The Secret Life of Souls

by Jack Ketchum

The glance at her daughter is knee-jerk, involuntary. She hopes Delia’s look of surprise at this series of lies doesn’t register on camera. Delia’s keeping her head down so she doubts it.

  “Delia?” says John. “You realize you’re a very lucky girl to be alive right now, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “And the reason you’re alive is . . . ?”

  “Caity. My dog . . . Caity.”

  She’s practically mumbling. Come on, she thinks. I’ve taught you better than this, dammit.

  “So, is there anything you’d like to tell us about your friend Caity before we bring her out here?”

  Delia shrugs. Essays a small shy smile from underneath the hood. Would the camera hopefully pick that up? That smile?

  She counts about three seconds of dead air. On television, three seconds is a fucking eternity.

  “John, I think if you just . . .” Pat nods in the dog’s direction.

  He’s good. He picks up on it right away.

  “Sure. Even better. Let’s just cut to the chase and meet the hero of our story. Delia’s dog, Caity!”

  The director cues Bianca, who puts on her best smile and begins to lead Caity onto the set but Caity needs no leading. Caity leads her. Directly over to John. Who is pretty damn taken aback when she sniffs him directly in the crotch and then trots over to Delia and sits between her knees.

  “Well,” says John, “that’s one way to make friends, I guess.” His smile is almost, but not quite, genuine.

  John doesn’t like dogs, she thinks. She’ll shoot for a more simpatico interviewer next time. If there is a next time.

  Caity raises her head to Delia, giving the camera a perfect view of the burns beneath her neck and chest. Good dog, she thinks.

  “I guess Caity here’s your hero isn’t she, Delia?”

  She shrugs and smiles again and strokes Caity’s head.

  Not good. What’s with this shrugging? Not good at all.

  “Delia?” she prompts.

  “She’s always been my hero.”

  “Is that right? How so?”

  Delia just blinks at him like he’s from outer space or something.

  So that then John looks over to Pat as though to say, do something, will you? But if her goddamn daughter doesn’t want to talk what is she supposed to do about it? She’ll give her holy hell later, that’s for damn sure. But right now? In front of the cameras? Nothing.

  Delia stops petting her dog, lets her hand rest on Caity’s shoulder. Then raises her head up full into the lights for the very first time. Though most of her face is still in shadow.

  “You’re not asking me what you really want to ask me,” she says. “Why is that?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He seems to think this over. Smiles, then goes serious again. But no faux-face this time. Serious.

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re right, Delia. There is something, but it’s completely understandable if you don’t want to . . .”

  “Just ask.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “I think our viewers would want to know . . . the extent of . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you take the hood down?”

  “No.”

  And he wasn’t expecting that. Hell, neither was she. What kind of game are you playing here, Delia?

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Are you . . . shy?”

  “No.”

  “Are you embarrassed? There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

  “No. I’m not embarrassed.”

  “I won’t press it . . . I mean, I understand. You’ve gone through an awful lot for someone your age . . .”

  “Everybody’s gone through bad stuff. It doesn’t keep tomorrow from being better.”

  John’s eyes flicker. He straightens in his chair. He sees an out, she thinks. He smells a way to save this.

  “‘It doesn’t keep tomorrow from being better.’ Those are brave words from a . . .”

  “I don’t want to because of you.”

  “Because of . . . me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to scare you. My face would scare you.”

  “No, Delia. Nothing could be further from the truth. I think you’re . . .”

  Wonderful? Was he about to trip up and say wonderful? And would he really be meaning it?

  “It’s okay, John. It’s all right. It’s okay to be afraid.”

  He’s showing now. Really showing. She’s amazed. Delia’s right. He is afraid to gaze at this head-on, under the lights. The harsh, unforgiving lights. She can read the ambivalence now with which he must have approached this from the get-go. This is not an interview he’d wanted to do. The very idea makes him uncomfortable. Something in his past, she thinks. Who knows what? But he’s a pro. He’ll get through it the way he always does. She feels an unexpected sympathy for the man.

