Secondhand Souls

by Christopher Moore

  “Maybe I can help,” said Charlie.

  “That’s sweet of you to offer, but you have plenty to do already. I’m just going to get a ­couple of bolts of cotton in different colors and make them basic outfits from it, with drawstring trousers, like hospital scrubs. They can cinch them up to fit.”

  “Sounds good,” said Charlie. “You can use Wiggly Charlie for the pattern.”

  Charlie had gotten used to Wiggly Charlie following him around the big house that comprised the Buddhist Center, the little monster imitating his movements. When Charlie went to the bathroom, W.C. followed him and peed in a plastic mixing bowl that Charlie had used for the same purpose when he had been a little monster. When Charlie sat down to practice Mike Sullivan’s signature, W.C. sat on his mixed nut can, using a stack of books as a little desk, and practiced his penmanship as well, which consisted mostly of tearing stationery and licking the pen, then putting inky tongue prints on the paper. Charlie hung some of the more interesting ones on the fridge.

  Wiggly Charlie was learning skills, but didn’t seem to be getting any more vocabulary, picking up only the odd word here and there and working them into some syntax around the phrase “need a cheez.” He also alternated between making an excited, happy noise and a disappointed sigh sound, which he only seemed to make when a cheez was not forthcoming or when Charlie left the house and did not take him. Charlie felt for the little guy, having been imprisoned in that improbable body himself, but W.C. seemed strangely untroubled.

  “Maybe life is just easier if you’re a little goofy,” Charlie said to Audrey. He gestured as he said it, a bit of a game-­show-­spokes-­model-­presenting-­a-­dishwasher flourish. W.C. made exactly the same gesture, perhaps half a second behind Charlie. Audrey shuddered a little at the sight of it.

  “I’m not sure how he’s even, uh, alive,” said Audrey. “Not that I understand the mechanics of any of the Squirrel ­People, but the engine is their consciousness, their soul. W.C.’s soul—­you—­left the building and found a new place to live.”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said, rubbing his brow. W.C. mirrored the gesture. “There’s something in there.”

  Audrey nodded, a little creeped out by the synchronized mime. “I think maybe when you left that body, there was a shadow or an echo of you left in there.”

  “Nah, I’d feel part of me missing, wouldn’t I?”

  She shrugged. “Just don’t get too attached to him, Charlie. We don’t know how long he will last. He might be like the ladies I used the p’howa of undying on.”

  “Boobies,” said Wiggly Charlie, who hopped and made his excited noise.

  “See,” said Charlie. “He’s his own man.”

  “Really? What were you thinking about just then?”

  “I’m going to go grab something to eat,” Charlie said. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Need a cheez,” said W.C.

  Meanwhile Charlie got used to the peculiarities of Mike Sullivan’s body. Mike had been meticulous and incredibly considerate to write down all of his bank account numbers, his passwords, even the context of the contacts in his phone, but he didn’t explain what the dark spot on his left calf was: it could have been where he’d been poked with a pencil as a child, or it could be a deadly melanoma, but in Charlie Asher’s beta-­male imagination, it was probably the latter. Despite a dubious medical history, there were qualities of Mike Sullivan’s body that were new to Charlie, and delighted him, among them a much more solid hairline than Charlie Asher had been blessed with, and, of course, arms . . .

  “Look, I’ve got guns.” He flexed his biceps for Audrey. “I’ve never had guns before. Do you think they’re good for anything, or are they, you know, like breasts, just for looking at and touching.” He presented an arm for her to squeeze.

  “Breasts are for breast-­feeding babies, you doof.”

  “Sure, there’s that, too, I guess.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’ll need them to paint the bridge. That’s probably how Mike got them.”

  Charlie sat down, a little stunned.

  “I can’t paint the bridge. I can’t. I have to collect souls, I have to reopen the shop. I have my own stuff to do.”

  “But that’s Mike Sullivan’s job.”

  “I’ll claim that the fall damaged me, so I can’t do it.”

