Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam

by Jennifer Fischetto

  I glance over at Paulie who’s decided to squat by the fence. His weight pushes into it. His head is bent toward his lap, and his fingers are in his hair. He’s not even watching anymore.

  A wave of sympathy washes over me. I know I probably shouldn’t feel this way. Izzie would kick my butt if she knew. But Paulie’s been a cool brother-in-law, and up until this point, I thought he was a great husband.

  “All I asked for in return was your love and trust.” She walks to the driver’s side door and practices hitting the window, like a golfer lining up his shot on the greens.

  By now a bigger crowd has emerged. There are whispers, but everyone is pretty quiet all things considered.

  “I didn’t expect candlelight dinners every weekend or luxury vacations. Heck, except for our three-day honeymoon in Atlantic City, we never even had a vacation. But I deserved more than finding you doing the one thing you swore you weren’t doing. In public!”

  She swings, hits the glass, and it shatters. Broken shards fly onto the seat. Startled by it, I flinch, Paulie shouts, “Come on,” and Izzie dances on her toes. She laughs and acts as if she just won a championship.

  Heading to the front of the car, Izzie knocks out a headlight. Then the other. She strikes the windshield, but luckily it’s as thick as the back and doesn’t shatter on contact. She hits it again and again until a crack forms and spreads. She’s clearly going over the deep end. What’s next? Slashing his tires and keying his doors? Maybe carving her name into his pleather seats?

  A tall but scrawny guy with blond, spiky hair turns the corner. He’s wearing a blue, half-apron and has a small white towel slung over his shoulder like he’s about to burp a baby. He must be the bartender, which means someone went back inside to alert him. What a tattler! No way he heard us over the music. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks.

  Izzie doesn’t care. She doesn’t stop. Has she already leaped over the edge, arms outspread, hoping to fly?

  “If you don’t get out of here right now, I’m calling the cops,” the bartender shouts.

  Soft-spoken chatter floats among the crowd and out to us, like whispery tendrils.

  Paulie gets to his feet and steps off the fence. “Izzie. Stop!”

  She looks up and locks eyes with him. Her pupils are wide. She takes another swing, and the bartender hurries inside, muttering under his breath.

  I step forward, fearful of getting hit but more fearful of calling our parents to ask for bail money. Every time I’ve had to ask them for money, they’ve reminded me I’m an adult, even though I don’t feel like I’ve grown up. And technically the money wouldn’t be for me, but still.

  I step between her and the car and keep my voice even. “The cops are coming. Think of Alice. She can’t have her mother in jail.”

  She flinches, hesitates, and lowers the bat a few inches.

  I take that as a sign and grab the head of her lethal weapon. “Let’s go. Now.”

  She allows me to take it from her and turn her toward my car. Just in case she gets riled up again, I toss the bat into the back of Paulie’s truck and climb into my driver’s seat. Izzie and I are playing musical chairs tonight, all due to a couple of guys.

  I don’t get it. We’re just a couple of regular girls who love to accessorize, appreciate a really good red wine, and eat our weight in carbs. When did our lives become so insane?

  As I pull out of the lot, my headlights display people staring, pointing, and gawking. And the guy from Lindy’s, the one in plaid and a Yankees’ cap, with whom I’d danced at the front door. He turns and walks toward the back of the parking lot.

  I take a last glance at Paulie. He’s climbed back into his truck and is just sitting there. What the heck was he thinking?

  * * *

  There’s no way I can take Izzie to Ma and Pop’s. She’s likely to wake them with her seething. Besides, who can sleep after this? So I plan a mini adventure. First I head to the closest liquor store and buy a bottle of raspberry flavored Smirnoff. Then I drive to the gas station for a couple of cups of ice, and finally I head to Lincoln Park. Yes, the streets in this town are named after the Monopoly game, as well as dead presidents. I think the original founder was really into money.

  Growing up, my then best friend, Hilary, lived across the street from the park in an apartment with her mom. Whenever I visited her we’d come here. Even when we were too old for the teeter-totter, we’d either sit on the swings or be up on the boardwalk, just chilling with our feet dangling over the side. That’s exactly my plan now. To get Izzie to a state where she’s too calm or too drunk to wake anyone.

