4
I remember how happy I was to rediscover my older brother Frank. It had been some years of trying but nothing had worked. Until the Army had been looking for bone marrow donors up Pennsylvania way. Some might have called it destiny. Me? I just call it as I see it: pure luck. I had been up at Tobyhanna Depot training on sniper rifles and Frank had come on post to give a blood sample.
Some young dependent kid had the bone cancer, and every military family east of Mississippi had heard the call. Lucky kid too, both Frank and I matched him. The nurse gave us both a funny look when we showed up for a consult on what they intended to do with us, like we should know each other. Of course we didn't. Mom and Dad, our biological ones, were gypsy souls, drinkers and the world's worst parents, except that they did manage to feed us, occasionally. Apparently Frank wasn't the only one the State of Pennsylvania had to raise.
The nurse finally told us, that we were related. The doctor who came in later, a rusty old guy made no bones about telling us we were brothers. It was earthshaking, at least for me. I had no idea there were any siblings in the family. No one had ever mentioned any. Frank, however, knew better. He just didn't know much where to look, or maybe just wasn't that interested. After all, those had not been happy years for him. I guess I got lucky, with my adopted Mom.
Frank had just returned home from the tire shop where he did it all: fix, replace or rotate. The early winter cold was already invading October in predictable ways. His old F100 had trouble starting in the mornings; the summer's cracked kitchen windows now demanded repair and the light grew shorter on each passing day.
But, that first beer from the twenty year old Maytag tasted as good as it ever had, right there on the round, white Formica kitchen table. The same that held his computer and his bird watching manual and sometimes a newspaper.
Facebook had become a lifeline out of Cold Hollow, PA for him, a link to the rest of the planet outside the narrow slice of humanity he had fallen into. I thanked all kinds of lucky stars when I convinced him to give it a try. “Older folks are signing on faster than the kids now,” I had promoted. “But, be careful,” I warned. “You might hook up again with an old girlfriend or two.”
He looked at me kinda of funny like, a band-aid still on his arm at the donation center. “That might not be too bad,” he had mused. Then he had asked the classic question: “No one needs to know what I really do, do they? I can post any profile picture I want, right?”
I laughed out loud, not at his questions but at my first opportunity to tell that joke I had seen so many years earlier.
“Frank,” I said, putting my arm around his large hairy shoulders. “On the Internet, no one knows you're a dog.”
Now, in a chilly late afternoon light, on an even colder kitchen table he was reading the post that Janet had made under my name. However many thousands of miles away it was, I could still hear him cursing at me. “What the hell kinda comment is that? For God's sake Jimmy.”
I knew he would be taking a big swig of his second or third beer by now, scratching his leg and kicking the dog out from under the table.
“Where the hell is that dislike button anyhow?” He swore out loud. Loud enough for anyone out in the world to hear if they cared to. No one did.
5
Janet was still on my laptop and watching the comments come in from my post, well, her post. Frank, my brother, was one of the first.
Benjamin Franklin Turner: “that ain't funny Jimmy. Your gonna hurt someone's feelings if they believe you. Look for that delete button and erase that shit right now.”
Frank was right of course, it wasn't funny, even if it was true.
There were many others, most of them scolding me for doing such a thing. However, some were kind of encouraging, in a weird sort of way.
Joyce Johannson: “What part did you kill off Jimmy? Red meat, alcohol, drugs? You know life is richer when you kill off your demons. Congrats! Let us know what you're up to when you can.”
Staff Sergeant Joyce Johannson was probably the only reason I would have even considered re-enlisting. She was spot on, as the Aussies say, on any subject you cared to discuss. Tough, fair and when required, wise.
Another comment from a guy I had shared many a scary moment in combat with, Tommy, got me to thinking about the fear again. Poor bastard, he was still over there.
Thomas J. Jacoba: “Damn! You beat me to it buddy. I got that same post scheduled every day at 10pm. If I don't get back from patrol it goes live, but so far, God willing, I cancel it every night. Now quit screwing around and post some lava pictures already!”
Janet read all of these several times, all while drinking a fresh twelve pack of PX beer. The cleaning lady had come in and made a small fortune on the nickel returns for each can and had left a flower on the table.
It was getting late in the afternoon, as the light began fading even quicker beneath another dense cloud settling in all around. Janet finally closed the laptop without any more posts. No explanations, no hints, just her telling the world I'm a goner and using my account to do it. What the hell was that about?
She was in the bathroom now, whistling. Some kind of silly happy song. It sounded like the kind of song you might hum right before an execution. Distracting, optimistic and completely inadequate. Brushing her teeth and forgetting to floss, she then hopped in the shower until the steam challenged the clouds from just inside the window.
Walking out, dripping wet and naked she went into our room and threw open my suitcase. Pulling out a pair of my new underwear, my camo pants and a recently purchased Volcano National Park shirt, she got dressed. Everything fit her perfectly, something we had joked about so many times. Of course, I never tried on her underwear, but we always swapped out jackets at ballgames.
In front of the bathroom mirror, inside the small circle she had to clear with the towel, she pulled her hair back tight, tied it and put it up inside my ball cap. Satisfied with whatever look she was trying to accomplish she clapped her hands for a moment and then made for the door.
