Randy studied the clump briefly, dust and dirt raining through his fingers, as the grass danced free into the wind. He fixed his gaze to his feet and wiped away some of the dirt that trickled onto him. The wind quickly changed directions and gusted back at his face, stabbing the grass blades that blew away, against his cheeks.
"You see? Everything I do will come back to me. I am going to get what I give."
"Randy ..." I nagged.
"Do not worry. I am Death," he replied looking up from his boots.
"Don't do this to yourself Randy."
"The people in the crowds hold the most anxiety though," he interrupted, "More than what will happen to me. For them, anyone could be next; no-one knows. At least I know what my fate is."
I couldn't help but think about the simple tasks in a day that are devastatingly impaired by the gift. Even just walking down the street must be a chore. The people in the crowds must have given him a kind of opposite paranoia. Instead of someone in the crowd looking for him, out there with anonymous iniquity, he was looking for someone in the crowd. Never knowing whom. Everyone was painted with a bloody target; a mark that can't be seen until it's too late. I finally realized why he kept to himself. Once he got to know someone, he could be sent to take his or her life without warning. It was the unluckiest draw, chosen from some other authority, and he didn't want to get close to any potential victims. Close to anyone.
"Hey Randy, let's get out of here. Everything has come to a head and you need some sleep."
"Do you ever wonder if you're going to Heaven or Hell, that is, if there is even the choice?"
Randy said, focusing solely on me with his big round eyes.
"Until a little while ago, I wasn't sure if there were such places," I said.
"I wonder all the time."
"Obviously. You deal with death everyday," I tried to comfort him, still wanting to leave. My feet itched to run away.
"Besides, it is different for me. I do not think it is a tough decision with me."
"How do you mean?"
"I am Death," Randy said, letting his legs rest limply on the ground, leaning his full body weight against the fence, "I am not exactly the highest on the good list."
"But people have to die, it's a part of life. There has to be someone to take them there. Wherever that is. So what, you're not a saint, big deal."
"Yes ...but when you get the gift passed on by a demon ..."
"You don't know, so don't assume you're doomed," I scolded.
"Guilty by association," Randy said, "I have to be just as evil as the demon who gave me this. I still cannot believe I got you into this, George."
"Hey, I could have walked away, but there's no way I'm doing that to you. I'll see this through. Besides, you admitted you don't know all the facts. This all could work out."
"You are right, but I should not have burdened you with this."
"Over and done with, Randy. Let's just focus on what we know and what we can do, alright?"
"Alright," Randy said gathering himself.
"So," I said. "What do we know?"
"That for the last two hundred years, Death has been misplaced, infecting only two people."
"Sounds like a virus."
I shivered under a sudden realization. He was there when both my parents died. I felt like a fool only realizing it then. Randy noticed and paused.
"Indeed," Randy continued. "One that needs to be diagnosed. Over two hundred years without a cure. I was always hoping in the back of my mind that some mystical creature would just come down, find me and the gift, and end everyone's misery. But it is time to look at this more scientifically."
"Well, we can't cure death. Right? I wouldn't want to."
"True, but I feel like I want to. Death is different when it is inside you. Violence is prevalent, but the world is still caring. Existence is brief, but drags on. Life is precious and belittled. There is no fear left when death cannot scare you. No safety either." Randy's face grew melancholy. "I bet it was beautiful before the convict took over."
"Dying?"
"I bet Death, whatever it was, saw dying like it is suppose to be. Another stage in living and not a pitiful, degrading hindrance that ..."
Randy jittered into a convulsion. I knelt, staying behind the fence, and watched through the bars. He stared out into the rustle of green leaves, gray tombstones, and navy blue sky. The sun spewed long, warm shafts of light across the city, delaying its duties on the other hemisphere to hover around Randy, melting his stoic nature and frozen skin. He jolted awake a few seconds later.
"...cries within their eyes."
"You alright, Randy?"
"Yes." He sat sullen. "I am glad some people put coins over the deceased's eyes so I do not have to see them look for long."
I wondered more about my parents, hoping my father was far away from my mother.
"The bad people must go to Hell, though," I hoped.
"They're still human. Even Hitler. I do not lose any sleep, but the others..."
Hitler. Randy had taken millions of souls in the wars, plenty of famous people; popes and presidents; he knows lots of secrets.
I was lost in the thought and missed Randy's change in mood. His face drowned under a realization as he jumped to his feet. Drawn by the cemetery, Randy sprinted deeper inside towards some unknown goal. He meandered around gravestones and followed the breeze like there was a compelling scent upon it. The wind stopped him before one grave. Mounds of dirt were piled up like a wall, pushed up by the casket lid, which overshadowed a six-foot deep hole.
"Well, there it is," Randy said looking over the chasm. "Proof."