  I park my car, grab the bag of booze, and head across the street. But the park isn’t how I remember. The slide, the swings—all of it is for little kids and is way too small for us. I distinctly remember a metal slide. When did it change? Everything feels like I’ve been gone so much longer than three years.

  “There’s no place for us to sit,” I say.

  “I’d rather not be under a street lamp anyway.” Her mouth is turned downward, and I can’t tell if she’s still angry or about to start crying. I hope it’s the former. Once she starts blubbering it’ll take her a while to stop, and I didn’t bring tissues. I might have a T-shirt in my trunk.

  I take her hand and walk up the ramp to the boardwalk. There are benches, but I don’t want to get arrested for public drinking. I shove the bag into her hands, unlace and pull off my boots, toss them over the railing to the sand below, and climb over the metal bars. I haven’t jumped off the boardwalk in years. The ramp down is only a block away, but this is faster.

  I forget to bend my knees when I land, and pain shoots through my shins. I groan and reach up.

  Izzie drops the bag into my grip and jumps over, still in her heels. Never under five-five.

  I peel off my socks and pick up my boots, and we walk to the water. A gentle wave splashes up to my toes. Even though we’ve had a mild fall so far, the water is frickin’ freezing. I take a few steps back, sit down, and fill our cups. I hand one to her.

  “You know—I knew it. He kept denying it, but I knew. A wife always does.” She plops onto the sand.

  I don’t respond because I know she doesn’t want to hear me say how sorry I am or that it’ll be okay. She needs to vent, so I need to keep my lips shut.

  “The brutto figlio di un bastardo,” Izzie blurts out.

  My Italian curses are a bit rusty. Plus, with the alcohol, I have to think about that one. The ugly son of a bastard?

  “How can he do this to me, to us? And with a fucking clown? Seriously?”

  I re-imagine the car scene and shiver. It’s worse than Stephen King’s It on so many levels. I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks. I take another swig of my drink.

  “And just wait until I find that puttanta,” she screams. “I’m going to kill her.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s so cold, I’m shivering, and I can actually hear my teeth chatter. Condensation billows out from my mouth. Fog surrounds me. No matter how far I walk or in what direction, it’s thick and never-ending. Fear crawls up my back until it’s wrapped around my throat and makes breathing difficult.

  An old man appears before me. He’s hunched over and looks to be in pain. But when I get closer, he straightens and smiles widely and creepily. His skin stretches so tightly across his bones that it looks like his face is made out of putty. Piercing blue eyes stare into me, and a familiar shock of white hair sits atop his head. He reaches out his hand, wanting me to take it, to pull me over to his side.

  I know this, I fear this, yet I extend my arm just the same. No matter how much I don’t want to touch him, I can’t stop my arm from rising.

  Cold radiates from his fingertips as they brush mine. Just before we touch he fades away.

  * * *

  Gosh, it’s cold. And why is my new bed so damn lumpy…and sandy?

  I open my eyes and stare at the dusty blue sky. What the…? I sit up and wipe the drool from the corner of m
y mouth and end up covering my lips in sand. Izzie is sleeping beside me. Waves crash to my left. The sun peeks at the horizon. We fell asleep on the beach?

  I push Izzie’s arm. “Iz, wake up.”

  What time is it? I pat myself down. I left my phone in my purse under my seat in the car. Shoot. What did I do that for? Because I knew I wouldn’t need it while I listened to my sister whine, and deservingly so, about her marriage.

  My head pounds. I get to my feet and shove Izzie again. “Get up. It’s light out.”

  Her eyelids flicker, and she bolts up. “Crap. What time is it?”

  I pick up my glass and the empty bottle of vodka. “I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I hope Alice isn’t awake yet.”

  I frown at her. What teen wakes at the crack of dawn on a weekend? It’s as if once Izzie pushed my niece out, she forgot what it was like to be a teenager herself, even though she still was one.

  She grabs her cup, and we head to the nearest ramp.

