by Rae Renzi
Chapter 36
Mr. Heckenkamp had patiently waited his turn in the dating service queue, but I knew it was time when his eyebrow started twitching. Exactly why that tic occurred on a ghost who has neither nerves nor muscles was baffling, but I took it on surface value.
Even though two of our previous DDDS experiences—Catherine’s husband and Clydes—had not been unqualified successes, I was optimistic that we would emerge from this effort with a client and without stitches. Mr. Heckenkamp was much too thoughtful and careful to allow the kind of miscalculation that had caused us problems before. This one would go perfectly, I was sure.
On Tuesday evening, I made the initial approach to Mrs. Heckenkamp by phone, rather than in person. Not because of residual anxiety, not at all. I was merely pressed for time.
“Mrs. Heckenkamp, my name is Joy Abercrombie, and I’m calling on behalf of—”
“I’m afraid I don’t respond to phone solicitations, my dear. My husband wouldn’t like it. No indeedy, he wouldn’t.”
“I imagine not. In fact, I’m well acquainted with what your husband likes, Mrs. Heckenkamp, and that’s why I’m calling.”
My pronouncement was met with deep silence. For a moment, I feared she had fallen asleep.
“You were acquainted with my husband?”
“Oh. No, not really. That is, only in the course of business.” I explained to her that her dear Harold had been concerned that she would be lonely when he died and that he hoped she would find companionship sooner rather than later. “And that is why he contacted us. Our mission is to bring people together who have lost dear ones.” I tried to strike a balance between competent businesswoman and altruistic nitwit. It was harder than I thought.
“Oh, do you mean facilitate communication with the other side?”
This was an unforeseen turn of events, but Marybob would be ecstatic—a client actually asking for a séance.
“As a matter of fact—”
“Because I don’t hold with that nonsense. If the spirits of our late dear ones wish to communicate, they would do so directly, rather than through some relative stranger. The notion of a special ability to communicate with the dead simply doesn’t make sense.”
It was exactly the case, whether it made sense to her or not, but I didn’t correct her—I wasn’t here to prove a point, but to bolster business.
“I couldn’t agree more. Mr. Heckenkamp didn’t mention any such thing. He merely wished to encourage you to socialize sooner rather than later in the event of his demise, which is where I and my colleagues”—the aforementioned nonsensical spirits—“come in. Our business is to suggest a suitable companion and to facilitate your acquaintance.”
She didn’t respond immediately. After a long, considering silence, she asked, “Matchmaking, then?”
“Exactly. And precisely for those in your situation.”
I hadn’t realized that I was holding my breath until she said, “All right, then. If that’s what Harold wanted.”
We scheduled a time to meet three days later, which I estimated would be long enough to get something arranged with Ralph Winslow, the gardener.
As I started to say goodbye, she said, “Oh, Miss Abercrombie, would you mind bringing his letter with you? He did send you a letter, I expect? My Harold was a firm believer in documentation. I hope you won’t be offended, but one can’t be too careful. There are so many scams these days.”
“Yes, of course,” I said through gritted teeth.
Marybob wasn’t worried. “We’ll type it.”
“Betty wasn’t born yesterday. She’ll need some assurance that it came from me,” Harold said. “I have an idea…”
The next morning, after we had finalized our plan, Mr. Heckenkamp popped up in the passenger’s seat of my car and grinned at me. “All clear. Betty left for her Wednesday shopping.”
“I have serious doubts about this.” I exited my car and removed a huge flowering chrysanthemum from the backseat. “What if we, or rather I, get caught?”
Luke appeared beside me. “It’s not really breaking and entering if you have a key,” he said with the confidence of ill-informed youth.
“Did you glean that little fact from television?”
“Nah. The internet.” He didn’t even look embarrassed. “But you won’t get caught. Even if a neighbor sees you, it won’t matter. You don’t look like you. You look like someone’s mom.”
A feat accomplished at the expense of comfort. The dark wig Marybob had found me itched like crazy, and the padding in my shirt and pants rubbed with each step. The bright orange lipstick was merely hideous. Still, I had to admit the disguise was superb.
