by Josie Brown
As he looks around for me, I back into the cavern. It seems fairly deep, so maybe I’ll have time to think of a course of action before running into him again—
As opposed to Mama Eel and her nest of babies. Ah, so that must have been Papa Eel keeping guard!
Thinking her little ones are under attack, she strikes at me. I dodge out of the way just in time.
A sinister chuckle echoes off the cavern’s walls. “Which will it be, sweet Donna—electrocution, or a shredding by me?” He taps his forehead with a webbed finger. “Ah, but one must play by the rules.” He shrugs. “I’m sure Mama won’t mind if I slice and dice her babies’ next meal for them.”
He’s wrong. She slithers and hisses even closer, ready to do battle.
Sebastian darts in my direction, jaws open wide.
I have nothing to stop him except for the coin-laced gown—
So I cram it deep into his mouth—
And then I duck.
He’s either gasping at my audacity or choking on the cloth and coins.
Mama Eel’s forked tongue goes into his jaws as well. When her electric current hits the coins, Sebastian lights up like the winning jackpot screen on a one-armed bandit—an apt analogy, now that what’s left of him is fried. His body dissipates in a hazy cloud.
I, on the other hand, find myself being pulled out of the cavern and up through the water—
I pop up—soggy, shivering, and gasping for air—in the center of the Devil’s ocean.
“Bravo! Bravo!” he chortles. He stands on the yacht’s deck, clapping enthusiastically.
Behind him, off in the distance, someone is sailing our way: Nola Janoff.
This dearly departed Acme operative was one of the organization’s most notorious swallows. Carl killed her. Thanks to her dog, Rin Tin Tin, Jack and I located her body in the spare freezer in her garage. I hadn’t known until that moment that her mission was to watch over my children and me. I adopted Rin Tin Tin in homage to her.
She waves when she sees me and pulls me onboard with her.
I hug her tightly, even as I shed tears of joy. “I want to thank you for all you did for my family and me,” I say.
Nola’s husky chuckle warms my heart. “It was the best assignment I ever had,” she replies. “Tell me: how many of the neighborhood DILFs attended my funeral?”
I can’t help but laugh. “All of them! In fact, they fought to see who would carry your casket.”
Nola sighs. “I left them with some wonderful memories.”
Satan sighs loudly. “Enough with the girl talk already! Don’t you have something to ask your BFF?”
Nola nods sadly. “He’s right. The sun is already setting in the west.”
I look around. She’s right, but does it matter? We’re in Hell where the days are endless as are the afterlives. Still, the sooner I ask, the sooner I can get back to my life. “Nola, can you tell me where Eric's act of terrorism will take place?”
Something flies over our heads. It’s a carrier pigeon. It carries a metal briefcase in its beak.
Suddenly, the bird makes a crash landing beside me. The case breaks open, revealing tiny gold coins. As Nola coos gently at it, the bird hops closer to us. "Ah, look—its wing is broken!" she exclaims.
I stretch out my arm toward it, only to get nipped.
"Lee! Lee!" it caws.
The bird is right. Lee is in my hospital room.
But before I have a chance to ask Nola what she means, I’m there too.
The President of the United States stares down at my unconscious body.
Inch by inch, his eyes move over me, taking in the severity of my condition: my stillness; my slackened face; the alabaster pallor of my skin; the way in which my eyelids tremble, oh so slightly.
This dismays me, but only because I hate for anyone to see me like this. Thank goodness he’s left his Secret Service detail outside the closed door.
He pulls the closest chair as near to my bed as possible. Gently, he takes my wrist to measure my pulse rate. His lips turn down at the corners because he doesn’t like what he’s feeling:
Despair.
Don’t give up on me, Lee.
As if hearing me, he leans in and murmurs, “And I want you to know I’ll always be here for you, for as long as we both are alive.”
Thank you, Lee.
“I also need to tell you, Donna, that…I love you. Your honesty and your strength and your loyalty…” His voice trails off.
I love you too, Lee. For all those same reasons.