  Once we’re back in my Kia, I feel a bit calmer. Waking up outside leaves me feeling disoriented and exposed. One of the reasons I never went camping with Enzo and Pop. Another is bugs, dirt, and more bugs. Eww!

  I flip on the interior light, pull out my purse, and dig for my phone. It’s almost six-fifteen. I toss them both onto the floor behind the passenger seat then stare at Izzie’s rumpled skirt and blouse. It was white last night, and this morning it looks almost cream-colored with several small red spots.

  After Izzie had cursed the clown and Paulie about thirty times each, I’d lost track of time and the conversation. I hadn’t eaten much yesterday, so the vodka went straight to my head. The last thing I remember is Izzie slurring her words. Something about implants and the inadequate size of Paulie’s penis. I thought she was considering bigger boobs, but now I realize she meant a penile implant.

  “What are you staring at?” she snaps, giving me the stink eye. She’s a cranky morning person.

  “The stain on your shirt. Do I look as bad as you?”

  She looks down to the row of buttons. “Yes, and that’s blood.”

  My heartbeat jumps. Is she hurt? “From what?”

  She holds up her left hand. There’s a cut next to her palm, beneath her thumb. It’s so small I barely see anything. “It’s from the glass last night. It’s not a big deal. Can we go, please?”

  “Sure.” I back out of the space and head to Ma’s.

  * * *

  I pull up in front of the two-story, part brick and part Stucco house I grew up in and glance at my sister. “Will you be alright? I need a shower and a nap before I deal with this afternoon.”

  Sunday dinner is so important to Ma and Pop that they actually close the deli for the day. Most people think they’re crazy, me included, but it makes them happy, and they’ve always done it. They start the day with church, then relaxing, sharing, and eating with family. It matters more than an extra day’s income. As a kid it meant the world, even if I didn’t fully understand it. As an adult, I could really use the work hours. New furniture doesn’t grow on trees.

  “It’s fine. I plan on doing the same.” Izzie opens the door and gets out. She doesn’t bother waving back, just lets herself into the two-story house and shuts the door.

  I drive to my apartment and stagger up the back stairs. The first order of business, after peeing and coffee, is a scalding shower and assembling my bed. Then that nap. With my dress hiked to my waist, I run to the toilet and relieve my angry bladder. I peel off my sandy clothes and jump into the shower. The chill both from that weird dream and from sleeping on the beach is still inside my marrow. I can’t seem to make the water hot enough to warm up. I try to take my mind off it, but thinking of last night is worse, and it’s really hard not to think of the horribleness. I can’t believe Paulie did this. I can’t believe Izzie has to deal with this crap. And I can’t believe D.N. is in town permanently. I need a day of puppies and rainbows.

  I scrub my skin until it tingles, but as soon as I step out, I’m cold again. What the chicken club! And for some reason the salami scent is stronger when the temps are down. I run to the thermostat to check the heat. I bump it up a few degrees and rub the goose bumps on my arms. Coffee. That’s what I need. Intravenously if possible.

  I dress in a long sleeve, pink tee, white sweatpants with Betty Boop on the thigh, and thick socks. What can I say? I like big-headed, animated chicks. I go to the unopened, brand new Mr. Coffee on the kitchen counter and notice Surfer Dude Billy in my peripheral. I pretend I don’t see him. Too bad ghosts don’t sleep.

  “You look hung-over. I hope your kitty got lucky,” he says in a happy, upbeat tone that wouldn’t annoy me if I’d slept in an actual bed last night. I don’t mind mornings as long as I’m allowed to move at a tortoise’s pace and there is silence, something having my own space is supposed to offer.

  “Did you just make a crack about my vajayjay?” I try to tear into the coffeemaker box with my back to him, but I chewed my fingernails off last week, and the leftover stumps aren’t long enough to help yet.

  “Hello Kitty. Your underwear. Get it?” He roars with laughter. “Man, you’re either a grouch, or you didn’t get laid. And that’s a shame ‘cause you got that thick, curvy thing going, and you’re kinda hot.”

  “Kinda? If you’re going to live in my apartment, you can at least butter me up.”