  It comes and goes. This man still has to be of use to them.

  He looks down at Caity for a moment, who’s staring at him, immobile, as though she were reading him too, and then back to Delia.

  “You’re sure?” she says.

  And now John is smiling again and this time it’s wholly real. Like he’s almost glad to be found out.

  He nods.

  She turns fully into the lights. Directly into her hot-spot just as she’s been taught to do.

  She pulls down the hood.

  And Pat could easily applaud her right then and there.

  “This is me, Delia,” she says. “This is who I am. This is me.”

  PART TWO

  TWELVE

  This Manny Choi, she thinks, this guy is a one-man circus.

  They’re watching him on the big sixty-five-inch 4K Ultra High Definition TV monitor—Bart would love this! she thinks—as she pours herself a second modest glass of wine and sets the bottle back in its ice bucket amid the huge spread of food and drink arranged along the immaculate linen-covered Green Room table.

  Following the opening splash they were running clips from the show. Newly assembled, she’s learned, every day. Intercut with stock shots of the audience, laughing, dancing in the aisles, looking shocked, then hysterical, laughing even more. And there’s Manny—our bright-faced, fifty-three-year-old Korean-American host—dancing amid a crowd of two-or-three-year-olds, displaying even less rhythm than the babies. Manny deadpanning a pretty fair Jack Benny as some woman shoots Silly String all over his face. Manny walking on his hands, crashing feet-first into the camera.

  The audience is howling. While the announcer intones Today on Choi and Company, with your host . . . Manny Choi! and Manny’s face appears peering like a thief from behind a curtain . . . with everyone’s favorite hunky handyman, Steeeve Keltin! . . . and there’s Steve, shot in fast-motion, tacking down an entire side of shingle roofing . . . and world-renowned sword-swallower Annie Rosette! . . . and Annie, sliding a sword from her throat, which immediately bursts into flame.

  For a moment the screen goes black and then these little animated flowers bloom all around with puppy and kitten faces inside them the essence of cute and the music goes from pop to sweet . . . and with the help of our sponsors, Innocina Brands and Spot-Clear Paper, a very special guest, along with her heroic best friend, here to inspire joy and wonder in all of us, just exactly as it did with . . .

  . . . Maaaaaaaaaaannnnneeeeee!!! Choi!!!

  My god, she thinks. He’s riding a fucking tricycle.

  Which he is. And licking an oversized lollipop. On the screen behind him is a photoshop blowup of his face plastered onto a baby goat in a bathtub. The meaning of which is utterly lost on her.

  But the audience is laughing like crazy. While Manny pretends confusion, like he hasn’t the foggiest notion why.

  And this goonie-bird’s daytime ratings are right up there with Ellen’s,
she thinks. High enough so that they paid top dollar.

  What an amazing country this truly is.

  He stands and waves and kicks the tricycle into the wings. The photo disappears.

  “Awwww . . . thank you,” he says, “or as we say in my former homeland . . .”

  He cups a hand to his ear. The crowd knows the cue. Everyone joins in.

  “Gamsahabnida!”

  Applause. Choi bows and shakes his head.

  “Wow, wow, wowwowwow. You ever notice when Americans try to say ‘thank you’ in Korean, it sounds like they’re sneezing?”

  He mimics a sneeze.

  “Gam . . . gam . . . gamsahbnida!”

  She checks out her daughter. Wondering how she’s taking all this. Pat has seen the Choi show many times by now, doing her homework, but Delia hasn’t. She’s watching the screen intently, nibbling a chicken nugget. She seems . . . interested. Not alarmed, at least. She isn’t fleeing for the door.

  “Your ears pop yet?” she says.

  The descent into JFK had been abrupt.

  “Not yet.”

  “Want some gum?” She has some in her purse. Forearmed, as always.

  “Unh-unh. No thanks.”

  They watch in silence. As Manny does some of his catch-bits.

  I Got Skillz.