“And should you wake up from this terrible nightmare, I hope you’ll marry me.”
What? But—Lee—
He strokes my cheek. And then his lips brush mine.
“What the hell?” Jack exclaims. He grabs Lee’s shoulders and shoves him away from me.
Poised with his fist within punching distance to Lee’s nose, he asks, “Did you just ask my wife to marry you?”
To Lee’s credit, he doesn’t flinch when he declares, “Yes. If you want to punch me for doing so, go for it.”
Jack’s fist hovers for a long moment. Finally, it drops to his side. “Why, so that the Secret Service can tackle me and put me in prison for the rest of my life? You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“No, not really. I’d prefer to wait and ask Donna when she regains consciousness—and for that matter, when she comes to her senses about you.”
Jack's eyes narrow in anger. He strains to keep from going at Lee again.
Heck, I’m straining to keep Jack from throwing a right hook.
Jack’s body finally goes limp, but not his tongue: “I wonder how Babette would feel if she knew what you just did?”
“Probably like you,” Lee retorts, “Helpless.”
Jack keeps his cool for a full three minutes after Lee walks out the door.
But when he slams a chair to the floor, three nurses rush in to check on the commotion.
He smiles apologetically. “Sorry. It slipped out from under me.”
They nod uncertainly and back out cautiously, closing the door behind them.
It takes a while for Jack to fall into a fitful sleep.
As he tosses and turns, I crawl into his lap and whisper again and again, “I am yours forever.”
All night long, he swats away my kisses.
8
Rip Her to Shreds
Performed by Blondie, on the band’s 1977 debut album by the same name. Written by band members Deborah Harry and Chris Stein.
Though it was released in the UK, it never charted there. Harry claims that the song poked fun at the tabloids’ take on celebrity.
It’s not nice to gossip. However, should others try to draw you in on their catty chatter, here are two things you should do:
First, if they go low, you go high. (I’m talking about your aim here. Talk doesn’t hurt half as much as bullets—trust me.)
Second, remember what your mother taught you: if you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all…
Wait—your mother never said that. Oh, well, then, never mind. Feel free to rip your frenemy to shreds.
“What does he see in her?” mutters Narcissa Belmont, Babette’s Chief of Staff.
“Beats me. She’s so…I dunno. Ordinary.” Chantal Desmarais, Babette’s personal aide, shivers, as if my looks are a disease. “Maybe she’s a great lay, because, seriously, he could have anyone. When Jack Craig comes within twenty-feet of me, I’m so wet I have to wring out my thong—”
“No, silly! I mean…” Narcissa puts a finger to her lips and then jerks her thumb toward the closed bathroom door as if wondering if their very pregnant boss can hear through particleboard. Finally, she hisses, “POTUS. He’s crushed on Donna since forever!”
“And Babette knows about this?”
I don’t recognize the woman’s voice coming from behind them. Whoever it is, she finally walks toward the bed to take a closer look.
She is taller than th
e others. A few auburn tendrils have escaped her loose bun. Her large glasses can’t conceal the steeliness in her wide slate gray eyes. Her sheer blouse is buttoned primly to the neck, but her language is anything but modest.
“Damn it, Scarlett, I forgot you were still in the room!” Narcissa’s frown is accompanied by an eye roll. “I thought you even went with her into the bathroom because you shadow the First Lady everywhere.”
Chantal snickers. Obviously, she was under the same assumption.
“You’re not jealous of the time I spend with Babette, are you?” Scarlett’s honeyed tone contrasts with the derisive look in her eyes.
“Not at all,” Narcissa retorts coldly. “As her biographer, I realize having you underfoot is a necessary evil.”
“How long will you be with us, anyway?” Chantal’s pleasant smile does little to smooth the edginess in her voice.
Scarlett shrugs. “That depends on the First Lady, of course. But considering her youth, this may be an ongoing project.” She leans in to add, “So you might as well get used to me being around.”
Duly warned, Chantal backs away—fast.
