Stories: All-New Tales

by Neil Gaiman; Al Sarrantonio

  But Amber would not be able to deal with the headstone company. Caroleen shifted forward on the daybed, rocked her head back and forth to make sure she was wearing her reading glasses rather than her bifocals, and flipped open the brown plastic phone book. A short silver pencil was secured by a plastic loop in the book’s gutter, and she fumbled it free—

  —And her right hand twitched forward, knocking the coffee cup right off the table, and the pencil shook in her spotty old fingers as its point jiggled across the page.

  She threw a fearful, guilty glance toward the kitchen in the moment before she remembered that BeeVee was dead; then she allowed herself to relax and looked at the squiggle she had drawn across the old addresses and phone numbers.

  It was jagged, but recognizably cursive letters:

  Ineedyourhelpplease

  It was, in fact, recognizably BeeVee’s handwriting.

  Caroleen’s hand twitched again, and scrawled the same cramped sequence of letters across the page. She lifted the pencil, postponing all thought in this frozen moment, and after several seconds her hand spasmed once more, no doubt writing the same letters in the air. Her whole body shivered with a feverish chill and she thought she was going to vomit; she leaned out over the rug, but the queasiness passed.

  She was sure that her hand had been writing this message in the air ever since she had awakened.

  Caroleen didn’t think BeeVee had ever before, except with ironic emphasis, said please when asking her for something.

  She was remotely glad that she was sitting, for her heart thudded alarmingly in her chest and she was dizzy with the enormous thought that BeeVee was not gone, not entirely gone. She gripped the edge of the bed, suddenly afraid of falling and knocking the table over, rolling into the rocking chair. The reek of spilled coffee was strong in her nostrils.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay!” she said again, louder. The shaking in her hand had subsided, so she flipped to a blank calendar page at the back of the book and scrawled OKAY at the top of the page.

  Her fingers had begun wiggling again, but she raised her hand as if to wave away a question, hesitant to let the jiggling pencil at the waiting page just yet.

  Do I want her back, she thought, in any sense? No, not want, not her, but—in these past nine weeks I haven’t seemed to exist anymore, without her paying attention, any sort of attention, to me. These days I’m hardly more than an imaginary friend of Amber’s next door, a frail conceit soon to be outgrown, even by her.

  She sighed and lowered her hand to the book. Over her OKAY the pencil scribbled,

  Iambeevee

  “My God,” Caroleen whispered, closing her eyes. “You think I need to be told?”

  Her hand was involuntarily spelling it out again, breaking the pencil lead halfway through but continuing rapidly to the end, and then it went through the motions three more times, just scratching the paper with splintered wood. Finally her hand uncramped.

  She threw the pencil on the floor and scrabbled among the orange plastic prescription bottles on the table for a pen. Finding one, she wrote, What can I do? To help

  She wasn’t able to add the final question mark because her hand convulsed away from her again, and wrote,

  touseyourbodyinvitemeintoyourbody

  and then a moment later,

  imsorryforeverythingplease

  Caroleen watched as the pen in her hand wrote out the same two lines twice more, then she leaned back and let the pen jiggle in the air until this bout, too, gradually wore off and her hand went limp.

  Caroleen blinked tears out of her eyes, trying to believe that they were caused entirely by her already-sore wrist muscles. But—for BeeVee to apologize, to her…! The only apologies BeeVee had ever made while alive were qualified and impatient: Well, I’m sorry if…

  Do the dead lose their egotism? wondered Caroleen, their onetime need to limit and dominate earthly households? BeeVee had maintained Caroleen as a sort of extended self, and it had resulted in isolation for the two of them; if, in fact, they had added up to quite as many as two during the last years. The twins had a couple of brothers out there somewhere, and a least a couple of nieces, and their mother might even still be alive at ninety-one, but Caroleen knew nothing of any of them. BeeVee had handled all the mail.

  Quickly she wrote on the calendar page, I need to know—do you love me?

  For nearly a full minute she waited, her shoulder muscles stiffening as she held the pen over the page; then her hand flexed and wrote,

  yes

  Caroleen was gasping and she couldn’t see the page through her tears, but she could feel her hand scribbling the word over and over again until this spasm, too, eventually relaxed.

  Why did you have to wait, she thought, until after you had died to tell me?

  But use your body, invite me into your body. What would that mean? Would BeeVee take control of it, ever relinquish control?

  Do I, thought Caroleen, care, really?

  Whatever it might consist of, it would be at least a step closer to the wholeness Caroleen had lost nine weeks ago.

  Her hand was twitching again. She waited until the first couple of scribbles had expended themselves in the air before touching the pen to the page. The pen wrote,

  yesforever

  She moved her hand aside, not wanting to spoil that statement with echoes.

  When the pen had stilled, Caroleen leaned forward and began writing, Yes, I’ll invite you, but her hand took over and finished the line with

  exhaustedmorelater

  Exhausted? Was it strenuous for ghosts to lean out or in or down this far? Did BeeVee have to brace herself against something to drive the pencil?

