The Forgotten

by Tamara Thorne

  That damned chuckle. “I’m an idiot. Of course you have. Tell me, bro, what kind of animal attacks the most?”

  “The human kind.” Will waited a beat. Hot damn, he’d actually scored one on Pete. “I have to go now, Pete. Say hello to your wife for me.”

  He hung up before Pete could speak, sat back, pleased with himself. I finally got the last word on him, Michael. He smiled and stood up, ready now to make his pilgrimage to Michael’s grave. The Orange Boys, draped on his desk and the post next to it, blinked sleepily at him. “No wild parties while I’m gone, guys.”

  13

  Most mornings Mickey Elfbones dragged his sorry ass out of bed sometime after 8 A.M., but today was Sunday, so he did the dragging at noon. Sleeping in didn’t help; no matter what time it was, or how much sleep he’d had, getting up was always torture and had been as far back as he could remember.

  More than anything, he wanted to go flop back down on his soft, inviting bed, but he had to be at work at 2 P.M., so he turned off his thought processes and let his body autopilot itself to the can, where he took a whiz and brushed his teeth, before going on to the kitchen to make coffee. Sometime later, Mickey became vaguely aware of his immediate world as the anesthetic of sleep finally surrendered to hot black coffee, strong and sublimely bitter.

  After the first cup, he plodded back to the bathroom to brush his teeth again—just a thing he did, a habit, a routine—then returned to the cluttered kitchen and opened a big bag of Hostess Donuts, the little mouth-sized jobs smothered in powdered sugar. Taking as many as his hand would hold—six—he twisted the bag shut with a slingshot twirl then flung it onto the counter.

  He dropped the donuts, sugar flying like sweet cocaine, onto a hardly-used paper plate left on the counter, poured more coffee, and carried them both into the living room, where he placed them on the coffee table and himself on the couch. It was a shitty little room in a shitty little apartment, but it was good enough, he guessed. The furniture, bought cheap at estate sales from money-grubbing relatives of dead people, was a wildly mismatched collection of high-quality, comfortable stuff. A sky blue and pine green plaid recliner was separated from an olive green velvety couch by a delicate dark wood Frenchy-curly legged end table. The other end table, at the far end of the couch, was chrome and glass, and the coffee table was oversized honey oak traditional stuff. Across from the sofa, the entertainment center, with its showpiece thirty-five-inch television, spanned the entire wall. Unlike anything else in the place, except maybe for Mickey’s teeth, the massive center gleamed. Behind cabinet doors were his CD, video, and DVD collections, his books about movies and trivia. Behind the upper, glass-fronted shelves stood state of the art peripherals, VCRs, a DVD player, stereo equipment, a TiVo. He was currently shopping for a good DVD burner to add to the collection.

  He picked up the remote and brought the equipment to life, quickly surfing until he landed on Sunset Boulevard. It had an hour left to run, which was just right. He settled back with his coffee and donuts to watch Nora Desmond go batty.

  Three donuts in, he thought he heard something. Somebody talking, and it wasn’t Nora. He heard the voice again. A male voice, though he wasn’t sure what it said. Annoyed, he got up and opened the apartment door. Nobody was around.

  There it was again, louder. He’s aware of the situation.

  That’s what it said. Mickey checked outside again then cruised all the windows in the little apartment. Nothing. Nobody.

  He returned to the couch, to his donuts and coffee and Nora.

  He’s aware of the situation. We have to control him.

  “Holy shit, who’s there?” Mickey cried, spraying donut crumbs. He slopped coffee as he jumped up and went to check the door, the windows, the closets, under the fucking bed. Nothing. Zip.

  Heart racing, he returned to the living room. Maybe something was interfering with reception. He wasn’t quite sure how that would work, but it was possible, right? How many times had he heard truckers’ radio babble before he ever had cable? Plenty, that’s how many times. Maybe somebody’s cell phone was bouncing a signal off the satellite, or maybe somebody was hacking the system. Or just the movie. That was probably it.

  We must control him by any means possible.

  You mean?

  Another voice, male, a little higher pitched.