  “But it’s obvious you’re good as new,” Audrey said.

  “I’ll say I’m mentally unable to do it. The amnesia excuse has worked great so far.”

  “So you’ll tell them you can’t remember what color to paint?” She tried very hard not to laugh, but failed.

  “You, young lady, are not too old to be spanked,” said Charlie, using his stern dad voice, tickling her and trying to pull her over his knee as she squirmed and giggled.

  Which was only one of the many, many cues that had sent them into a raucous session of sweet monkey love. In fact, once they had breached the wall of tentative awkwardness his first day home, if it hadn’t been for Audrey’s duties at the Buddhist Center, and Charlie’s need to establish his new life as Charles Michael Sullivan, they might never have gotten out of bed except to slide naked down the stairs to the refrigerator. But when the last attendee for the last meditation session left in the early evening, the crazy new-­love sex fest began, and went on until they collapsed into exhaustion or laughter or exhausted laughter.

  “Wow,” Charlie said, late that first night, lying next to her, catching his breath; a sheen of sweat on both of them, golden under the candlelight.

  “Yeah,” said Audrey. She ran a fingernail between his abdominal muscles. “Yeah.”

  “Is this better?” he said, rolling on his side to face her, look in her eyes. “Better than the first time, when we were together?”

  “Charlie, this is wonderful, but we only had one night. It was wonderful then and it’s wonderful now. I knew I loved you then. I love you now.”

  “Me, too,” he said. He touched her jaw, smiled. “But is this body, you know, am I better now?”

  “It doesn’t really matter what I say, I’m not going to stop you from being jealous of yourself, am I?”

  “I’m sorry. I guess, yeah. I just feel so lucky to be here, with you, to not be, you know, like before.”

  “I loved you then, too,” she said. “But this is nicer. It’s okay to say that, right?”

  “I guess. But some part of me will always just be a little reptilian monster following his penis around.”

  “I know that’s how I always think of you,” she said.

  Again, the tickling, and they were off again.

  On their second night together they learned just how close Charlie was to W.C. They were making love, slow and sweet and without the slightest worry of getting anywhere, just being there, when there came a scratching at the door. For a second their eyes went wide, then the scratching began again, then stopped, and having been brought back to the world outside themselves, they finished, and Audrey got up and padded naked over to the bedroom door.

  “Oh no!” she said, when she opened the door.

  Charlie looked over to see Wiggly Charlie lying on the floor, as if he’d been leaning against the door and had rolled in when she opened it. He just lay there, a motionless lump.

  “Is he . . .” Charlie sat up. “Is he dead?”

  Audrey knelt, reached out, and gently touched W.C. on his wizard robe. He lolled to the side.

  “Oh no. That’s not right,” Charlie said.

  Then Audrey lit up, looked back at Charlie over her shoulder with a smile. “No, look, it’s okay. He just has an erection.”

  She picked up Wiggly Charlie by his enormous erect willy and turned to show Charlie. The little unconscious monster jostled limply like a puppet on a stick. “He’ll be fine.” She bounced W.C. on the end of his stick.

  “Wow, you were right ab
out the echo. It’s like we have some kind of psychic connection.”

  “Right, this used to happen to you, remember?” Audrey said, swinging W.C. by his dong to make her point. “As soon as it goes down he’ll be back.”

  “Which is never going to happen if you keep yanking him around by it.”

  “Oh. Good point. Sorry.” She carried Wiggly Charlie back to the doorway and carefully set him outside in the hall—­rolled him on his side and patted his little shoulder. “You rest, little guy.”

  She palmed the door closed, then turned, leaned on the door, and looked at Charlie. “I’m glad he’s okay.”

  Charlie lay back on the bed, looked at the ceiling. She joined him and found a spot between his chest and shoulder that seemed to have been built to lay her head upon.

  “He was eating some out-­of-­date cat food this morning,” she said. “I hope you don’t have any ill effects from it.”

