Gifts for the One Who Comes After

by Gifts for the One Who Comes After (v5. 0) (epub)

  “All the time,” Death says, and he slips his arm around her.

  Carissa wonders what Death’s Johnson will look like. Does Death have a Johnson? Will he put it inside her, and what will happen when he does? Does Death have a mother? Does he call her on Sundays and on her birthday, or is he too busy with being famous and being Death to remember the people who were there before he was Death?

  As it turns out Death does have a Johnson after all.

  He is a gentle lover unlike the many lovers Carissa has had in the past, most of whom taste of stale beer; most of whom smell like old socks. But Death is sweet and attentive and polite.

  He brings her flowers first. These flowers are not ironic. They are not lilies. They are not roses with petals dyed to black velvet. They are not grave myrtle, cut-finger, vervain, deadnettle or sorcerer’s violets. They are not death camus or Flower-of-Death. Death hates irony.

  Instead, Death brings her a bouquet of yellow and deep orange celandines, which he says are named after the Greek word for swallow, and will bring her pleasant dreams.

  Marelaine and the other Pi Delta Zeta girls are jealous of the flowers, and they slip into Carissa’s room when she has gone to class and cut away some of the blossoms for themselves. In the morning at the breakfast table they talk in hushed whispers about their dreams.

  They dream of Death, but the Death they dream of is the death of sorority girls: killers with long, hooked knives and fraying ski masks; they dream of sizzling in superhot tanning beds; they dream endless shower scenes in which they discover their names written in fogged mirrors and their blood on the white, porcelain tiling.

  But when Carissa breathes in the blossoms, she dreams about Knick-knack, the shepherd mutt she got when she was eight. Knick-knack who waited patiently for her to come home for Christmas break before he collapsed that first evening home on her bedroom carpet unable to move his legs, waiting noiseless, not a whimper, until she woke up and held him. Carissa dreams that Knick-knack is a puppy, and she holds his velveteen muzzle close to her cheek while his tail ricochets back and forth like a live wire. She dreams about him nuzzling her under the blankets with his cold, wet nose.

  Their wedding is the September following graduation, and it is a surprise to everyone.

  “You’re so young,” her mother coos.

  “Will he be able to support you?” her father demands.

  Carissa sends out invitations to all the girls from Pi Delta Zeta: You are cordially invited to witness the union of Carissa and Death. They have not included last names because Death does not have a last name. All the girls send their RSVPs immediately. Marelaine is her maid of honour.

  It is a celebrity wedding. Carissa wears a beautiful wedding dress with a chapel train and the bridesmaids wear taffeta. Death wears black.

  Carissa and Death have decided on a simple double-lip graze-and-peck kiss for the ceremony because Carissa’s parents are both religious. Even though it is not entirely proper she ends up halfway into a tongue glide anyway, but she remembers where she is and what she is doing. When they pull away from each other, they are both a bit embarrassed, but nevertheless they smile as if they have both gotten away with something.

  Later, as they are standing in the receiving line, Death introduces his brother, Dennis. Death has never mentioned that he has a brother, and so there is some initial awkwardness, but Carissa is a Pi Delta Zeta and so she is good at recovering. She takes his hand, and it is warm and slightly damp. There are fine golden hairs on his fingers, and he has long eyelashes. He looks the way that Death sometimes looks when he is not being Death.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you, Dennis,” Carissa says. “Death talks about you all the time.” Carissa wonders why he doesn’t.

  Dennis smiles, and he has the same dimples that Death has. He holds her hand for too long. She lets go first.

  “Welcome to the family,” he says.

  Later, after the cake has been cut, Marelaine pulls Carissa aside.

  “Who’s he?” she asks. She is pointing at Dennis, who is trying to teach her mother how to foxtrot.

  “That’s Dennis,” Carissa says. “Death’s brother.”

  “Oh,” says Marelaine. “He’s quite a looker, isn’t he? I mean, he’s not Death. But.”

  In a year, she receives an invitation that says “You are cordially invited to the union of Marelaine and Dennis.” She wonders if she should RSVP.