  With a volunteer from the audience who says she can dislocate her shoulder and then does, Manny going through all sorts of physical contortions—he’s a pretty good physical comedian, actually—before giving up and stuffing some fake prize money into her shirt pocket.

  Tweet Beat.

  Wherein he’s handed a tweet supposedly from one braidsuckler21—“you mean to tell me there are at least twenty more people out there suckling braids?” and proceeds to pick up a small Raggedy Ann doll from behind the couch—it’s another living-room set, only cartoon-gaudy this time, with all the furnishings exaggerated and oversized. He starts sucking on one of its braids, seeming to find delight in doing so, and when he sets it back down and smiles there’s a big string of red yarn stuck between his teeth.

  The audience loves it.

  He picks the strand from his teeth, drops it to the floor and reads another tweet. “‘Congrats on Emmy nods. Pull down your pants and celebrate.’ Well . . .” At which point dance music comes on and Manny’s boogying, much more coordinated than with the two-year-olds in the clip, his pants slowly sliding off his hips until they pool down to the floor and he’s dancing with his back to the audience in a pair of heart-embroidered boxers.

  The audience loves that one to death.

  “Whew!” he says, puffing. “Who knew pulling your pants down was such good cardio?”

  Cheers and applause.

  He waves. “Thanks, everybody!”

  She watches Delia feed Caity a bite of chicken. Not fazed by this one bit, she thinks.

  That’s my girl.

  The door opens and the AD leans inside.

  “Places, ladies,” he says.

  It’s a little past midnight Thursday morning before they all get to sit down in front of their old sixteen-inch Samsung to watch the show, routed through Bart’s computer via AirPlay, a private link, password protected.

  It won’t air nationwide until three that afternoon and Bart’s anxious, he has no idea what to expect. Pat had called him from the studio as promised once the taping was over around noon their time, nine in the morning his, but to his first and only question, Well? How did it go? all he got was It was interesting, you’ll see, and he couldn’t read her tone whatsoever. As though she wasn’t sure herself. Which wasn’t like his wife one bit.

  They’re tired, all of them, even Caity, who’d flown like a champ according to Pat, lying between Delia’s legs for most of the five-and-a-half-hour flight rather than in cargo because Pat had had the presence of mind to register her as a service dog under the Americans with Disabilities Act, claiming Delia was a victim of PTSD. Impossible to debate. She lies on the couch between Delia and Robbie now, looking beat.

  They fast-forward through Manny Choi’s opening shenanigans right to the meat of things. Choi’s settled into one of the three oversized easy chairs in front of the obligatory coffee table and is leaning in to the camera.

  “Enough of the silly silly,” he’s saying, “let’s switch gears to important things. Not that laughing isn’t important. But sometimes we need to take a step back and focus on some of the harsh realities of life that are all too easy to ignore between our . . . mocha frappés.”

  Titters from the audience.

  “Statistics say that, on average, in the United States, someone dies in a fire every 169 minutes and someone is injured every 30 minutes. Eighty-five percent of those fire deaths occur in homes.

  “Our next guests are two survivors of these horrible statistics. Two friends who will be forever bonded because of a random accident that could have happened to any one of us, in any one of our homes. As you know, I have three gorgeous daughters. And more pets than your average zoo. So when I saw John Latoya’s interview with these two last week, it hit me hard, believe me.

  “Roll the tape, will you please?”

  And he is more than familiar with this, of course, though he hasn’t seen this edit, these cuts, or heard Latoya’s overdubs. But there’s Delia in her red hoodie, her eyes bathed in shadows.

  “Could you take the hood down? Show us how this has changed you? I know it might be embarrassing, but I’m thinking we might be able to send a message to people about how important fire safety is in the home.”

  “I’m not embarrassed. I don’t want to scare you.”

  Then a pause, camera on Latoya, slowly nodding.

  “You’re sure?”

  Then on Delia, claiming the moment, pulling away the hoodie.

  “This is me, Delia. This is who I am. This is me.”

