Norgate in Dale Paul’s memoir, and she’s grateful Tim has left out the rest of what happened that terrible afternoon.

  She had been necking with him in the woods near a rock outcropping on the Norgate property. They were both in their underwear, and she had screamed just as he was unhooking her bra. After the bit of glass flew into her eye, changing her forever, she had collapsed forward, blood running down her cheek. Out of nowhere, Dale Paul and Earl appeared. Dale Paul ordered Earl to fetch the school doctor, and for once Earl did as he was told while Dale Paul and Tim helped Meredith put her clothes back on. A few moments later, the school doctor showed up with the headmaster. They expected accidents in the rough and tumble of the Norgate games; they just didn’t expect the victim to be a girl with a pop bottle shard in her eye.

  Afterwards, Tim had tried to visit her in the hospital, but she didn’t want to see him. She didn’t blame him. She lacked the energy to reassure him because he seemed to hold himself responsible for the accident.

  With a sigh, she puts down the memoir chapter and picks up something she found in Dale Paul’s study. It’s the glass paperweight she bought her cousin as a joke. It had reminded her of the snow globe in the film Citizen Kane. Inside, tiny glittery flakes of ivory are falling on miniature New York skyscrapers. She gave it to Dale Paul for Christmas, the year they had moved into their Long Island home Tomorrow, new owners take the house over. It’s an old, familiar story. You go and somebody else takes your place.

  From nearby comes the sound of a man’s voice. She has been too absorbed in her thoughts to notice Tim.

  It’s a shame you have to let this place go, he is saying. Are you sad about losing it?

  Not really. It’s a lot to keep up.

  And Mrs. Paul?

  Well, it’s strange. When she was alive she underestimated me, and now that she’s gone, I miss her. It’s not as if she was my mother.

  Are you sure about that?

  You think she was?

  Maybe, he says. She was around when you were growing up, right? Good or bad, she’s your maternal figure. Can I ask you something?

  Isn’t that what you do?

  He laughs. Are you upset with what I’ve written about Dale Paul?

  We’ve talked about this before, and the answer is no. As for Dale Paul, he’s never cared what people think. He isn’t a people pleaser like me.

  Maybe not caring what people think is the same thing as not caring about people, Tim says.

  She feels her chest open suddenly. A brightness.

  Now it’s my turn to ask you a question. She hesitates. Are you sure about the marriage?

  Never been more sure! Don’t forget. I’ve wanted to straighten things out between us for a long time.

  Tim. She smiles fondly. It’s okay.

  14

  Dale Paul

  TRISH BALES, THE BOP psychologist, is waiting for me on a bench outside the pool building. I suppress a twitch of irritation, although she is a serious-minded woman. She must have something important to say or she wouldn’t waste my time.

  I sit down on a bench near her chair, and she lights up. While I wait, trying not to fidget, she smiles.

  I know, I know. She shakes her head apologetically. It’s illegal to smoke on the grounds, but I’m stressed about the budget cuts. I want my study at Essex to continue, and you must feel the same way about your workshop. Will you help me get testimonials from the men? Maybe you could write one yourself.

  Trish, someone like Earl Lindquist doesn’t care about rehabilitating the men. He told me himself these programs are worthless.

  Oh, that’s right. You know him, don’t you? And he wouldn’t listen. Well, that’s no surprise. She takes a heavy pull on her cigarette. By the way, there’s a rumour making the rounds that you are going to be the next celebrity to die.

  I grab her package of Kools. When she looks up in surprise, I tap my chest with my finger. Had to stop. My ticker. Listen, Trish, what rumour are you talking about?

  My source in the admin claims you are on the list. He says he saw your name in the warden’s box. You know, the black metal box that Mr. Rickard uses to keep his letters in. It’s on the shelf behind his desk.

  Words fail me.

  15

  FROM THE WARDEN’S window, the hills of the Adirondacks float on the horizon like green clouds. There’s no sign of the leaves turning yet, although it’s already mid-September.

  I have set up a phone call with Earl, and given half a chance, I intend to turn the situation to my advantage. The warden’s letter box is right where Trish said it would be — on the shelf behind his desk.

  The phone rings, and I press the speaker button anxiously. The warden is hunched over his desk, pretending not to listen.

  That you, Dale Paul? Earl bellows.

  It’s me, yes. You have news? I bring out my notepad and start to doodle.

  I said I’d help you keep your workshop, right? But the guys on the committee think it has to go. It’s fucked, okay? The American taxpayer can’t afford to throw money away on losers. Hey, you still on the line? You’re not angry, are you, Dale Paul? It’s too bad about your workshop, but maybe you can write a book or something. So, look, I gotta go. Give my regard
s to Nate. He’s a good guy too. And write down this number. It’s about a deal. The biggest deal I ever made. I want you to come in on it with me.

  I thank him for the phone number and we say goodbye.

  When I put down the phone, the warden isn’t there. Gone to the washroom if I’m lucky. Cautiously, I pick up the letter box and shake it; it’s not locked, so I open the lid and peer at the tidy stack of envelopes tied with an orange elastic band. Each one bears a name. I rifle through them until I come to an envelope labelled Mystery Celebrity. Someone has done a sloppy job of gluing the envelope back together, so I open it easily. Inside on a piece of prison notepaper I see the words “Dale Paul.”

  Alas, I know what Pater would say. He would say when you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas. And yet, what if you think you’re a dog too?

  16

  BAILEY IS ON his cot reading the Virgin Mary’s Book of Quotations. On a dorm radio, Whitney Houston finishes her lush diminuendo.

  Something untoward has taken place, Bailey.

  He sits up, his eyes bewildered behind his oversized spectacles. Somethin’ untoward? Can you break it down for me?

  I’m the mystery celebrity. Does that make any sense to you?

  B, I heard that rumour too. A lot of guys betting on you.

  You mean, betting on the mystery celebrity?

  Yeah. They sayin’ that on Inmate dot com. Bailey groans and shakes his head. You know I don like Mr. Jack. Feels like you don see him clear. You think he be colourful, like he jes stepped out of a movie or somethin’. But he jes playin’ you.

  I rock back on my heels. Why didn’t you say something?

  I don know. I ain’t … I don’t have proof. Just vibes, okay? And you act all happy when Mr. Jack around … He shrugs.