“I’ll knock on the front door for the benefit of nosy neighbors and then I’ll go around to the back.”
Mr. Heckenkamp gave me a conspiratorial nod.
I believe he was enjoying this. A little (very little, in his case) danger to spice up the day. I wasn’t quite as charmed with the whole caper, but there seemed to be no alternative. I marched onto the porch to act out my role and rang the doorbell. Unsurprisingly, no one answered.
By the time I made it to the back door to retrieve the extra key hidden under a flowerpot, the number of Departed in our gang had swelled.
I was at first alarmed, but when I weighed the consequences of being observed by the neighbors as I tried to shoo them away, I quickly decided their presence was to my advantage. It was hard to act furtive when you were accompanied by a horde of cheerfully chattering ghosts, so I would look less guilty, though possibly more flustered, to the casual observer. With Luke, Harold, Ruby, Ronnie, Father Doyle, who had lost some of his earlier disorientation, and Mr. McCarthy following me, I assumed the air of a welcomed guest and stepped into the house.
The kitchen was neat as a pin, just as I expected. The white cabinets were pristine, and not a crumb was to be seen on the flowered tablecloth covering the kitchen table. The ladder-back chairs were pushed into place and the tiled floor was spotless.
“No one touch anything,” I instructed the Departed.
They all giggled.
“What?”
“It’s not like we’ll leave fingerprints,” Ronnie said.
“True. However, at least one of you”—I gave Luke the benefit of a scowl—“can move things. We don’t want Mrs. Heckenkamp to be alerted to our intrusion.”
With Harold’s help (and despite the others, who felt it necessary to follow me around and comment on my efforts) I found what was needed within a few minutes. I was just slipping the items into my bag when I heard a key in the front door.
I froze, as did everyone in the room.
“That can’t be Betty,” Mr. Heckenkamp said. “It’s too soon.”
Ruby raised a wait-a-second finger at me and disappeared for a long heartbeat. When she reappeared, she reported, “Two of ‘em. Looks like housekeepers or some-such.”
Harold frowned. “Betty doesn’t have a housekeeper. She prefers to do her own cleaning.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“In any case, does this look like a house that needs cleaning?” I asked.
Looks were exchanged. Almost at once, everyone in the room irrationally poofed out of sight. Except me, of course. The one person who could be seen.
I was in a pickle. If the intruders were friends or family, I would be found out in seconds unless I snuck out now. If the intruders were lawbreakers, then I couldn’t abandon Mrs. Heckenkamp to their predation—which, I should point out, was entirely different from my predation (intention did matter, notwithstanding the adage about the road to hell).
Luke was the first one to come back. He was excited. “Looks like kind of a robbery scheme, like you see on TV. They pose as housecleaners and rob the place. They’re in the bedroom now.”
Mr. Heckenkamp popped back, looking angry and frustrated. “You must do something, Joy.”
“If I call the police, I’ll have to explain what I’m doin
g here. That will ruin our plan to help your wife find a companion. But I have an idea. Luke, can you carry a piece of paper?”
“No problem. I’m still good with a few ounces.”
“Fine. Here’s the plan…”
Naturally, the plan worked. Watching the two burglars race out of the house, white-faced and shaking, was gratifying. They didn’t stop to pick up their faux cleaning supplies, nor to lock the front door. Seeing a piece of paper with a word written on it waft across the room toward them was enough to spook them good. Luke had wanted me to write, “You’re dead.” Others had wanted me to write, “We’re dead.” I settled for a simple, “Boo!”
When I started to clean up the burglars’ mess, Mr. Heckenkamp stopped me.
“Finding the door open and the house obviously broken into will send a clear message to Betty to change the locks and perhaps find a new place to leave the extra key. I’m certain that’s how they got a key. They probably stole it, made a copy, and put it back.”
“Yeah, that’s what I woulda done,” Ruby said. “If, you know, I went in for that kind of thing.”
“Hey, maybe we should call it the Dearly Departed Detective Service,” Luke said.