  You know what I mean. Begin the process.

  “Shit!” The voices sounded like they were in the room with him. Hell, they sounded like they were in his head. Quickly, he changed stations, found an old Twilight Zone rerun. No, not that. He moved on to Bringing Up Baby. Katharine Hepburn was cooing to her leopard. Good.

  His name is Mickey Elfbones. He must be controlled.

  The mug dropped from his fingers, splashing coffee across the table and threadbare carpet. The mug rolled halfway across the room. “Shit!” Mickey cried. “Who the hell are you? Where are you? What do you want?”

  No reply came.

  14

  In northern California, there is a town called Colma, where the dead far outnumber the living. It is a small city of cemeteries, populated by former San Franciscans and ex-denizens of many other cities in the area. Cemeteries of every sort—for Jews, for Catholics, for children, for rich, and for poor—are only a few of the funereal parks found there. Most of the businesses, other than the cemeteries and mortuaries themselves, are cemetery supports: florists, stone masons, caterers for those who prefer wakes to more somber viewings.

  Candle Bay was the central coast’s Colma. It wasn’t a place entirely devoted to death—it was home to the only big local radio station, KNDL, as well as a fairly well-known resort. It boasted the only boardwalk amusement park between Santa Monica and Santa Cruz. There were a few tourist shops and a harbor tour, even an amphitheater, but with the exception of the cemeteries, the resort and, Will supposed, the radio station, things opened and closed there with alarming regularity.

  Candle Bay, despite its pretty name, was meant for death. The town itself was drab and usually fogbound, the locals who kept shops and restaurants were, for the most part, solemn and gray. People lived near the sea; the Candle Bay Hotel overlooked the rest from a nest halfway up the hill. Above that, the cemeteries began, spreading across the rolling hills, gray tombstone teeth standing in mown green grass as far as the eye could see.

  Will had turned off Pacific Coast Highway at the Candle Bay exit and found his way to St. Martin’s Cemetery, and even to the grave itself, without getting lost, no mean feat in the maze of parks, even after twenty-six years of visits. The day was warm and clear as he trudged toward the gravesite.

  When Michael died, it had been a beautiful day, much like this one. Beyond the rolling green cemetery lawns, wild grasses like the grass Michael had collapsed into, gleamed gold in the afternoon sunshine and orange wildflowers dotted the landscape until the low-lying mist over the town hid them from vision. Orange, the herald of autumn. He could feel it coming. It was in the air, just a whiff, but already there, cool zephyrs riding warm breezes.

  He passed a weeping angel and two marble orbs, then arrived at Michael’s simpler rounded monument.

  MICHAEL BANNING

  AUGUST 20, 1959—AUGUST 21,1976

  BELOVED SON AND BROTHER—SLEEP GENTLY

  BEYOND THE MORTAL VALE

  IN OUR HEARTS YOU ARE ALWAYS WITH US

  Will Banning stared at his big brother’s headstone, feeling the old pain. It had dulled with time, but always burst fresh and bright inside him when he visited the grave. Nausea and confusion, a little vertigo, muddied the heartbreak as he knelt and placed the pristine baseball over the flower cup. It fit as if made for it.

  There was no trace of the previous year’s ball. Of course, there never was, but Will thought Michael, who loved all sports, would like the idea of some kid who liked to play ball finding it, holding it in a worn leather mitt and slugging it in a game at the park or on the school field.

  “I miss you,” Will murmured, flicking a piece of ye
llow grass from the top of the gray polished granite stone. “I guess I’ll always miss you.”

  Each year he told himself he would end the annual twenty-mile trip down from Caledonia to St. Martin’s Cemetery in the coastal hills above Candle Bay by placing the baseball, Michael’s own, yellow with age, stained with use, the red stitching frayed and faded, over the flower cup. It would be his farewell, his letting go. He kept the ball wrapped in tissue paper in the trunk of his car, in case he felt the urge on a day other than the anniversary. But it never happened. He still couldn’t let go of it, not yet, and so each year he came again, always popping the trunk and unwrapping the ball, then wrapping it again. Each year, he’d tell himself that maybe, next year, he would remember what had happened that horrible day so long ago. If he could do that, he could let go for once and for all.