  They live happily ever after.

  When Death dies it is very sudden.

  Neither of them planned for this, and so Carissa is caught off-guard when she hears the news. She thought they would have more time. She thought she would die first, and Death would be there for it, to help her through.

  At the funeral Carissa wears black. Death is also wearing black. Death is lying in a coffin, and makeup has been applied to his skin to give it a deep, bronze tan that makes him into a stranger.

  Carissa secretly hopes that Death will attend the funeral, and she is disappointed when he does not. She wants to see him one last time.

  Marelaine hosts the post-funeral reception. At first Carissa thinks she has gotten fat, but then Carissa realizes she has gotten pregnant. Dennis is there as well. He pats her hand, and he fetches her cocktail shrimp, which Carissa doesn’t even like.

  “How are you holding up?” Dennis asks. Dennis smiles, and his cheeks are still dimpled.

  “Don’t ask her that,” says Marelaine. “How do you think she’s holding up? Just look at her.”

  Carissa finds herself thinking that Death must have been so mindlessly bored if this was what he did all day at work.

  Carissa is lonely.

  She tries Ouija boards, but she can never get anyone on the other line.

  Sometimes Dennis comes over.

  At first he is purely solicitous. He brings over frozen lasagnas that Marelaine has prepared meticulously. He brings over casseroles. He brings over pies. And then he collects the baking pans, and the casserole dishes, and the pie plates, only so that he and Marelaine can fill them all over again.

  After the first month Carissa wonders if she is pregnant, but then she realizes she is only getting fat.

  One time when Dennis comes over, his hand accidentally grazes against her ass as he washes a two-quart dish that had previously contained a tuna casserole.

  “Oops,” he says, smiling. His hands are dripping water and soap onto the kitchen floor. Carissa doesn’t say anything.

  The next time he comes over, he brings a bottle of cabernet sauvignon along with a black cherry pie that Marelaine just baked this morning. She has crisscrossed the top with strips of dough with scalloped edges the way that pies always look when they are on television.

  “How are you getting on today?” Dennis asks, and his voice sounds to Carissa like a famous person’s voice. It is smooth and cool and easy to listen to, but it is not Death’s voice.

  “I’m fine,” she says, and she takes a sip of her wine. It tastes better than the pie. “I’m fine,” she says again.

  They finish the bottle of wine quickly. Carissa suggests that they play Ouija because there are two of them, and Dennis agrees. Carissa has lost the pointer so they use an ace of hearts instead, and it circles and circles and circles but it only ever stops on the picture of the crescent moon. Dennis suggests that they play Spin the Bottle, and Carissa feels like it’s only polite so she agrees.

  The bottle spins and spins and spins, but there are only the two of them so no matter where it ends up pointing, she still has to kiss Dennis. His teeth are entirely smooth.

  Carissa wakes in the middle of the night, and Dennis is still beside her. The sheets are all askew and somehow she has ended up on the wrong side of the bed. From this side, the bedroom seems strange, like it could be another place. Like she could be another person sleeping in it.

  Dennis is beautiful. She cannot tell whether his hair is blond or gr
ey in the moonlight, and so she decides that it must be both at the same time. She decides she likes to look at him while he is sleeping.

  She takes the marker from the bedside table and she writes on Dennis’ perfect, moon-white skin.

  “Abracadabra,” she writes.

  “Open up,” she writes.

  “I know you’re in there.”

  “Did he tell you he was going to die?” asks Carissa.

  “I never asked him,” Dennis answers. “We didn’t talk that much. He was Death.”

  Carissa is quiet for a while.

  “Do you want to run away with me?” Carissa asks.

  “Yes,” says Dennis.

  Dennis decides that they must tell Marelaine in person. Carissa wonders if she is nervous, but she decides that, in the end, she isn’t. But when Dennis opens the door, Death is sitting at the table with Marelaine.

  “Darling,” says Dennis.

  “I knew it,” says Marelaine. “And with her too. I knew it would be with her.”