“No,” I responded, grateful that Marybob wasn’t around. “Absolutely not. This is my first and last brush with crime.”
That turned out to be only half right.
Chapter 37
Craig showed up that night after dinner, seeming moody and reserved. I wasn’t in the best mood myself. Immediately after the fiasco with Sam in the park, I had been anxious to see Craig to explain the apparent mental dysfunction that led me to be inappropriately enmeshed with Sam, but Craig had seemed indifferent to the whole thing. Now, though, my thoughts were so confused that I could only retreat. And with only three weeks left to solve my financial problems or lose my home, I certainly had other things on my mind. Not happy things, either.
A faint but persistent message had begun to whisper in my mind: it would be smarter to sell the house now, rather than let the bank foreclose. The market was good and the location superb. But I abhorred the feeling of willingly selling my cherished home for profit. I would rather clutch it to my heart until someone tore it away. Dumb. The height of stupidity. Although, considering some of the other life choices I’d made, perhaps it wasn’t the absolute height of my stupidity, but close enough. Really, if this kept up, I would have to entertain the notion that there was something wrong with my thinking.
Craig followed me to the sofa, where I pointedly picked up a book to read. When he stroked a finger down my arm, it almost tickled—an illusion, I knew—but powerful nonetheless. I shivered and pulled the throw around my shoulders.
He leaned forward and put his nose to my hair.
“What are you doing?” I dropped my book in my lap. I was edgy and couldn’t settle down to anything. Not even Alice curled up on my feet in a warm fuzzy ball helped. I might have watched a good movie, but a leaden weight had settled in my chest, which robbed me of even the small effort it would take to choose one.
“Trying to see if I can smell your shampoo.”
“I thought you couldn’t… I thought—”
“I can’t.” A look of relief crossed his face.
“Craig, you’re acting strange. What is the matter with you?”
He shifted away from me and looked out the window. “I had an idea I was gaining mass.” He stroked his fingers through my ponytail as he spoke. “If I am, it’s only mass—not sensation. Not yet, thank God.”
“Having sensation seems like a good thing…” From the look that crossed his face, I gathered I was wrong. “Don’t you miss it?”
“Yes, in a way. Or I used to, especially right after I died and I was still trying to be everything I’d been before. Right then, not having senses had been a loss and completely bizarre. But pretty soon the connection between touching and smelling you and how that used to made me feel—all dizzy and happy and ready to climb mountains—became weaker and weaker, like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk after a rainstorm. Now I can hardly remember what it was all about.”
That made me sad—for both of us. “I don’t think I understand.” I looked at my finger and ran it up Craig’s arm. “I miss it. I miss it a lot.”
His eyes softened. “I know. It’s because you’re mortal. For you, sensation is a good thing. It’s of this world. For me, going that way—getting substance, regaining sensation—is the wrong direction. It’s kind of like celestial backsliding, degeneration.”
“Degeneration? How can increased sensation be degeneration?”
“It’s the opposite of spiritual. For a mortal, sensation isn’t degeneration. It’s being alive. But I’m not. Look, if you were blind and deaf, how would we communicate?”
Craig wasn’t exactly a chatterbox in the best of times, but since that day we’d gone running, he had been exceptionally quiet. I had thought it the result of my re-kissing Sam, but now I wasn’t sure.
“By touch,” I said. “Oh.”
“Right. You know, don’t you, that I’m not actually speaking, like with vocal chords, and I don’t actually see you, like with retinas and optic nerves and all.”
“I know, Craig, but it doesn’t matter to me. You’re perfect.”
“I may appear perfect to you, but I no longer have all the stuff that ninety percent of human experience is made of, all that sensory equipment. All of what we shared, Joy, our laughter and tears, the lovemaking—ninety percent of that I don’t have anymore.”
I didn’t want to hear this. I didn’t want to hear what we didn’t have together. “There is the ten percent, though.”
“Yeah, there is that. Ten percent.” He looked up at me. “Is that enough for you?”