  “Will that be on white or wheat?” He cackles.

  I smirk. A corny ghost. That’s better than my grumpy ghost-aunt in Connecticut. I use my teeth to gnaw at the tape holding the box flaps together. Ma packed a small box of kitchen gadgets, extras from her drawers, but I’m not sure if I even own a knife or where they are.

  “Um, have you noticed your new guest?” Billy asks.

  “Dude, you and I met last night. What’s wrong with you?” Is he amnesiac or something? Maybe he died from a hit on the head while drunk. When I find the time, I need to check out his who, what, when, where, and why status. And speaking of why, why the ricotta pie am I so cold? I hope I’m not getting sick from sleeping on the beach.

  “Not me. Her.”

  Her? Her who? What is he talking about? I turn, corner of the coffee maker box still in my mouth, and follow his stare.

  Standing over by the windows is the neon-blue-haired clown. Yep, that home-wrecking clown!

  “I’m dead, aren’t I?” she asks.

  The box slips through my hands. It lands right beside my left foot, nicking the corner of my big toe. Ow! That’s gonna bruise. “Why are you here?”

  Billy raises his brows. “You know her?”

  “Considering she just screwed my very married brother-in-law last night, not well but more than enough.”

  “We didn’t have sex. I don’t think.” She looks bewildered, as far as I can tell. That painted-on smile is making my head spin. I need to find my Tylenol. It’s in one of my boxes.

  I push the coffeemaker out of my way with my foot. “Oral still counts as adultery.”

  “Do I know you?” she asks.

  “Oh, come on. I may be dressed a little less hoochie right now but… Wait, you’re dead?”

  “You’re swift,” Billy says with a scoff.

  I give him a look of disdain then focus on the clown. “How? When?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  I lean on the breakfast bar beside Billy. “Puhleeze. How is that possible?”

  She shrugs.

  This isn’t happening. While I want to know why she decided to come up here, my stomach churns with nervousness. How did she die? And can’t she just pass through the freezer without a formal good-bye?

  I grab my phone from my purse and dial Izzie. It goes straight to voicemail, which means her cell is off. Great. She probably passed out as soon as she hit our old room, but she may be in the shower or planning Paulie’s murder. I need her to hear this from me and not the TV. Ma should be up. She’s one of those cheery, early morni
ng people. I dial their landline next. Yes, they’re the only couple on the planet that still owns a landline and rarely use their emergency-only cells.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks after two rings.

  I smile and roll my eyes. She’s so dramatic. “I’m fine, Ma. I was wondering if Izzie is up.”

  “Didn’t you just drop her off? Did she spend the night at your place or at home with her husband where she belongs?” Water runs in the background. She must be making coffee. She loves it more than I do.

  “Um, yeah about a half hour ago.” I ignore the second question. She’ll have to learn about last night from Izzie. That’s her place to tell. “Never mind. I’ll talk to her later.”

  “Okay, remember, we eat at two.”

  That hasn’t changed all my life. “I know.”

  I hang up and call Enzo. It rings four times before his voicemail picks up. “Hey Enz, it’s me. I’m wondering if you guys found any dead bodies this morning. Give me a call.”

  When I hang up, I lightly kick the coffeemaker box and go in search for the Tylenol.

  * * *

  I’m running a comb through my wet curls when my phone buzzes. I hurry into the living room and spot the clown and Billy seated on the floor where a couch would go if I had one. There’s no way they’re both staying here.

  “Tell her about the freezer,” I say to Billy.

  While he fills her in about portals, I grab my phone. It’s Enzo. “Hey, thanks for calling back so fast.”

  “I’m downstairs,” he says.

  My chest tightens. Something’s up. Otherwise he’d call rather than make an impromptu visit. “I’ll be right down.” I hang up, yank on sneakers, and slip the phone into my bra. Where else can it go? It’s not like fashion designers make women’s clothing with adequate pockets. Besides, if the pink Felina is good enough to hold my double-Ds, it can also support the electronic device that is my existence.

  I grab my keys and run down. Neither of my ghosts seem to notice. Some houseguests they are.