“Oh? You know Babette’s age?” Narcissa asks innocently. Her wink at Chantal is anything but.
“It’s whatever she claims,” Scarlett growls. Then, nodding in my direction, she adds, “She’s certainly a few years younger than this cadaver.”
How dare this bitch call me a cadaver!
Wait…she thinks Babette is younger than me? That is so not true!
“Despite your attempt to change the subject, I’d still like an answer to my question,” Scarlett retorts to Narcissa. “Is Babette aware that Lee has a thing for this woman?”
“It’s nothing. Drop it.” Hearing Babette’s voice, Chantal swallows a yelp and Narcissa turns white.
On the other hand, a sly grin rises on Scarlett’s plumped lips.
Babette is now at my bedside too. She glares down at me disdainfully. “Besides, you’re writing my biography, not his.”
“And it will be a tome for the ages!” Chantal exclaims. “The only style icon to grace the White House since Jackie Kennedy—”
“And with such a big heart, too!” Narcissa butts in. “Readers will be going, ‘Um…Mother Teresa? Who?’”
“You both are much too kind,” Babette murmurs, “At least, while I’m in the room.” She puts her arm around Scarlett’s waist. “However, Ms. Packard has expressed her concern with your candidness regarding Lee and my lives, and that greatly concerns me. In fact, I’d consider it cause for dismissal—”
“But…you told us to tell her everything, no holds barred!” Chantal protests.
“Now, now, Babette.” Scarlett scolds her employer in the gentlest of tones. “In truth, that was before you discovered how much more comfortable our little chats make the process of getting your story down from your own perspective. Please, don’t take it out on the staff.”
Narcissa bristles when she hears herself reduced to something so impersonal.
My giggle is felt in one interesting way. Babette frowns as she clutches her now very extended baby bump. “My goodness, the little man sure is kicking today.”
“Can I feel him, Mummy?” Janie stands in the doorway. Trisha and Jack are there too. As promised, Trisha has brought Birthday Bear too.
Babette waves her daughter off. “Not now, darling. I hate it when you’re all touchy-feely.”
Noting Janie’s frown, Trisha pats her friend’s hand.
“On the way to the gift store, did you see any newborn infants?” Scarlett asks.
The girls shook their heads. “All the mommies and babies are asleep with their doors closed so we couldn’t peek in.” Janie was truly disappointed.
“I miss the days when they let the moms sleep by themselves the first night,” Chantal says brightly. “Back when my little brother was born, they put all the newborns in one long room. You could look at them as if they were on sale or something. I imagined you could pick out the perfect one and take it home with you! Like that song, ‘How Much Is that Doggie in the Window’!”
“But wouldn’t that be kidnapping?” Trisha asks.
Chantal glowers at her.
Jack’s smile is forced. “Babette, it’s really kind of you to spend a few moments with Donna. At this late stage of your pregnancy, I imagine it’s not an easy task to be out and about.”
“Nonsense! What are friends for?” Babette purrs. “Besides, when I discovered Lee had already paid his respects, I came as soon as I could. I would have hated to have missed the opportunity to say goodbye…”
Her voice dies off when she sees the anger in Jack’s eyes.
Trisha, horrified, declares, “My mommy isn’t going anywhere! She told me herself!”
“Of course she did, darling,” Narcissa’s patronizing murmur is too familiar to Janie. In a show of solidarity, she sticks out her tongue at her mother’s aide-de-camp.
“Janie, that’s enough,” Babette warns. “If you mimic Trisha’s rude behavior, I won’t let you play with her anymore.”
Janie’s scowl withers under her mother’s threat. Our daughters’ friendship is near and dear to both of them. Janie is smart enough to change the subject. “Mummy, you should have your baby here. The newborns all seem so happy, and—”
“Not in a million years,” Babette sniffs. “The First Baby—the First Son—deserves better!”
“But I was born in a hospital,” Janie counters. “And I’m the First Daughter.”