  The clip ends and the camera returns to Manny Choi.

  “Please welcome . . . Delia Cross, her mother, Patricia, and . . . their amazing dog . . . Caity.”

  He watches them cross the stage, Delia in a yellow hoodie this time and holding Caity’s leash, Choi leaning in to kiss each of them and whisper something, everybody smiling, Choi stopping to slow-salute Caity and Caity dipping her head to him in her own kind of salute and then barking once, bright and loud and sharp, as though trained for this, as though she’s done this every day.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bart says. He glances over at Pat.

  “I know,” she says. “She’s something, isn’t she.”

  The audience is applauding wildly. Choi motions them to their chairs.

  “Hwan-yeong,” he says. “Welcome, welcome.”

  “Gamsahabnida,” Pat says. “Thank you.” Her pronunciation’s perfect.

  “Gamsahabnida, Mr. Choi,” says Delia. As is hers.

  “Please,” he says. “You call me Manny or I sic my dog on you.”

  Audience laughter.

  “Would you ladies mind if I give our viewers an idea of what happened? Why we’ve brought you here?”

  “Not at all,” Pat says.

  “Okay. So Delia here goes to sleep one night after a long day of . . . you’re an actress, right?”

  “I was,” says Delia.

  “She is,” says Pat.

  “A long day of auditioning. In fact, you’d just booked a television show, is that correct? You go to sleep and suddenly an electrical fire starts there in your bedroom and your smoke alarm . . . which is checked . . . how often?”

  “We had them checked regularly,” Pat says. “Probably every three months.”

  “Which is probably more than most of us, right? But the alarm fails. And the fire spreads, and Delia’s bed catches on fire. Now Delia’s room is way upstairs and her mom and dad are downstairs, they can’t smell anything yet because most of the smoke is going out the window screen. And . . .”

  The camera pulls in tight on Pat, who at this point is apparently fighting off sudden tears.

  Bart’s a little shocked. Pat
hasn’t cried once over this. Not that he’s seen.

  “It’s okay, Patricia. Can I continue?”

  She nods.

  “Well, what happens next is the amazing part. Caity, Delia’s friend here . . .”

  “Best friend,” Delia quietly corrects.

  “Delia’s best friend here smells the smoke. But she’s outside that night. Mom and dad are out of earshot and Caity knows she has to take action. But. Delia is on the second floor. So what does Caity do, Delia?”

  “She climbed a tree.”

  “She climbs a tree! This dog, sitting right here, climbs fifteen feet up a tree next to Delia’s window, jumps on the roof, pushes her way through the window screen, runs through the fire, and pulls Delia out of the fire which by this point has engulfed her bed.”

  In the audience, a collective murmur of astonishment.

  “Mom and dad and brother . . .”

  “Robbie,” Delia says.

  “. . . Robbie get to the room just as this is happening, they witness this dog saving their daughter and sister’s life.”

  Choi glances stage left, nods, smiles.

  Robbie’s been watching all this from the couch, mostly grinning. But he’s frowning now. Bart wants to say something to him but doesn’t know what.

  “Okay folks,” says Choi, “we’ll break right here for a moment. We’ll be right back after this word from our sponsors, with Delia, Patricia, and Caity Cross, ladies and gentlemen!”

  “Pause it here, Bart,” says Patricia.

  He hits the button. Freeze-frame on Choi’s big grin.

  “Tell your father what happened here, Delia.”

  Any evidence of sleepiness is gone now. Delia is alert and he thinks, decidedly uncomfortable.

  “He asked us how we were. If we needed anything. We said we were fine.”

  “And?” says Patricia.

  “He asked Caity if she needed anything. He was kidding. Caity was watching him the whole time. I said it was okay and he said what was okay? and I said she likes you, you mean well. Which she did, because he did mean well, you could tell. And he said, of course I do and he just looked at me and then he asked me what was I thinking? So I told him. I told him that he could be a good person if he wanted to.”

  He looks from her to Pat.