Randy looked skyward and closed his eyes, wiping his hand over his face repeatedly like it was covered with foul sludge. He violently scraped at whatever he thought soaked his skin, but it seemed to stain him all the way to his tormented heart. The blood of the souls sullied his hands and smeared across his face in shame.
"HE gave me what killed my niece," Randy muttered as he pointed to the empty grave. "I came here once, and only once, right after I left my sister in the hospital. I wanted to put a boulder over his grave. Or dig him up and drive a stake through him or tie him down so this did not happen. But I never thought he would return."
He snapped out of his reverie, but continued on the same subject.
"I have to take the children too. All ages. They stare the worst. They look straight into my black soul and know what I am taking and scream for mercy until my ears bleed. They almost trust me at first, like I am an imaginary friend unlike anyone they have seen before. They...they do not deserve that."
"Let's get you out of here," I said, desperate to leave the graveyard.
He slowly nodded and we walked back to my sister's place. Fear seemed to have clawed deep divots of weakness into Randy. I hoped he could find a way to heal or work past it. I still had to help him no matter how much my gut screamed for me to run.
Chapter 39
I stumbled around Amber's apartment, cleaning to stay busy during the day while Randy slept. Tremors troubled his sleep, and I couldn't imagine what kind of dreams he endured.
The following afternoon, he shot upright and looked around for clues to where he was.
"Well hello, you've been sleeping for almost twenty-four hours," I informed him.
"We need to leave," he insisted.
He rose and picked up the phone. He called Betsy and alerted her that we would be heading to her house immediately. Randy wrote down directions on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. We hopped into the car and took a long quiet drive in which Randy slept even more.
"So can the demon be killed?" I asked as I turned down the street Betsy lived on.
"I do not know. I have never tried to kill it," he said sleepily. "Never had the opportunity."
I should have started talking earlier because he pointed to her house. I stared at the numbers on her mailbox and pulled the car up. It was about an hour and a half drive out of the city to
her house.
After Randy fully woke, we sluggishly got out of the car and walked up the old cement steps. The house was a simple brick ranch with a porch in front, in which I imagined she would sit in her wicker rocking chair. I could see her bring the radio out to listen to as she knitted a quilt or stitched a Christmas stocking for her grandchildren. The grass was a long deep green, uncut for months. The neighboring houses were almost identical, lined up in unimaginative rows. I envisioned children playing about the streets, footballs and baseballs cutting across the happy atmosphere, far from dark troubles.
Randy rang the doorbell. Floorboards creaked behind the door and a misty silhouette appeared in the clouded glass and hobbled towards us. Chains and locks disengaged along the jam as Betsy, wearing a blue robe, answered the door with a smirk on her face. The smile grew to twice the size when she saw Randy. She scooped him into a tight hug and began to cry. After a minute of joyful sobbing, she very slowly retreated to look him over.
"Looking the same I see. Who's your friend?"
"He knows, Betsy. We need to talk," Randy quickly said, placing his hand gently on her cheek.
"I'm sure. But after I entertain you both. More pleasantries and less business, Randy. Come on in, any friend of my brother's is a friend of mine."
She was a sweet lady. Her white hair hugged her round jaw and pink cheeks. Beautiful features hid behind her wrinkled skin, bristling with the life of a teenager, but impeded by frail bones and a weak heart. And never mind her ailments, she insisted on waiting on her guests and making sure we were comfortable.
Randy sprawled out on her couch and I chose one of the chairs next to it. I looked around and noticed the pictures of family and friends on her wall. I left the plastic-covered chair, making for the pictures while Betsy was pouring drinks. I glanced over a few images of her immediate family and all the grandchildren she held dear, until one struck me. The picture was ancient and slightly tattered and yellowed. It was a man in his early teens in a cheap suit and tie, holding a smile that must have been forced on at gunpoint.
"It's you, Randy," I blurted stupidly.
He groggily turned and looked, checking what I was looking at.
"Of course," he said and turned back to his blank stare.
He probably knows his face better than anyone in the world does. Even better than the actors and models that see themselves on television all the time and stare at themselves in the mirror. Even better than Amber. Sixty years of staring at the exact same face, at the exact same features that haven't aged at all.
"Young man! Get your feet off my couch," Betsy blurted at Randy as she emerged from the kitchen with glasses of wine.
Randy shot up straight on the couch. I turned and sat back down, making a louder crinkling noise than when I stood. Randy stood and walked over to the wall of pictures, fixated on his picture. He pulled it off the wall and studied it. Apparently bored of his ancient image, he placed it on the nearby desk, and scavenged about for a few things around the desktop.
"You forget that I am older than you Bets," Randy jested as he fiddled with the picture frame.
Randy gazed at his picture and rubbed his thumb along the wooden frame.
