“I have to be home by sundown,” she said quietly as she sank into the leather chair behind the desk. She was opening portfolios, glancing at the assigned soul’s age and passing date before setting it in its new place.
“I know. We’ll accomplish what we can together and then I’ll continue sorting after you’re gone,” John decided. He too was glancing at ages and passing dates. Occasionally, he would scan the contents a little further for information that might lead to a new recruit. If nothing suited his requirements, he tossed the file into the appropriate box designated. Children were out of the question for recruitment.
“What was your easiest assignment?” Brigit asked as she scanned the contents of the portfolio for a Sister Mary Kate DeMarcus. She closed the portfolio after remembering the second rule in the Reaper’s Field Guide. A nun was probably the least likely candidate to shed their religious beliefs in light of a new occupation as a Reaper.
“The elderly and the children are usually the easiest. The elderly have accepted that their time has come and the children, well, they are just grateful to be led out of their confusion,” John replied.
“What was your hardest assignment?” Brigit asked next. She heard a slight snort and looked up from the file of Leopold Gryzynzki.
“That one is a long story, love.”
“Humor me,” Brigit said. She was intrigued by the bittersweet expression on John’s face as he mulled over the topic in his memory.
“Have you found any new candidates?” John asked instead.
“Not yet. Tell me the story,” she pressed.
He looked up at her, his expression was very serious. He understood by the look on his new assistant’s face that he wasn’t going to escape the question in the long run; but, today was not the day he wished to delve into that particular memory. Finally, he shook his head and returned his attention to the pile of black portfolios before him.
“Another day, love,” he promised. “We have too much ahead of us at the moment.”
Brigit returned her attention to the pile on the desk and continued to sort. There was something that had affected him by her question. She wondered how bad the assignment could have been that John would not talk about it easily. A silence settled between them as they continued to organize the files. Once in awhile, John would make a small noise when he found a potential candidate for recruitment. Aside from that, neither Reaper spoke out loud for hours.
When sundown finally leveled its weight on Brigit’s internal clock, she pushed herself back from John’s desk and stretched. Even though she knew it was not possible anymore, her muscles felt cramped and knotted from the hours of repetitive movement involved with the reading and sorting of the thin black portfolios. She stretched her arms high over her head before rolling her head in a circle to break up the imagined knots in her neck and shoulders.
“Heading out?” John asked, glancing up from the new pile he had created on the floor. He had already made it through a dozen boxes from the wall. It had created a sizeable dent in the façade.
“I am. Maggie will be home soon,” Brigit answered as she stood and began to pull on her coat. “Will you work all night?”
“It’s not as if I have anything else to do,” John remarked. Brigit glanced at him to see if he was attempting to be funny, but his attention was affixed to the task before him.
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” she promised.
“I’ll be here,” he remarked.
With that, Brigit exited the office and walked the long hall way to the main entrance. Something was bothering her about his remark. A touch of sadness for John Blackwick settled on her mind as she opened the main door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He had no one to watch over, no love to hold him like she did. She felt sorry for him.
John sighed heavily as he reached for another portfolio and opened the cover. He had not expected Brigit Malone’s idle curiosity to put him in such a mood. He had hoped he could bury that particular memory forever now that there was no one around to remember all that had happened. Yet, she had asked a simple question and it had brought the bittersweet memory -- and its consequences – back to the forefront of his mind.
As he perused each portfolio and filed it accordingly, he felt himself feeling somewhat envious of her.
She could still feel love. She possessed a desire within her. Her lover was still present to receive that emotion, whether Maggie Devon realized it or not.
John envied them both. It was a feeling he had never thought he would experience ever again and it troubled him deeply.
10: The Queen That Never Was
It had taken them a week to go through the past due files. John worked every night reading portfolios as if they were resumes after Brigit had gone home. When she would return in the morning, he would hand her a pile to go through as well, asking for her opinion in his choices. If she agreed, the portfolios were slipped into the top right drawer. If she disagreed, the portfolios were returned to the assignment due box. When the last portfolio had been read and categorized, John had looked at her with a triumphant gleam in his ice blue eyes.
“We’re done sorting,” he announced.
“Really?” Brigit looked up from the foremost box of assignments due.
“We are,” he confirmed. “We’ve only lost a week. Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?” she asked.
“I don’t think I could have gone through this all without some sort of direction. So, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Brigit replied. “So what’s next?”
