Water of Souls

by Eli Constant

  Tears are threatening within Allen’s tired, slate-grey eyes. “Thank you, Tori. I don’t think I actually said that.”

  “You did, maybe not with words, but you did.” I don’t leave the door open to make sure he makes it to his car. The front steps and pathway are clear, thanks to Max and Dean, and I don’t worry he will fall. Besides, I’m having one of those moments where my insides are threatening to collapse and I need to lean against the wall and catch my breath.

  The world is a sad place. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar, an idiot, or totally delusional.

  Chapter Three

  After I’ve pulled myself together—together enough to function at least—I return to my desk and pull out my organizer. The beginning of January and we’ve already booked four funerals. It’s somewhat of a relief that, aside from Timothy, the others were elderly when they passed, a good long life behind them.

  I skim my index finger over the dates. Monday we have the Donahue Service, everything’s sorted for that. He’s ready to go downstairs. I shudder thinking about working on his body. Mr. Donahue was... not a kind man in life, no matter what his obit might say. Wednesday we have Mrs. Delia Hawthorn. There’s less to do for that as her body’s being shipped from Pennsylvania already embalmed and ready for service. And then on Friday, we’re doing the funeral for Evelyn Leeds, a recluse that no one had seen for nearly three years. She had family somewhere that she hadn’t seen in years, and a will, but no funeral arrangements... and apparently no insurance and no money in her bank account to pay for anything. Terrance asked me to do it pro bono. He’s done that before—he hates to see anyone be handled by the county. And he couldn’t track down her family, though he was going to keep trying.

  With the county handling things, it’s the barest of bare, not a grain of sentimentality attached. I didn’t know Evelyn, so I can’t do much better with that last part, but I can give her a decent coffin—one that’s a bit banged up from shipping and would have been sold at discount anyways—and a burial with a witness who does care. I’m not sure Max will come, but I know Dean will and he’ll bring Mei. They’ve been dating for a few weeks now, having met when she’d dropped off a bunch of food for us one afternoon. Maybe I could even get Mei’s family to come. Her culture holds the elderly in high regard.

  I can’t help but smile when I see that next weekend is empty, not a single funeral or client or anything work-related. I’m going to do my best to keep it that way. Kyle will be pleased. Maybe we’ll even go camping, we’ve talked about that. He’s asked to see Grandmother’s house near Hellhole Bay too, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I’ve not been back in nearly a year and I pay someone else to check on the property and keep it up.

  That place scares me, no matter how old I am or how much power I have.

  If I could, I’d sell the property. Grandmother made both me and dad promise to keep it in the family though. We don’t know why. It’s not a lovely house, not even a little charming. It’s just a rundown rambler with a tin roof. The windows aren’t even framed by shutters. Someday, I assume I’ll discover why she didn’t want it sold.

  When I go back upstairs, Kyle has left for the bar. He opens it around noon now, not caring to cater to the earlier, lonelier crowd. Jim didn’t mind those folks—the morning and early afternoon drinkers. He said he had to open to give them somewhere to go; otherwise they might channel their loneliness into something else, something like suicide.

  I think about next weekend and how I’ve got absolutely nothing scheduled. Kyle will leave the bar in the hands of Mikey, the man he employed two months ago—an ex-con with a heart of gold, or so Kyle says. I don’t particularly trust him, but that could be my prejudice talking. Kyle does though, and that’s all that matters. Mikey knew Jim; they were friends in prison. That’s all Kyle needed to give him the gold star of approval. I think he was so ready to accept Mikey because he misses his dad more than he’ll admit, but I won’t say that to him.

  I was surprised how fast Kyle took to the role of bar owner, leaving his psychology degree behind. I’ve asked him about it a few times, but he seems to really believe he’s doing good running Jim’s, that he’s helping people more now than ever. He has live music several nights a week—uplifting stuff, stuff he would have recommended to certain people when he was a therapist. It draws in a different crowd usually, but sometimes his regulars stop by and stay a song or two. And he seems to love talking to his patrons. He seems to really care.