“At the time, you weren’t ‘First’ anything,” Babette reminds her. Seeing her daughter’s face fall into despair, she quickly adds, “Except first in my heart, darling. And besides, it’s already been decided: Benjamin Harrison Chiffray will be born in the White House.”
“What?” Chantal exclaims. “But…I’ve already made the arrangements for your doctor and his nurses to set up in Lion’s Lair, like you always said you wanted!”
Babette dismisses her dismay with a flick of her wrist. “I’m sure they won’t argue about the change of venue.”
“A birth has never taken place in the White House,” Scarlett points out. “It’ll be a historical first. Such a wonderful anecdote for the First Lady’s biography!”
“Her idea, I’ll bet,” Narcissa murmurs just loud enough for Chantal to hear her.
“By the way, Scarlett, I’ve decided it’s to be an autobiography,” Babette informs her. “You’ll only be ghosting the book. No credit line.”
Scarlett’s smile fades. “Oh, I see. Sorry, not my usual thing. If you’d prefer to work with someone else—”
“I’m sure we can work something out. Trust me, you’ll love being my ghost.” Babette’s tone could cut ice.
Scarlett is smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
Babette smiles prettily at Jack. “It’s late and I’m tiring, but Jack and I must have a little ‘we time’ before I go. Ladies, will you excuse Jack and me?”
Narcissa nudges Chantal knowingly. But when Chantal tries to hustle Trisha out with them, Trisha shakes her head firmly. “I’m staying with my daddy!”
Babette sighs. Bending down so that she’s face-to-face with Trisha, she says, “Little one, I must express my condolences to your father in private. Your mother would have wanted that.”
Trisha’s eyes shift from Babette to Jack.
Her back stiffens when she sees his slight nod. Reluctantly, my daughter follows the others out the door, slamming it behind her.
“Way to lose friends and create enemies, Babette,” Jack murmurs dryly.
“You’d hate me even more if I kept my mouth shut about what I know about Donna and Lee.”
Jack’s face hardens. “Are you referring to the way he pants after her like a dog in heat?”
Babette retorts, “Do you honestly believe she hasn’t led him on? Or that she doesn’t love his attention?”
“If you’re asking if my wife has been anything less than faithful to me, my answer is an unequivocal no.�
� Jack sounds convincing, even to me—until he coughs. It’s his poker tell.
He’s never trusted Lee. And, distressingly, yesterday, Lee gave him no reason to change his opinion.
“Don’t lie, Jack. We’re both in the same boat.” Her lower lip trembles. Tears haze her eyes. “I get it. Your wife’s rapidly failing situation has you upset. I just want you to know that…well, I’ll always be there to comfort you.”
His face is close enough for her to kiss him.
At first, he doesn’t pull away.
Is this because he’s shocked, or because he enjoys it too much?
Angered, I fly out of my body to pound him on the back.
He feels nothing…
Oh, no, I take that back: he must feel her hand cupping his crotch because he grabs her wrist and jerks it away.
Babette chuckles raucously. “Why did you stop me? We both know you enjoyed it.”
Firmly, with both hands, he forces her down into a chair. “You’re wrong, Babette, on all counts. I don’t like it when desperate women cling to me—even if it is the First Lady of the United States.”
“You’re right. It’s much too soon for consolation. Better to wait until after a decent mourning period,” she purrs as she rises gracefully and then walks out the door.
He keeps his head bowed as she walks out.
It stays that way until Trisha peeks in. “She took way too long! Visiting hours are almost over!” My daughter walks over to my bed. Her kiss on my lips reminds me of sunshine, flowers, and laughter. As she tucks Birthday Bear under my arm, she whispers, “Just like I promised, Mommy! Now come back to us, like you promised.”
Jack watches. I’ve never seen him look this sad. Is he concerned that Babette is right—that I won’t pull through?
I put my arms around my daughter. She smiles as if she sees me, but of course, she doesn’t.
It’s great to know that at least she feels me.
She beckons her father to her side. This gives me the opportunity to put my arms around both of them—
And then I’m gone.
“Your timing sucks,” I yell at the Devil.