John looked at the four separate stacks of boxes. They had categorized the boxes by: Most Immediate Assignments, Children, Adults and Potential Problems. Neither Reaper was in any great hurry to begin the assignments contained within the last stack of boxes.
“Do you feel that you’re ready to take on some solo work?” he asked.
“Sure, if you think I’m ready,” Brigit answered. John nodded his answer as he reached around her and withdrew a couple of portfolios from the Most Immediate Assignments box and extended them to her. He had observed the ease with which she wore her new duties during her training. Eventually, John knew, Brigit would be a first class Reaper; but for now, he would start her out with some light solo flights.
“Try these and then return to the office. They should be relatively easy to accomplish. You can give me a briefing and we’ll discuss what you could have done differently if they turn out not to be so easy,” he instructed. Brigit took the portfolios and slipped them into the hip pocket of her coat. “If we were operating at full capacity, I would accompany you to observe, naturally. As the case is, I think I should be in the field as well so we can start to catch up on this.”
He waved an arm toward the stack of Most Immediate Assignments. Unfortunately, this particular stack was twice as tall as the other three. Brigit nodded in silent agreement. She watched as John turned and withdrew a thick pile from the box. As the portfolios were relatively thin in girth, he was able to grab fifty or more at once. He had only given her two to complete for the moment. She hoped that soon she would have the knowledge and ability to accomplish more.
“Take off then,” John instructed. “Be sure to take your umbrella. Good luck, love,” he wished her as she walked to the door of the office.
She thanked him before plucking her umbrella from the stand where John stored his black walking stick. Lightheartedly, she hooked the handle over her arm and began the long walk down the hall to the main entrance of 666 ½ Bleecker Street. She paused at the great door to withdraw the first assignment. Quickly she scanned the location before opening the door and exiting the building.
The assignment was located at 72 St. Marks Place. If memory served her correctly, it was the address of an abandoned cabaret theater. She remembered the article in the neighborhood press regarding its closure. There had been enough incidents involving drugs and death that the owner had finally thrown in the towel and barred the doors f
orever. She remembered how she and Maggie had expressed their dismay at never seeing one of the shows. Their friends had all raved about the quality of the drag queens that had graced the stage every night of the week and that Brigit and Maggie had indeed missed out on a good time.
Matthew Swenson was the assignment. His moment of passing had been the result of a drug overdose. Brigit frowned slightly as she scanned the contents of his life. She hoped that all her assignments would not be so sad, or so quick to touch her heartstrings. Sighing, she closed the file and returned it to her coat pocket. It was best to get on with it. Raising her hand to shield her eyes against the bright light of the portal, Brigit stepped out onto the street.
When she finally lowered her hand, she found herself standing in the middle of the empty theater. Dim light from the morning sun forced its way through small dust covered panes of glass high up the wall. Brigit let her eyes adjust to the shadows created by the faintness of light. She could make out the shapes of the tables that had been pushed to one side of the room and the chairs stacked neatly though they would never be used again. Brigit turned slowly, her eyes adjusting even more as she scanned the shadows. She made out the long shape that had been the bar. Bottles still lined the shelves behind it. The layer of dust shrouding them preserved the remaining contents from the faint light.
A movement on the stage caught Brigit’s attention. Her grip on the curved handle of her black umbrella involuntarily tightened. It was a spirit, but her instincts told her it was not her current assignment. Bearing that thought in mind, Brigit determined it was time to get on with it.
The sound of her boots echoed as she crossed the wooden floor to the narrow doorway to the left of the stage. The sign posted over the door indicated it was the way to the restrooms, but, she suspected it was also the passage to the dressing room where the nightly entertainment would have prepared for their turn on the small stage. As she walked down the dark, narrow hall, she continued to hear the movement behind her. The spirit that had been moving on the stage was following her, watching her. She knew it was not the subject of her assignment. Yet, she was prepared to fight should she need to.
The restrooms were situated to the left of the hall. Even though the signs posted on the door designated ‘men’s’ and ‘women’s’, Brigit knew they would have been used regardless of the patron’s true gender. She had often visited gay establishments and found herself sharing the facilities with a drag queen. When desperate, she had even found herself in the men’s room. There was rarely surprise expressed in either situation. The call of nature was a force to be heeded and they were all ‘family’ anyway…
Brigit stopped walking as the first note floated through the darkness to her ears. It had originated from the door at the end of the hall, just across from the dust covered payphone hanging from the wall. She listened for more, acutely aware that the spirit behind her had ceased it’s approach as well. The voice was soft and warm sounding as it slowly sang each note of the warm-up scale. At the top note, however, the voice cracked. Brigit found herself smiling. Apparently, some things really did carry over into the afterlife.