  Jim had a good heart for the most part. He was broken in places, sometimes amoral. Kyle put a good heart to shame though. He was a great heart. An excellent human being. He loved people. And they seemed to love him. Business had never been better at the bar.

  Changing into my running clothes and the brand new Nikes I’d had to buy because I’d already worn out my other pair what with running and the defense classes, I stretch against the sofa. All the while, I stare out the bay window at the lake. Again, I notice the difference of it, but I still can’t put my finger on what it is. It is just... different. Different in the way you look if you part your hair in the middle instead of on the side. A subtle change that most people wouldn’t notice, one that I hadn’t noticed until recently.

  My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter as I’m leaving. It’s Dean.

  “Hey. What’s up?” I cock my head to wedge the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I bend down and grasp the bottoms of my shoes with both hands. I don’t jump up and down as I stretch. You’ll see people do that on movies and exercise videos, but it really is better to just bend down as far as you can and hold the position, letting things stretch out slowly. Jerking your body around is never good... I mean... unless it’s a result of rough play in the bedroom.

  “I was wondering if you’d mind if I met Mei at your place for our date?” Dean sounds both nervous and like he feels weird asking. He should feel weird. The funeral parlor isn’t a community meet-up. Still though, it’s for Mei and Dean. I didn’t really care that much.

  “I don’t mind, but why?” I pull out of the slow stretch and clasp my hands behind my back, straightening out the angled position of my elbow until my arms protest and my back cracks. It makes the fading scar from Blackthorn’s barbed appendage sting a little. I nearly lose the phone in the process of stretching, but I let my hands fall loose just as it starts sliding from between my cheek and shoulder.

  Dean’s swallow is audible. “Her dad isn’t too happy about her even being friends with me and lately he’s been tracking the GPS on her phone. She told him she was hanging out with you tonight so he wouldn’t give her the twenty questions.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He does realize she’s a college student now, right? Not only that, but she’s my age. We’re way past curfews. He can’t dictate who she dates,” I say, bending down and retying my right shoe. The laces were slightly too long and I’m just clumsy enough to have tripped over the low-hanging bow. This time, I double knot and then do the same to the other shoe. “Wait, scratch that. I forget it’s Mei’s father we’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, I’m not a good Chinese boy, Tori. She brought me to dinner last week and I swear World War Four was going to start. And I was only there as a friend. I mean, I think they suspect something more is going on, but we aren’t going to confirm that and start the bombs dropping. Besides, Mei still needs the money and she’s working nights and weekends to pay for books that her scholarship won’t cover,” Dean speaks fast.

  “Don’t even joke about another war,” I admonish and then sigh. “Sure, meet her over here. Even hang out downstairs if you want to.”

  “You’re the best, Tori,” Dean says, his words flooded with relief. He’d expected me to say no, I think. Jeez, I’m a good boss and generous if I don’t toot my own horn. Although... maybe I have been a little more demanding lately. Dean’s serious about becoming a mortician in his own right and I want him to know what that really means, because it affects every part of your life. It’s not just a
job.

  “Don’t thank me too quickly. I think you both just need to man up and face good old Dad.”

  “We will. It’s just...” Dean hesitates and I fill in the obvious for him.

  “It’s complicated. Hey, I get it.” And I really did. I was dating a perfectly normal human guy and he had absolutely no idea that I was a zombie-raising, fairy Blood Queen. Every relationship has its problems. Right?

  “I’m going for a run. What time’s the date?”

  “Six,” Dean says happily. I’m glad he and Mei have found one another.

  “Okay. I’ll go on my run, take a shower, and head out around five. I’ll give you the whole place to yourselves, even though my apartment’s off limits. Not to be a jerk, but I’m not too keen on having a duo of randy teenagers making out on my couch.”

  “I’m hardly a teenager, Tori.” Dean sounds offended.

  “You’re only twenty, Dean. Mei’s never had a boyfriend, because of her family life. Thus, teenagers. At least when it comes to relationships.”