I followed her across the parking lot and in between a couple of buildings and right up the steps to the warm glow from the Lava Lounge. I couldn't quite believe it. I had been dead all of about 24 hours and my baby was already out in a bar.
It wasn't much of a bar, but it met the requirements necessary to drink. A karaoke machine was pumping out all the popular songs to the dozen or so people already in there. No one was smoking, which seemed strange, but it might have been a law here. However, the lights were low enough to do the job smoke used to, keeping the corners dark and those lurking there anonymous. Janet found one of those corners.
I followed her into the darkness. Watching her closely, I could almost feel excitement in her heart. She was quiet, deathly quiet, but deep inside there was happiness. I couldn't sense any static now and the haze was thinner; her mind was opening up a little. She waited for someone to take her drink order.
Most movies I had ever watched where someone dies somehow prompted everyone else to have a drink. As I looked around, at the young people at the bar, the old cowboys opposite them, and five crazy guys with headlamps on, I wondered if they all had seen those movies. Most likely not, most likely they were just there to party, to sing and probably not wear their dead husband's underwear.
After several minutes, Janet got up and went to the bar to order. Despite her best attempts to hide it, her beauty was spilling out everywhere, even if her long red hair remained hidden in my ball cap.
“Two drafts please,” she asked the bartender. Amazingly the bartender poured while holding the mike and belting out Prince with plenty of finesse to impress. It only took a minute or so to get the drinks, but that was apparently enough time to get the attention of one of the headlamp crew.
She saw him coming and stoically stood her ground, one of the Lava Lagers moving down her throat already.
“Honey girl, what's the difference between a French Canadian and you?” His bravado was unable
to resist that mixture of alcohol and feminine mystique.
“OK, big boy, I'll bite. What?” Janet asked, turning to face her tormenter.
“About six inches, on a good night!” He laughed out loud. Loud and proud, and despite the obvious come on, seemed friendly enough.
Janet set her beer down and looked him over real good. I didn't like that much. I focused on this guy and immediately saw trouble. Trouble for him.
“Dave Lesperance honey,” he said sticking out his hand. “I'm a geologist, here to see some lava.” Shaking her hand, he noted the deep scratches on her palms. “Whoa girl, what happened here?”
Janet smiled, withdrew her hand, picked up her second beer and turning said, “Why don't you join me in the corner and help me lick my wounds?”
“Did I tell you I was a doctor too?” Dave added, turning to give the other headlamp guys a thumbs up as he followed her to the corner. Just before he disappeared into the shadows he signaled the bartender for two more.
I remained across the bar, unwilling to follow them to the corner. But I did focus on Janet for just a moment. Was she really that callous? Could she really be out picking up strange men, French Canadians no less, with me less than a day dead? What I saw there reassured me, though. There was no lust in her mind, just more static now, actually a lot of static. A confused sound to me, something I was only hearing from her, no one else I'd run across.
The bartender walked two Lava Lagers over to their corner and returned quickly, a frown on her face. Back behind the bar she briefly looked back and then shook her head and went over to the cowboys. I watched her closely, focused on her for a second. She was upset, really upset, she had....
“What the hell?” Dave yelled from the darkness. I heard a chair fall over and then another. He practically ran into the light and back over to the table of headlampers.
I listened as Dave told his buddies, “Crazy bitch! She had these deep wounds on her hands and she was opening them so they would bleed and then she was licking up the blood!”
They weren't believing him. I looked over at the bartender, still visibly shaken; it must have been true.
“Geez, she wanted me to lick the blood too! What the hell?”
They all looked over to the corner, still dark and unrevealing.
“Maybe that's something they do up here in the jungle?” one of his friends suggested, half seriously.
Dave shook his head and looked back as well, making sure she wasn't sneaking up behind him. “For some strange reason,” he announced with his characteristic French Canadian optimism, “it did make me thirsty. Who's ready for another Lava?”
They signaled for more and in record time, the bartender was there with five more.
“I see you got up and left. Smart move.” The bartender told Dave.
“Did you see that too?” Dave asked excitedly. “See guys, no shit, that was the most insane thing I have ever seen.”
The bartender, all caught up with her dozen or so customers pulled up a chair and sat in between the headlampers. “I won't ask about the lights on your heads guys...but, where are you all from?”
“Well, I'm from the San Diego area,” Dave volunteered. Pointing to his friends he introduced them all around. “Pat Kemp there, have you heard his ukulele playing?”
The bartender shook her head no. “No, but lets hear it soon!”
“He's from Texas, you'll most likely hear it no matter what you say. And, then there's John Steinmiller. Honolulu. Realtor to the stars or something like that.”
“Nice to meet you,” John said. “You pour the coolest Lava I've ever had.”
“Mahalo there John, our house specialty. We're lucky it's a good beer.” The bartender looked slightly proud saying that.
“That blond guy is Tim Wheeler, an airline captain. He's our designated driver tonight.”
“Good thing we're not driving!” Tim said. “We're walking distance to our cabin.”
“And last, and some say least is...” Dave looked around. “Hey, where's Everett?”