  “No,” says Dennis. “It’s not like that. We’re in love.”

  “We’re not in love,” says Carissa. “I don’t love you.”

  They both look at her.

  “I knew it,” says Marelaine once more, and she rushes out of the room. Dennis follows after her. Carissa wonders if she is supposed to go as well, but decides that she probably shouldn’t. Sometimes it seems as if real life is exactly like sorority life.

  “Why didn’t you ever come to see me?” asks Carissa.

  “That’s not how it works,” Death says at last. “I’m Death. I couldn’t be David forever.”

  “I’ve missed you,” says Carissa.

  Death says nothing. He is still handsome, although Carissa can see the glint of a few threads of silver near his temples. He looks older. He looks tired. She wonders what she must look like to him.

  “What are you doing here?” Carissa asks at last.

  “Triple homicide,” says Death.

  BANG goes Marelaine’s gun somewhere upstairs. And BANG again. There is a sound as bodies hit the floor.

  “Oh,” says Carissa. She considers this. “Oh.”

  They sit together in silence, and, for the first time since the funeral, Carissa feels happy again. She decides that Death does not look that old. He looks good. Death is supposed to have some grey to him. It makes him look distinguished.

  “That was only two gunshots,” she says.

  “I know,” Death says. After a moment, he says, “It was arsenic in the pies. You know. Marelaine always was such a bitch.” He pauses, and pours a glass of wine for her. “I think we’ll both have to wait for a bit.”

  “It’s good to see you,” Carissa says.

  “I’ve been waiting for such a long time,” says Death. “I’ve brought you flowers.” He removes a single, yellow celandine blossom from his jacket pocket. Carissa smiles. She takes it from him gently, afraid to crush the petals. Their fingers touch, and his hand is warm, familiar.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “You’ll see,” Death says. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take you there.”

  She breathes in the scent.

  When she dreams it is of Death, and she is happy.

  “Asking questions of Esu—in any of his forms—was dangerous. His tongue gave shape to lies. He was a deceiver.”

  CROSSROADS AND GATEWAYS

  Dajan faced east, as he did every morning, greeting the Sun with a toothy smile that split the creases of his face. His spear was planted in the sand beside him, gripped by a hard and callused fist. The wind tugged at the bright red cloth that hung from it. The sand dunes seemed smooth as elephant bones in the morning, limned in a brilliant gold. Brown and gold—the colours of the desert. Dajan’s colours.

  He shaded his eyes as he scanned the horizon. In the distance, he made out the silhouette of a man approaching. This was unexpected. So little was unexpected in the desert. So little changed. The desert was its own kind of prison—parched, loveless, limitless.

  Dajan leaned against the shaft of his spear and waited.

  “There are no crossroads here, Esu,” Dajan called out. The approaching stranger was naked but for the stretch of cloth about his waist. Today, Esu had the look of an old man. He wore his skin like a threadbare blanket over muscles lean and hard as baked clay. His white hair, tangled in beads and bones, gleamed against the darkness of his shoulders.

  “All men are crossroads,” Esu answered with his hyena grin—mouth stretching wide, too wide, to reveal uneven teeth. “You more than most.”

  Like the flickering of a flame, Esu shifted faces—ancient wanderer to teasing boy-god. The lanky body was smaller now and rounded with baby fat. The lines in his face smoothed like the wind sweeping away footprints in the sand. Still, the hyena grin was the same.

  “All men are crossroads,” Esu repeated with a sly look, “and all women are gateways. It is unfortunate that you are not a woman. Women deserve gifts.”

  “Women have gifts of their own,” Dajan answered cautiously.

  Esu cackled at this, now turned white-haired and old once more. “As do you, as do you. Have you no questions for me, dead one?”

  “No,” Dajan said. Asking questions of Esu—in any of his forms—was dangerous. His tongue gave shape to lies. He was a deceiver. He broke the world apart and knitted it together as he pleased. He might grant favours, yes, but there was always a price.