  You did it! It was you! You killed him!

  The thought struck him, hard and cold.

  No, I couldn’t have.

  But he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t remember. Silent tears escaped, more for himself than for Michael, and he wondered if he would go to his own grave without ever knowing the truth.

  Stop lying to yourself, you know the truth. It’s your fault he died.

  15

  “Kevin, get done with your shower! We’re going to be late.” Gabe, dressed in light blue shorts and a navy polo shirt, kept one eye on the tube, where the Dodgers and Reds were engaged in laconic battle, and one eye on the clock. Just once, he’d like to be on time for something that he and Kevin were doing together.

  “I’m almost done,” Kevin called. “Eric and Barry are always late. Don’t worry.”

  “No, they’re always on time. They’re always polite about our being late.”

  No reply, but a moment later, he heard the water turn off. Thank heaven. Maybe they’d only be a few minutes late getting to the tennis court; it depended now on how long it took Kevin to decide what to wear. Gabe sighed and sat back to watch the game. In rock-paper-scissors, Gabe was the rock, Kevin the paper, and forget the scissors. Paper was safe and paper always covered the rock. Gabe had resigned himself to Kevin’s quirks and whims years ago.

  Gabe and Kevin were an unlikely looking duo, but after ten years, they were still going strong. Stronger than ever, despite Kevin’s youth—he was only twenty-nine now—Gabe had practically robbed the cradle; despite their bickering, which was probably no different from any other married couple’s; and despite being opposites, at least on the surface. Gabe had a football player’s build and people usually thought he was joking if he admitted to being gay. His rumbly voice was almost always soft and gentle, though his looming size and steady gaze—and probably the color of his skin—had scared off a few patients who had come in for spinal manipulation when he’d first established his medical practice here. He knew he looked like he could snap them in half. Eventually, word of his prowess at curing aching backs and necks brought him so many patients that it interfered with his general medical practice. He cured that by talking a promising young pediatrician into establishing her practice in Caledonia. She covered everybody under eighteen, he covered the adults, and they often covered for each other. Business was getting too brisk now; they had been scouting for another physician for months.

  And the way things had gone over the last couple weeks, he’d had to lean on her to cover far more of his patients than was reasonable. People were coming in with mysterious symptoms and he’d sent some Will’s way—and Will sent more to him to rule out physical problems and prescribe medication. Last week, Will sent four long time patients and seven—seven!—new ones for check ups and all but one, an overactive thyroid case, proved to be physically fit candidates for Will’s suggested mental pharmacopia of neuroleptics, SSRIs, and tranquilizers. Poor Will. He needed another hand worse than Gabe did. Although there was a physician in Candle Bay, which was the nearest town, there was no therapist of any kind there, and only one farther south in Red Cay. You had to go all the way down to Pismo before running into any real medical community, and most Caledonians preferred their doctors in town. More than most places, he thought, Caledonia liked its privacy. With its largely upscale and artistic tendencies, its top-flight chefs in restaurants too expensive even for a doctor to visit very often, and bed and breakfasts you had to book a year in advance, Caledonia had delusions of exclusivity. Don’t judge, lest you be judged. Gabe smiled. He liked it here, too, he had to admit. It beat the hell out of South Central. And he was just as bad about exclusivity as anyone else. Any doctor could open a practice there, but he wanted to handpick his colleagues if he could get away with it.

  He glanced at his watch. They were supposed to be at the courts in five minutes. “Kevin? Are you ready to go?”

  “Almost.” Kevin appeared seconds later, dressed in white, carrying his racket. “What do you think?”

  “You look great.”

  Kevin eyed Gabe. “You should wear your tennis whites.”

  “You know I feel ridiculous in a uniform.”

  Kevin posed, showing his off. “It’s not a uniform.” He grinned. “They’re togs. You feel ridiculous wearing togs.”

  Gabe chuckled. “You just made my point for me. I can’t even say that word with a straight face.”

  “What word? Togs?”

  Gabe nodded.