“I think I saw him head off to the bathroom,” Pat said.
Dave turned back toward the dark corner, pointing. “You mean the bathrooms...over there?” He stood up. “That crazy whatever she is might try and chew on his neck.” Dave started to walk over there, then stopped. “Pat you better come with me, she can't reach your neck.”
The bartender stood as well and went back to her regulars, having said hi to the five strangers in her bar tonight. She looked back to where Janet was sitting and I followed her gaze. She was gone.
6
They found old Everett. Still in the restroom. His neck was intact, but he never could handle his Lava.
I found Janet, back in front of my laptop, two more open beer cans next to the open screen, reflecting the blues of Facebook. More comments to Janet's post about me were coming in.
David Hazlett: “If you're that tired catch a few winks. I'm sure you'll feel better in the MOURNING.”
Larry McKenzie: “is it hot where you are?”
Andy Velasco: “yo Jimmy. What the heck? How can you post “you're dead” if you're dead? Stick your head in the lava or what? Hey, I just remembered, you owe me money!
Janet laughed a little at that post. Laughed a little like she was worried, like she was going to have to answer that somehow, and had no idea how. Abruptly, she closed my laptop and found hers. Opening it, she opened Gmail after a moment and began composing an email.
To: Amy Gingerhouse
From: Janet Ashbury
Subject: My Hawaiian Vacation
Amy, I don't know how to tell this to anyone at all, but I will try with you. After all, I owe you after you told me about your uncle and that sleepover. Things are really weird here now, remember what I told you I had found out?
Immediately, she put aside her laptop and reached for mine again. It took a few minutes to reboot it, but another beer occupied that time. She opened up my Facebook again, and began searching. Looking for “Older Posts” she fished for several minutes until she found a Wall post between my brother and I. He had said something there, thinking the Wall was private, when of course, it is not at all.
Benjamin Franklin Turner: “Good to hear you got yourself a wife-to-be Her picture looks strangely familiar to me though. You know I gotta tell you something. I don't know how to do it, so I'm just gonna say it. We had a sister, Janet, and your fiancé looks a lot like I remember her, before we all got taken away. Both Janet and you were really young at the time, but I was 10. Maybe you should talk to her about it. You know, before...before you have your wedding night and all. Sorry, but I felt like I should tell you. You would want me to right?”
I had forgotten that, probably like I forget those things I don't want to deal with. I was in love with Janet. Frank must be wrong. Hell, I hardly knew Frank anyhow, he might be looney tunes himself. I took a few days to answer him, but I finally did, and this is what Janet was reading now.
Jimmy Turner: “Look Frank, I love this girl! She is the best thing that has ever happened to me. No way she can be my sister! But, you know...if she was...well, I wouldn't care! Not too much. Cause I love her man! I love her and that can't be wrong, can it? I know it sounds weird, but if I love her, it doesn't matter right? Besides, we've already slept together and it was frickin awesome! I ain't giving that up for some rumor.”
Janet seemed to take a long time reading that post. In fact, I think she might have just dozed off. It was late, she had been drinking all day, literally, and maybe she was just too stressed out to stay awake. But, after a few minutes, she rallied and went back to her laptop and her unfinished email.
“Amy, you are my best friend! We have both been through a lot. And, now, I need your words, your friendship. I have done something I cannot undo, even if I wanted to, which I don't. Swear to me you will forever, upon ever, keep what I am going to tell you a secret. OK? I'm waiting for your reply. I'll be up all night...Janet”
Janet hit the S
end button, finished off another can of beer and stood up to make her way to the bathroom. Before she could get the door closed, Amy wrote back.
To: Janet Ashbury
From: Amy Gingerhouse
Subject: RE: My Hawaiian Vacation
Girlfriend! I got you covered to the grave! Your secret is my secret! So, what? Did you do it? Really? Was he unreal? Come on, I need all the juicy, nasty details! It's cold here in New Hampshire girl! I need a hot story!
~Amy
Janet came back to the table looking a little pale. Quickly turning and making it into the bathroom I heard her throw up again. I wanted to tell her to lay off the beers if that got to be an inconvenience for her, but apparently it wasn't going to be. She opened a fresh one and washed away the taste.
Stumbling a bit over to the rattan couch and stretching out there I watched her closely. Maybe it was me, being all dead and such, but she looked different. Different like something had changed, deep inside her, something permanent. Her face looked more determined than I had ever seen it. She put her booted feet up on the armrest and closed her eyes to think.
So, I joined her. I focused on my love, my bride to be, my best friend. She was thinking about the night before, when she had talked me into hiking to the crater. It was playing in her mind like a late night TV show, slow but interesting enough to keep your eyes open. I could hear it like it was happening all over again...
“Come on Jimmy, I swear it'll be fun.” She said it with a twinkle in her eye that told me she was serious about that promise.
“Janet,” I was protesting. “It's pitch black out there, cold and you want to go hiking across a restricted area to the edge of a boiling lake of lava?”
She looked at me with a blank gaze for just a second before pouting her lips and swinging her hips. “I want to do it, there, by the lava.”
Death by Facebook Page 2