  They lay quietly for a moment, considering the situation, pretending they didn’t hear Charlie’s stomach growl. There was the noise of something stirring in the hall and she smiled and kissed his chest. “See?” she said. “He’s fine.”

  “Before, when I was—­you know—­when I had Wiggly Charlie’s body, did you ever pick me up like that? I mean, it seemed like a pretty automatic response for you . . .”

  She nuzzled into his chest. “You mean, pick you up and swing you around by your huge unit? Spray furniture polish on your wizard robe and dust under the bed with you? Like that?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Was that why my clothes always smelled like lemon?”

  “Don’t be silly. You couldn’t smell things in that body. Hey, what should I wear to the funeral tomorrow? I don’t think my monk robes are appropriate, but it’s been so long since I’ve worn a dress.”

  “Wait a minute. I used to wake up under the bed wondering how I got there.”

  “Shh, shh, shh, quiet time. Rest. Rest. Sleep.” She gently stroked his penis like she was petting a kitten.

  There was a thump in the hallway like someone had dropped a bag of dicks.

  Which Little Pony is appropriate for a funeral?” Jane asked, flipping through Sophie’s closet.

  “I don’t think any,” said Charlie. “It’s a wake, Jane.”

  “Smurf ? Little Mermaid? This big red dog, I forget his name?”

  “Doesn’t she just have a normal little dress?”

  “Why are you taking her to a funeral anyway? She’s just a little kid. Despite her being the big D, she doesn’t really get death. After you, uh, died, it was pretty awful trying to explain.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her that when you die, fluffy monkeys take you shoe shopping with a black card.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “And very hetero,” said Cassie from the other room.

  “No, it’s not. I see what you’re saying, Chuck, but Sophie didn’t even know Cavuto.”

  “We’re not going for Cavuto. We’re going for Inspector Rivera. He saved my life. Sophie wouldn’t even have a daddy if it weren’t for him, so we’re going. Funerals are for the living.”

  “Fine. What’s Audrey wearing?”

  “A black dress.”

  “Well, I can’t go now, that’s what I was going to wear.”

  “No, you weren’t. I saw my charcoal Armani hanging on the doorknob in your room.”

  “Okay, I wasn’t, but Cassie was, so she can’t go, so I can’t go.”

  “Gray dress,” Cassie called from the other room.

  “Not helping,” Jane shouted. To her brother, under her breath, she said, “Can you believe we marched for the right to marry, for that?”

  “You didn’t march,” Cassie called.

  “How did you hear that?” Jane said. “Do you have this room bugged?”

  “Jane, please, can we find something?” Charlie said. “Audrey’s waiting downstairs.”

  Before Jane could dig back into the closet, Sophie marched into the room, past them, pushed her toy box over to the closet, climbed on it, pulled out a blue dress, jumped down, went over to the bed, where she laid out the dress, then crossed her arms and looked at them.

  Charlie and Jane slunk out of the room to give the child the privacy she seemed to require.

  “It’s my Armani,” Jane said. “You were dead.”

  “You swiped it when I still lived here. What tie are you wearing?”

  “No tie. Cream satin camisole.”

  “Nice.” He put his arm around her, side hug, then hip-­bumped her into the couch.

  Cavuto’s wake was held in the grand ballroom at the Elks Lodge, which took up the third floor of a large building just off Union Square. The enormous room was paneled in dark mahogany, with tall cathedral windows that looked out over the square. There were perhaps five hundred ­people in the room when Charlie and his family arrived: Audrey on his arm, Jane and Cassie following, each taking one of Sophie’s hands between them. Most in attendance were San Francisco cops, all in dress uniform, but there were also police and firemen from a dozen different departments, and more polished buttons than a royal wedding procession.

  Charlie immediately spotted Minty Fresh across the room, towering above the crowd, and near him, Lily, in a black lace and brocade Victorian dress with a plunging neckline and bustle, and a black-­feathered hat with a veil. Charlie escorted Audrey in their direction, and as they cleared the crowd, saw Fresh was talking to Inspector Alphonse Rivera.