  “Come on, say it. Say togs. Without smiling.”

  “Kevin—”

  “Come on, please? Say togs like it’s a disease you’re diagnosing.”

  “Okay.” Gabe steeled himself and spoke deeply. “Togs.” Then his lips disobeyed and turned up on the left side.

  “Ha! You can’t do it.”

  “I told you I couldn’t.” He stood up. “All ready?”

  “I’ve got the racket if you’ve got the balls, big guy.”

  Gabe grinned. “I’ve got all the balls you need, my boy.”

  “I was counting on it.” Kevin, slim but not short, still had to stand on his toes to brush six-foot-three Gabe’s lips with his. In mid-kiss, he stepped back, eyes wide. “What the hell is that?”

  “What?”

  “That!” Kevin pointed at something behind him, his face draining of color, his expression causing Gabe’s neck to prickle up in goosebumps. “Look!”

  Gabe looked. A woman was there, a horribly bloody woman, her lower jaw ragged and askew, the top of her skull sticking up like shark teeth through a dark mat of hair and brains. His eyes traveled downward. She wore a gore-splotched yellow dress similar to the kind his mother wore when he was a kid. Loosely, she held a revolver, the muzzle pointed toward the floor. The floor that was at least six inches below her feet.

  Gabe’s world started to spin as he locked eyes with the monstrosity. Kevin grasped his arm, grounding him. But it didn’t ground the zombie or ghost or whatever the hell it was. As he watched, it slowly floated upward and disappeared inch by inch into the ceiling.

  “Did you see that?” Kevin murmured.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Was it a ghost, do you think?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck it was, Kev. You want to go play tennis?”

  “Yes!” Kevin practically dragged him out the door.

  They were in the car in record time. Kevin put the key in the ignition.

  “Wait a minute, Kev. I forgot the sportsbag. The balls are in it.”

  “You usually put it in the car before we leave. Are you sure you didn’t?”

  “I’m sure. It’s still in the living room.”

  They looked at the house, then at each other. “Gabe, why don’t we just buy a couple cans on the way?”

  “Good idea.”

  They took off. Gabe looked back, half expecting to see the dead woman looming over the house.

  “What’s the matter?” Kev asked blithely. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” A nervous giggle escaped.

  “Very funny. I was thinking maybe she was on the roof, but she’s n
ot.” He paused. “What if she’s sitting on top of the car, right over our heads?”

  “Gabe! Don’t say things like that while I’m driving. It’s not funny.”

  Gabe didn’t tell him he was serious, or that he was still trembling. “We’ve been in our house for five years,” he said finally. “I’ve never noticed anything weird, not one tiny thing. Have you?”

  “Just that blue-flowered wallpaper that was in the bathroom.” He glanced at his mate. “Did we really see something?”

  “Yeah. But if we hadn’t both seen it, I’d say no and go get my eyes checked.”

  “What are we doing after tennis?”

  “Drinks with Eric and Barry? Maybe dinner out. That’s what we usually do.”

  “I was thinking. Wouldn’t it be fun to drive down to the Candle Bay Hotel and spend the night in one of those sexy theme rooms?”

  “Yes. But we’d need to go home and get our deodorant and toothbrushes and clothes first.”

  “We can buy what we need, Gabe.” His voice was light but pleading. “Let’s be spontaneous, okay? And we don’t need clothes. We won’t go anywhere. We’ll order in.”

  “Sure, okay. Let’s do it. But we have to get home by seven tomorrow morning to get ready for work.”

  “I know. It’ll be nice and sunny by then.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Gabe tried to relax, but couldn’t. “Kev, we can’t stay at hotels every night—”

  “Will or Maggie would put us up.”

  “You know we can’t do that. It’s bad enough we know we’re cowards. Do you want everyone else to know too?”

  Kevin tsk-tsked like a stereotypical gay man. “Well, what’s the use of being fairies if we can’t use it as an excuse to be cowards?”

  “You know you don’t mean that.”

  “I know.” Kevin’s voice lost the extra added lilt. “You almost lost it for a second there when it happened, didn’t you? Admit it.”