  “You’ve learned wisdom, I see,” Esu said as he pressed his face close. Dajan refused to flinch when the wrinkled lips whispered into his ear. “Or the desert has taught it to you. A question for a question then. What was the name of the first woman you loved?”

  Dajan paused. In his mind’s eye, he saw her, hips swaying beneath the crimson cloth, mouth slightly parted, eyes full of a thousand secrets.

  Silence had its own price. There had been silence for so many years. Years of wandering. Years of waiting.

  “Duma,” Dajan whispered, his chest constricting at the thought. Duma. Cheetah.

  Esu threw back his head and shrilled like the bird. “Did she mark you with her claws? Or did she simply run faster than you?” There was something hungry in the old man’s eyes that set Dajan on edge. “Wise, you are. Wise as a woman’s eyes. Sly as a woman’s eye. It doesn’t open easily. Did hers?”

  “One question, you said.”

  “Aye,” Esu crowed. “A question, a question. Would you know how to please her?”

  Dajan’s throat was dry. The Sun was higher in the sky than it should have been, scorching him with its rays. The desert was no longer the warm golds and browns of dawn. Instead, it had bleached into the blinding white of midday. Bone light, his people had once called that colour. Only Esu’s crooked body darkened the surroundings. “Why are you here?” Dajan asked.

  “Wise, of course. Always whys.” Esu grinned again, his wrinkled face broken by the white gleam of his teeth. “I have come, Dajan of the Sands, to open a gateway for you.”

  “Tell me a story, hunter,” Esu said as he began to climb towards the top of the dune. His feet made tiny dimples in the sand as he walked. He had taken the face of the child: snub-nosed, heavy-lipped, and dark-eyed. The whites of his eyes seemed to dance like twin Moons.

  “I thought you were here to open a gateway,” Dajan replied wryly.

  “You are lost in the desert of Zamani. The past. You must see the way you have come before you go further.” He pointed at the footsteps.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not! No one ever understands me,” Esu whined. “You are at a crossroads. Speak, and take the first step.”

  Dajan knelt down and ran his fingers through the smooth sand as he mulled over the boy-god’s words. He held a handful for a moment. The grains ran in thin streams as he gathered his thoughts.

  “Once,” Dajan said, “there wa
s a hunter—very young. He had barely seen the Sun of sixteen summers, but he was keen-eyed, long-armed.”

  “Ah,” Esu whispered as he beckoned Dajan with his hands.

  “Women thought well of him, and many had laid necklaces at his tent in hopes of a fond welcome. He decorated himself with their gifts for he was as vain as Nyani, the baboon, but he never touched the women who offered them.”

  “Foolish as Nyani,” the boy-god replied with a giggle.

  “Of course,” Dajan replied, “but he was keen-eyed, long-armed, so he wore each of their hearts around his neck as a trinket.

  “One morning, during the Season of the Spear, he set out among the heartlands in search of antelope. Keen-eyed as he was, it was late in the day before he found a herd. As the spear left his hand, the herd scattered as if forewarned of his attack. Long-armed as he was, his throw went astray. That was when he saw her. She was . . . beautiful,” Dajan murmured. “Golden as the Sun and graceful as the wind through the grass. She was like him: a hunter. She was a duma.” Esu’s eyes flickered at this. “He crept towards her, careful lest she catch his scent.”

  “It is dangerous for a duma to catch a man’s scent,” Esu said softly.

  Dajan paused for a moment, glancing towards the Sun. Then he turned towards Esu with a sly look. “The day grows hot and I am thirsty. Now is not the time for stories.”

  “Bah!” Esu’s young voice took on the plaintive tones of a grandfather. He shook his skinny arm at Dajan. “It is always the time for stories.” With that, he took a cowrie shell from his pouch and threw it towards the heavens. It gleamed for a moment, and then it was no longer a shell but the bright face of the Moon come to chase down the Sun. The Sun fled towards the hills, fearing today the hunter might catch her. In a moment, there was darkness. “Finish the story!”

  “Soon,” Dajan replied, secretly pleased at the tantrum. “First, you must answer my question. Why am I a crossroads?”