  “Twenty is not a teenager,” he says, offense obvious in his tone.

  “Fine. You’re all grown up and that’s why you have to sneak behind your girlfriend’s father’s back and meet for a date at your work with permission from your boss. That sounds nothing like teenager life.” I’m smiling. Dean obviously can’t see it.

  “Point taken,” he sounds sullen. “Thanks for letting us come there, you ancient twenty-five year old.”

  “No problem, teenager,” I say the last word quickly and then hang up before he can make a fuss. I’m not quite quick enough and I do hear him curse. It makes me laugh.

  I love running when it’s so damn cold that the air burns the hell out of your lungs. Nothing else quite makes you feel alive like that, with every footfall being an effort and you have to stay in constant motion to keep warm.

  I go at a good pace, careful of icy patches on the path around the lake. The county’s great about salting the roads, but the walking and running paths don’t always get the same treatment. I get a massive cramp in my left calf about a mile in. That’s my fault; I didn’t stretch enough. I’m not quite to the level of fit that I can just stretch out a little and hit the road without a worry.

  Stopping, I angle my foot and press the toe into the tree while leaning forward again and keeping my leg straight. It feels like someone’s injected my leg with botox. It’s rock hard and won’t relent. I keep pushing my foot hard into the trunk, holding it, and then releasing to see if the muscle has loosened up.

  It takes a good ten minutes before I’m ready to move forward. I take it slower this time, a calm jog rather than a heart-pumping race.

  When I’m moving again, I force myself into a place of relaxation. I open my mind to the world around. There’s still life everywhere, but it’s all gone a bit quiet with the cold. Soon, I am lost in the everything and turning around at Bonneau Beach like no time has passed at all. Oh, I can feel the burning in my legs and arms and lungs that tells me I’m reaching my limits, but I’m able to ignore the pain and go numb with the thwack, thwack, thwack of my shoes against the compressed gravel path.

  As I turn off the path to pass Leslie Downing’s house, I hear a sound that sounds like tapping on glass. Confused, I slow to a halt and look around. Soon, I find Leslie herself standing behind the glass of one of her rear windows waving and then holding up one finger to tell me to wait where I am. I smile and nod.

  Bending over, I grip my thighs above the knees and I breathe in and out slowly. My body wasn’t quite ready to stop, but now that it has, it’s going to be harder to start up again. It’s a good thing I only have a short ways to go—through Leslie’s yard, across the street, and down my long drive.

  “Victoria, I’ve been trying to catch you on one of your runs. I’m so glad I did this morning.” Her voice is ancient-sounding, crackly like brown paper, but also warm and sweet like brown sugar. It matches her skin, lovely and warm. Her face is so wrinkled that she’s nearly cartoonish, yet her eyes are as bright and young as I bet they ever were. “My grandson went fishing last weekend at Lake Marion and he brought over so much. There’s no way I can eat it all. I thought that handsome male friend of yours could give them a good cleaning and fry them up for you.”

  This isn’t the first time that Mrs. Downing has stopped me on my run to chat about Kyle. She’s always trying to pry information from me. Aside from her grandson, who lives in Santee, most of her family is too far away to visit often, so she takes a too-keen interest in my life. It’s been worse lately though, ever since she got back from Arizona and found out that I’d been in the hospital.

  I cannot tell you how many casseroles she brought over after I was released. I still have two in the freezer.

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you. I honestly don’t know if Kyle knows how to clean a fish, let alone cook one.” I sidestep her giant fur-ball of a cat, Gilly. He’s gotten even fatter.

  “He’ll manage, dear. If he doesn’t know how, it’s a good skill for a man to have. Mr. Downing was a wonderful fisherman and cook. We used to camp together four or five times a year, you know. When he was alive.”

  “Yes, I know. Mr. Downing was exactly what a man should be.” I smile at her. She wasn’t just a woman with rose-colored glasses. Corey Downing had truly been one of those men who did no wrong and he’d loved Leslie like she was nothing short of a queen. I was still pretty young when he’d died and left Leslie a widow. I remember his bright white teeth shining in his wide mouth. He was always grinning and waggling his snow white eyebrows, set like large pale caterpillars against his dark chocolate forehead.