Put like that, it sounded trifling. I didn’t know what to say. “I’ve been completely satisfied, Craig. You’re all I need.” I meant every syllable, but suddenly the feel of Sam’s arms around me flooded my mind, tainting my conviction. “But… what about you? Are you, er, that is, what else… I mean… how… ?” I didn’t even know what I was asking.
“You want to know what it is we Departed do have? What’s replaced the ninety percent physical experience?”
“Well, yes.”
Craig stood and paced away from me a few steps. “There’s no way for me to explain it to you—there are no actual words for it. I’ll do the best I can.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to.”
“No, I want you to understand, if you can. It might… help.”
He paced some more. A minute or two later, he whirled to face me again, his dark eyes shining. “Got it. Okay, so, you experience sight, sound, touch, taste, smell. Those things are all the result of your body interacting or reacting to physical energy or substance. Keep that in mind. Your body is what translates your environment into experience. Your eyes pick up on visual wavelengths, your ears pick up on the energy attached to sound. Even emotion is experienced through your body—your heart races, your hands sweat, at certain times you get all tingly.
“Now imagine the body part is gone. All that’s left is the energy. Like magnetism or electricity or starlight. Imagine different ways of experiencing energy. Imagine you could be a part of—not just watch, but actually be a part of—a light show, or the aurora borealis. Imagine how it would feel. It would feel…”
“Cosmic?”
He laughed. “Cosmic. Yeah. It’s hard to explain, you kind of have to feel it. Only you can’t, because you’re trapped in your body.”
“But you can?”
He slumped into his chair. “Sometimes. For a short while. It’s hard to sustain… here in the mortal plane.”
I took a deep breath. “How… do the Departed have relationships—with other Departed?”
“Ah. Okay. That, I think I can show you. Or at least give you something you might understand. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He was, almost before I could blink. This time he wasn’t alone. He had a girl with him,
a Departed I recognized from a couple of weeks ago. An aneurism, I think.
“Okay, now this might upset you a little, but let me explain. Logically you know this, but in the Hereafter, there’s nothing like sex. There’s no reason for it. Gender almost doesn’t exist. I brought Shelly back with me because I think it will be easier for you to see. What you’ll see is more or less a metaphor for how we interact. Just watch.”
I watched.
Craig went to the girl and took her in his arms. I didn’t like that, not one bit, but soon it became so bizarre that petty emotions like jealousy didn’t even enter into the equation. Craig began to scintillate, and after a moment seemed to dissolve into a million dots of light. The girl did the same. Then they merged, which made me feel peculiar, almost voyeuristic. If that weren’t strange enough, another Departed popped onto the scene, a middle-aged man, and then another, this time a elderly woman. They did the same thing, dissolved into little pinpricks of light to merge with what was formerly Craig and the girl. When they were all merged, the light seemed to swirl and dance and make complicated patterns.
My throat constricted. It was beautiful and wondrous, and suddenly I felt alone.
In life Craig had demonstrated an uncanny ability to make a point clear, and it seemed that particular faculty had not been lost to him. The point of how little I now had in common with him couldn’t have been made more forcibly. Even more painful was my sudden understanding that Craig received almost no benefit from our relationship. And, possibly, it was inflicting harm.
I slid down to the floor and put my face in my hands. The tears began to flow, unstoppable. After a few minutes, I became aware of Craig kneeling in front of me, a tender look on his face. I so wanted the comfort of his arms around me. I so wanted him to dry my tears and tell me everything would be fine.
But he wouldn’t, because he couldn’t. Ever again.
Chapter 38
When Craig left—or whatever he did—I suddenly had the urge to clean my house. Ignoring the fact that it was eight o’clock in the evening, I got out a broom, a bedraggled mop, and a basket full of cleaning rags made up of socks with holes, irredeemably stained T-shirts, and old towels. A thorough search of my cabinets revealed an embarrassing lack of household cleansers, so I jumped in my car, went to the store and trotted up and down aisles until my cart had a respectable pile of supplies: detergent, furniture polish, rubber gloves, scouring powder, toilet bowl cleaner, sponges, wipes, disinfectants. The idea of tidying up my house (it was still my house, at least for a few more days), if not my life, was comforting.