  But, in fact, Caroleen was exhausted, too—her hand was aching. She blew her nose into an old Kleenex, her eyes watering afresh in the menthol-and-eucalyptus smell of Ben Gay, and lay back across the daybed and closed her eyes.

  A SHARP KNOCK AT the front door jolted her awake, and though her glasses had fallen off and she didn’t immediately know whether it was morning or evening, she realized that her fingers were wiggling, and had been for some time.

  She lunged forward and with her left hand wedged the pen between her twitching right thumb and forefinger. The pen began to travel lightly over the calendar page. The scribble was longer than the others—with a pause in the middle—and she had to rotate the book to keep the point on the page until it stopped.

  The knock sounded again, but Caroleen called, “Just a minute!” and remained hunched over the little book, waiting for the message to repeat.

  It didn’t. Apparently she had just barely caught the last echo—perhaps only the end of the last echo.

  She couldn’t make out what she had written. Even if she’d had her glasses on, she’d have needed the lamplight, too.

  “Caroleen?” came a call from out front. It was Amber’s voice.

  “Coming.” Caroleen stood up stiffly and hobbled to the door. When she pulled it open, she found herself squinting in the noon sunlight that filtered through the avocado tree branches.

  The girl on the doorstep was wearing sweatpants and a huge T-shirt and blinking behind her gleaming round spectacles. Her brown hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.” She was panting, as if she had run over here from next door.

  Caroleen felt the fresh air—smelling of sun-heated stone and car exhaust—cooling her sweaty scalp. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely. “What is it?” Had she asked the girl to come over today? She couldn’t recall doing it, and she was tense with impatience to get back to her pen and book.

  “I just—” said Amber rapidly—“I liked your sister, well, you know I did really, even though—and I—could I have something of hers, not like valuable, to remember her by? How about her hairbrush?”

  “You want her hairbrush?”

  “If you don’t mind. I just want something—”

  “I’ll get it. Wait here.” It would be quicker to give it
to her than to propose some other keepsake, and Caroleen had no special attachment to the hairbrush—her own was a duplicate anyway. She and BeeVee had, of course, matching everything—toothbrushes, coffee cups, shoes, wristwatches.

  When Caroleen had fetched the brush and returned to the front door, Amber took it and went pounding down the walkway, calling “Thanks!” over her shoulder.

  Still disoriented from her nap, Caroleen closed the door and made her way back to the daybed, where she patted the scattered blankets until she found her glasses and fitted them on.

  She sat down, switched on the lamp, and leaned over the phone book page. Turning the book around to follow the newest scrawl, she read,

  bancaccounts

  getmyhairbrushfromhernow

  “Sorry, sorry!” exclaimed Caroleen; then in her own handwriting, she wrote, I’ll get it back.

  She waited, wondering why she must get the hairbrush back from Amber. Was it somehow necessary that all of BeeVee’s possessions be kept together? Probably, at least the ones with voodoo-type identity signatures on them—DNA samples, like hair caught in a brush, dried saliva traces on dentures, Kleenex in a forgotten wastebasket. But—

  Abruptly her chest felt cold and hollow.

  But this message had been written down before she had given Amber the hairbrush. And Caroleen had been awake only for the last few seconds of the message transmission, which, if it had been like the others, had been repeating for at least a full minute before she woke up.

  The message had been addressed to Amber next door, not to her. Amber had read it somehow and had obediently fetched the hairbrush.

  Could all of these messages have been addressed to the girl?

  Caroleen remembered wondering whether BeeVee might have needed to brace herself against something in order to communicate from the far side of the grave. Had BeeVee been bracing herself against Caroleen, her still-living twin, in order to talk to Amber? Insignificant Amber?

  Caroleen was dizzy, but she got to her feet and padded into the bedroom for a pair of outdoor shoes. She had to carry them back to the living room—the bed in the bedroom had been BeeVee’s, too, and she didn’t want to sit on it in order to pull the shoes on—and on the way she leaned into the bathroom and grabbed her own hairbrush.

  DRESSED IN ONE OF her old church-attendance skirts, with fresh lipstick, and carrying a big embroidered purse, Caroleen pulled the door closed behind her and began shuffling down the walk. The sky was a very deep blue above the tree branches and the few clouds were extraordinarily far away overhead, and it occurred to her that she couldn’t recall stepping out of the house since BeeVee’s funeral. She never drove anymore—Amber was the only one who drove the old Pontiac these days—and it was Amber who went for groceries, reimbursed with checks from Caroleen…and the box of checks came in the mail, which Amber brought in from the mailbox by the sidewalk. If Caroleen alienated the girl, could she do these things herself? She would probably starve.

  Caroleen’s hand had begun wriggling as she reached the sidewalk and turned right, toward Amber’s parents’ house, but she resisted the impulse to pull a pen out of her purse. She’s not talking to me, she thought, blinking back tears in the sunlight that glittered on the windshields and bumpers of passing cars; she’s talking to stupid Amber. I won’t eavesdrop.

  Amber’s parents had a Spanish-style house at the top of a neatly mowed sloping lawn, and a green canvas awning overhung the big arched window out front. Even shading her eyes with her manageable left hand Caroleen couldn’t see anyone in the dimness inside, so she huffed up the widely spaced steps, and while she was catching her breath on the cement apron at the top, the front door swung inward, releasing a puff of cool floor-polish scent.