"And you forget that I actually am old," she retorted. "Keeping your secrets gets harder when I can't remember much."
The wineglasses trembled and clanked while she balanced them on a silver platter. I assisted Betsy with the drinks. I noticed that neither of the two wished to start talking about anything serious.
"Come and sit down, Randy," Betsy asked her brother.
He stopped fiddling with the picture frame and sat back down. We each grabbed a glass of wine and I drank while Randy held his in his hands, swirling the liquid around in the glass. It took a moment for him to lift his head up to look at Betsy. I didn't see the look, but I saw Betsy's response. Her eyes were sweet until they met with Randy's. The twinkle left her eyes and concern spread over her soft face and cracked her eyes bloodshot. The lines in her brow chased after her receding hairline. Her smile disappeared.
"You've been through worse, Randy, whatever's going on," she said.
"No, I have not," he stated and proceeded to tell her about what had happened.
"Well you're not going to beat this by bitching, dear."
"You are right, I know, but it is just getting so much harder than ever before."
"Welcome to getting old. Besides, you say that every time I see you. Speaking of which, why did you come this time?" Betsy asked. "Don't get me wrong, I love the visit, but you have that all-too-familiar expression that you need me to help out."
"No ...Yes, I just ...I needed to see you and I wanted you two to meet," he replied. "You two are all I have got."
He glanced at me then moved onto her. He looked like he could have busted out crying at any moment, but he held the reins on his emotions tightly.
"I haven't always been able to understand what you live with Randy, but I do know that life is more than the opposite of death. We must all share to get through it."
"Betsy, you are always right," Randy said, appearing comforted.
My heart lightened just seeing him smile at us. Betsy successfully reaffirmed his stubborn shell of persistent hope, telling her brother without words that this is just another obstacle in his life of death. Fighting his hardest against his lingering and compromising fears, I watched a solitary tear slip from his eye and it disturbed whatever confidence he gained over all his blackened years. It was almost comforting to see him cry though, seeing his humanity, until I remembered that he isn't healing or venting, but slowly losing his grip.
"Excuse me," Randy said and rose to go to the bathroom, crinkling the plastic covering of the couch.
Chapter 40
I sat sipping my wine, transfixed on my half-empty glass. It sure wasn't half full. I began to swirl the crimson liquid around the cup, watching it flop around clumsily, jerking with my unsteady hand. The flowing red thickness of the wine looked like blood. I dismissed the notion immediately with a quiet laugh at myself for being so superstitious. I had a gulp. My throat closed off instantly and the wine tasted putrid. I swished it around my mouth, but once it was on my tongue, a gag reflex begged me to spit it out. Tears began to brim and I forced myself to swallow the liquid in one hard and labored gulp. I was never so glad to get something out of my mouth. I flopped my tongue about and couldn't get rid of an acrid metallic taste.
Gazing at the glass, I placed it back on the table carefully and gently, nearly scared of it. I began to wonder if it actually transformed right in my mouth. With all the oddities that I had been experiencing over the last few days, I began to believe that the wine had changed.
Something stirred inside me that began to reassemble the pieces of my youth. My incredulity and skepticism started to dissolve under the mighty force of faith. I quickly found myself with the ability to believe in the supernatural again.
"How long has he been like that?" Betsy asked once Randy closed the bathroom door.
"A while," I replied, pinching the top of my nose. I shook my head in disbelief at the taste still in my mouth.
"Dear, you must listen to me carefully." She paused to lick her lips and beckon me closer.
"He has never been this bad before you know." She fixated on my eyes, trying to beat answers out of my brain. "He hasn't cried since he was a schoolboy. He didn't even cry at our parents'
funeral, and judging by how placidly you reacted to his tears, I gather this is not the first time?"
"No," I said, shaking my head.
"You have to help him. I trust his judgment, but I don't want to lose him again ..."
Softly sobbing into her cupped hands, her sorrow disturbed me. I reached out my hand and it landed on her knee in a futile attempt at comfort. She looked up at me and her face hit me like I was watching an old friend suffer. Pity and love welled in my belly. Her face was a pale, snowy white with her eyes sunk deep into her skull, as if grief had been punching her for years.
Her mouth was a small line cut into lifeless cheeks. I could see every puffy blue vein on her hand as it landed on mine.
I didn't cry; I was too tired. But I leaned over the small distance between us and hugged her. She released the slightest sigh of relief in my embrace. I hoped it was because she knew that I wouldn't let him down.
A crash broke us apart. We dashed to the bathroom to find Randy convulsing. We stood in the doorway and watched like young children observing a dying animal, gazing in a frightful and all encompassing awe. Twinges shook down his limbs, flickering in unison with the lights. The strobe effect made it difficult to see him. Betsy slid a feeble hand over her gaping mouth and shuddered.
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