  “Well, here, come into the garage and I’ll load you up.” She waves me inside and I follow. When I enter, I’m struck by the smell of baby powder, vanilla, and lemony cleaning solution. I don’t know why, but it reminds me of what an American grandmother’s house should smell like. Grandmother Sophia’s Hellhole Bay house always smelled like earth, spices, and candles. It was heady, not in an unpleasant way, just in a different way.

  Leslie’s house looks like a Grandmother’s house too—with its cornflower blue printed wallpaper, ivory doilies on every surface, teddy bears and little porcelain dolls stuffed onto wingback chairs. It hadn’t changed a bit from when I was a kid and she’d invite me over for cookies and milk when an evening funeral was going on. She used to say that a kid didn’t need to be around such things, that life was about joy and not grieving. I agreed with her. Of course, that sort of childhood wasn’t possible for the likes of me.

  We walk through the hallway and exit out a door off the kitchen. The garage is very dim, despite the lightbulb swinging above us that she’s just pulled the string to. “Here, hold this.” Leslie hands me a tall white bucket. “You can return it whenever.”

  When she opens the standup freezer, I see that she wasn’t kidding about her grandson loading her up. There was so much fish that I was surprised that she could get the darn thing closed.

  “It’s mostly catfish, but there’s a few bass in here.”

  As I stand there, Leslie fills the bucket until it’s heaving enough that it strains the muscles in my arms. “Are you sure you want to give me this much? Even having Kyle to feed, this’ll take me forever to finish.”

  “I’m a single old lady. It’ll take me a heck of a lot longer.” She drops the lid to the freezer and it makes a suction sound as it impacts.

  She depresses a button next to the stairs that lead inside and the garage door squeaks up. It sort of jerks and jolts until it stops midway.

  “Shoot. I’ve got to get this thing fixed.” Leslie walks over to the aluminum door and grips the bottom, then proceeds to shake it like a mad woman. It protests, but moves a foot higher. “Well, that’s the best we’ll get I guess.”

  “You know, Kyle is really handy.” I say the words before I’ve thought about them. It’s really not polite to offer someone’s services without their permission, even if that someone is your boy-toy.

&n
bsp; “Is he? You tell that handsome young man that he’ll get a dozen cookies if he comes and takes a gander for me.” Leslie’s only seen Kyle up close once, but she was pretty much sold on the whole package from that moment on.

  I laugh. “I’ll tell him that. I’m sure he’ll be chomping at the bit to come over, seeing as I can’t bake to save my life.”

  “We’ll have to remedy that. No man wants to marry a woman who can’t bake a cake or two.”

  “I hope we’ve advanced past that kind of thinking, Mrs. Downing. Not every woman has to bake and not every man has to know how to catch and gut a fish.” I don’t mention that I do, in fact, know how to bake quite well and I don’t feel like that downgrades my feminist ideals and social liberation at all. On the other hand, I’ve absolutely no idea if Kyle knows how to fish. I’ll have to remember to ask him.

  “The world has gone downhill, hasn’t it?” Her tone is serious, too serious for her to be serious. She can’t hold the smile back for long. “Okay, get home and get those in the freezer. It’d be a shame to let them spoil.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much again.” The garage closes behind me as I hobble down the driveway and across the road. By the time I get home and drag myself and the bucket up the stairs, I’m ready to chunk every single fish in the trash.

  I don’t, of course. I’m not poor by any means, but I also don’t waste. A product of my youth maybe, when the funeral home wasn’t doing well and times were tight with dad. All the fish barely fit in my small freezer. I have to sacrifice a half gallon of butter pecan ice cream in the process. I debate eating it all, but instead I square my shoulders and dump it down the disposal.

  No one can say I don’t have willpower of steel.

  It’s two-thirty by the time I hop into the shower and rinse the running sweat and fishy smell from my body.

  Chapter Four