  There were introductions all around, condolences, and when Rivera shook Charlie’s hand he grasped it with both hands and held it for a second. “Charlie, you have no idea how happy I am to know you’re here,” Rivera said, looking directly into the eyes of a stranger he’d never even seen before.

  But Charlie did know, and he believed him, because in the face of a death, overwhelming, irresistible death, what moves you is life, and Charlie being here, even in the body of this stranger, was the thing that would touch this strong, collected cop the most. “Wouldn’t be here at all if not for you, Inspector,” he said.

  Rivera still held his hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help pull you out of the bay. I—­”

  “You needed to be somewhere else,” Charlie said. He could see Rivera was still a little stunned, as could happen to you, mercifully, after the death of someone close. The grief or remorse might come over him later, like a rogue wave, but right now he was functioning, doing his duty, carrying on. There’d be no sloppy songs with his fellow officers for this one, no raucous, funny stories, of which he’d have had hundreds. He was part of the fraternity, but he stood out from every other cop in the room, in the city, in the world, because he knew who, what, had killed Nick Cavuto. “I’m going to get them, Charlie.”

  “Absolutely,” Charlie said.

  Minty Fresh leaned down, said, “We’re going to meet tomorrow. Everyone. We just need to pick a time and place.”

  “The Buddhist Center,” Audrey said. “Noon?”

  Minty Fresh looked to each of them for a nod.

  Charlie looked around for Jane, Cassie, and Sophie, and saw they were already in a reception line that ran four deep halfway around the great room and was moving, slowly, by a thin, middle-­aged, balding fellow in an immaculately tailored suit.

  “Brian,” Rivera said. “Brian Cavuto. Nick Cavuto’s husband.”

  “I didn’t even know he was married,” Charlie said.

  “Neither did I,” said Rivera.

  “We should pay our respects,” Minty Fresh said, directing Audrey and Lily to go before them to the line with a slight bow.

  As Lily went by, Charlie whispered, “Nice bustle.”

  “I liked you better when you were in the cat box,” she said.

  Brian took Rivera
’s hand and held it in both of his the way Rivera had held Charlie’s only moments before, gripping and shaking his hand with the rhythm of his words as he spoke. He had that lean, stringy strength of a marathon runner. Cavuto used to say guys like that wanted to be the last one everyone ate if they went down in a plane crash in the mountains.

  “Inspector Rivera, I’m so glad you came.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Rivera said, because that’s what you say. “Nick meant a lot to me.”

  “You were his best friend,” Brian said. “Nick talked about you constantly.”

  Rivera couldn’t keep up any pretense. This guy had been Nick’s husband. He’d know bullshit even if he didn’t call bullshit.

  “Evidently I didn’t even know him at all.”

  “You knew him,” Brian said, patting Rivera’s hand. “He was a huge lunch whore.” Brian smiled and released Rivera’s hand.

  “Okay, maybe I did know him.”

  “That was one of his favorite things. He would tell me at least twice a week, while we were eating dinner, like I’d never heard it before.” Brian then did an uncannily accurate impression of Nick Cavuto: “ ‘Fucking Ri­­vera says I’m huge lunch whore.’ That’s what he always called you, ‘fucking Rivera.’ ”

  “Well,” said Rivera, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second, waiting for the power of speech to return. After a quarter of a minute or so, in which Brian waited patiently, not touching Rivera’s arm, which might have caused the detective to break up in front of four hundred cops, not offering comfort, just waiting, politely looking at his shoes, until Rivera said, “he was a huge lunch whore.”

  Brian laughed.

  Rivera laughed and said, “You’ve done this before.”

  “Inspector, I’m gay, I’m fifty, and I’ve lived in the Castro for thirty-­two years. I buried half a generation of friends and lovers before the cocktail. Yes, I’ve done this before. Not like this, though.”

  “You can call me Alphonse,” Rivera said.

  “I’ll call you ‘Inspector.’ Nick liked that. He was proud of being an inspector, a detective, a working cop.”