  Amber’s young, dark-haired mother—Crystal? Christine?—was staring at her curiously. “It’s…Caroleen,” she said, “right?”

  “Yes.” Caroleen smiled, feeling old and foolish. “I need to talk to Amber.” The mother was looking dubious. “I want to pay her more, and see if she’d be interested in balancing our, my, checkbook.”

  The woman nodded, as if conceding a point. “Well, I think that might be good for her.” She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in and ask her. She’s in her room.”

  Caroleen got a quick impression of a dim living room with clear plastic covers over the furniture, and a bright kitchen with copper pans hanging everywhere. Amber’s mother then knocked on a bedroom door and said, “Amber honey? You’ve got a visitor,” then pushed the door open.

  “I’ll let you two talk,” the woman said, and stepped away toward the living room.

  Caroleen stepped into the room. Amber was sitting cross-legged on a pink bedspread, looking up from a cardboard sheet with a rock, a pencil, and BeeVee’s hairbrush on it. Lacy curtains glowed in the street-side window, and a stack of what appeared to be textbooks stood on an otherwise bare white desk in the opposite corner. The couple of pictures on the walls looked like pastel blobs. The room smelled like cake.

  Caroleen considered what to say. “Can I help?” she asked finally.

  Amber, who had been looking wary, brightened and sat up straight. “Shut the door.”

  After Caroleen had shut the door, Amber went on, “You know she’s coming back?” She waved at the cardboard in front of her. “She’s been talking to me all day.”

  “I know, child.”

  Caroleen stepped forward and leaned down to peer at the cardboard, and saw that the girl had written the letters of the alphabet in an arc across it.

  “It’s one of those things people use to talk to ghosts,” Amber explained with evident pride. “I’m using the rock crystal to point to the letters. Some people are scared of these things, but it’s one of the good kinds of crystals.”

  “A Ouija board.”

  “That’s it! She made me dream of one over and over again just before the sun came up, because this is her birthday. Well, yours, too, I guess. At first I thought it was a hopscotch pattern, but she made me look closer till I got it.” She pursed her lips. “I wrote it by reciting the rhyme, and I accidentally did H and I twice, and left out J and K.” She pulled a sheet of lined paper out from under the board. “But it was only a problem once, I think.”

  “Can I see? I, uh, want this to work out.”

  “Yeah. She won’t be gone. She’ll be in me, did she tell you?” She held out the paper. “I drew in lines to break the words up.”

  “Yes. She told me.” Caroleen slowly reached out to take the paper from Amber, and then held it up close enough to read the penciled lines:

  I/NEED/YOUR/HELP/PLEASE

  Who R U?

  I/AM/BEEVEE

  How can I help U?

  I/NEED/TO/USE/YOUR/BODY/INVITE/ME/IN/TO/YOUR/BODY

  IM/SORRY/FOR/EVERY/THING/PLEASE

  R U an angel now? Can U grant wishes?

  YES

  Can U make me beautiful?

  YES/FOR/EVER

  OK. What do I do?

  EXHAUSTED/MORE/LATER

  BV? It’s after lunch. Are U rested up yet?

  YES

  Make me beautiful.

  GET/MY/HAIRBRUSH/FROM/MY/SISTER

  Is that word “hairbrush”?

  YES/THEN/YOU/CAN/INVITE/ME/IN/TO/YOU

  How will that do it?

  WE/WILL/BE/YOU/TOGETHER

  + what will we do?

  GET/SLIM/TRAVEL/THE/WORLD

  Will we be rich?

  YES/I/HAVE/BANC/ACCOUNTS GET/MY/HAIRBRUSH/FROM/HER/NOW

  I got it.

  NIGHT/TIME/STAND/OVER/GRAVE/BRUSH/YR/HAIR/INVITE/ME/IN

  “That should be B-A-N-K, in that one line,” explained Amber helpfully. “And I’ll want to borrow your car tonight.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Caroleen nodded and handed the paper back to her, wondering if her own face was red or pale. She felt invisible and repudiated. BeeVee could have approached her own twin for this, but her twin was too old; and if she did manage to occupy the body of this g
irl—a more intimate sort of twinhood!—she would certainly not go on living with Caroleen. And she had eaten all the Vicodins and Darvocets.

  Caroleen picked up the rock. It was some sort of quartz crystal.

  “When…” she began in a croak. She cleared her throat and went on more steadily, “When did you get that second-to-last message? About the bank accounts and the hairbrush?”

  “That one? Uh, just a minute before I knocked on your door.”

  Caroleen nodded, wondering bleakly if BeeVee had even known that she was leaving her with carbon copies—multiple, echoing carbon copies—of the messages.

  She put the crystal back down on the cardboard and picked up the hairbrush. Amber opened her mouth as if to object, then subsided.

  There were indeed a number of white hairs tangled in the bristles.

  Caroleen tucked the brush into her purse.

  “I need that,” said Amber quickly, leaning forward across the board. “She says I need it.”