Slowly, she opened the door and stepped in. The bulbs surrounding the mirror situated over the make-up table burned brightly. He was seated at the far end of the table, his back straight and his hand steady as he generously applied thick mascara to the already thick false eyelashes. His hair had been plastered to his head with the pressure of a nylon stocking cut and knotted in preparation for the wig he would wear during his routine on stage. Brigit guessed the piece was the platinum beehive carefully mounted on the Styrofoam wig stand beside him.
“Matthew Swenson,” she said out loud, interrupting a new round of the warm-up scale. Bright blue eyes snapped to attention via the reflection of the mirror.
“It’s ‘Matilda’, honey,” he snapped as she shoved the mascara brush forcefully into the tube and quickly screwed it shut.
“My apologies,” Brigit replied. She was unaffected by his attitude. She had seen worse in her time.
“Who are you? A fan? I won’t sign autographs until after the show,” he snapped again.
“I’m not here for an autograph,” Brigit replied quietly. “I’m here to help you pass over.”
A look of annoyance came to the man’s face as he began searching the clutter on the table before him.
“I’ve been waiting ten years for this night and someone has stolen my lipstick,” Matthew growled. Brigit watched as his long, delicate fingers picked up and tossed aside one tube after another. “Some jealous bitch has stolen my lucky red lipstick.”
“Ten years is a long time,” Brigit remarked.
“Tell me about it. I’ve busted my ass to get here, honey. I’ve played every hole-in-the-wall and dive drag bar in this city. This place is every queen’s dream. If I do well, I get a permanent spot without having to do any favors, if you know what I mean,” he looked at her via the mirror again and narrowed his eyes as if to punctuate the innuendo behind the word ‘favors’.
Brigit nodded in understanding. Matthew Swenson had died in the mid-eighties. Knowing the reckless habits of the disco era and the drug laced mentality of the clubs during that time, she could well imagine what someone in Matthew’s position would have gone through to reach the pinnacle of their ambitions. Matthew sighed heavily and turned his head to glance at the clock mounted on the wall above the garment rack holding various costumes. To Brigit, the costumes were moth eaten and dust covered. To Matthew, they were freshly cleaned and glittering in the naked light of the bulbs surrounding the mirror. The clock was frozen at ten to eight.
“I have to finish getting ready. Mickey is supposed to come get me in five minutes,” Matthew-Matilda sighed. His blue eyes returned to the clutter on the make-up table before him. The tube of red lipstick was still missing and his irritation flared again.
“Mickey won’t be coming, Matilda,” Brigit said quietly. She had not moved from her position directly behind him.
“Why not? I’m taking the stage at eight sharp,” her assignment pointed out furiously.
“Matilda, you’re no longer amongst the living. It’s time for you to pass over,” Brigit patiently explained.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out,” he snapped, flicking his hand at her as if to shoo her out like a fly.
“I will not leave. I have my assignment.”
“Your assignment can kiss my ass,” Matthew-Matilda hissed at her. Their gazes locked in the mirror. Brigit smiled faintly. The angry, thin line Matthew-Matilda’s lips had become grew even thinner. They were headed toward a stalemate. Brigit had to find a way to avoid such a thing on her first assignment.
“Perhaps you should tell me about your first night here,” Brigit suggested.
“I’ve busted my ass to get here,” he reiterated. “Tonight is my night.”
“So, tell me about it,” Brigit urged.
She glanced over her shoulder and spied a dusty stool against the wall behind her. Slowly, she seated herself and returned her attention to his reflection. He had picked up the tube of mascara again and was unscrewing the lid in preparation to apply more of the black goop to his false eyelashes. Brigit waited patiently as the suggestion continued to sink in on his mind. She knew well the penchant drag queens possessed to talk about themselves. At best, it would be a sad story told with some flare. She already knew how it would end and come to the present moment. She felt the need, however, for Matthew “Matilda” Swenson to recognize the ending for what it was and acknowledge that it was time to move on. Brigit watched him intently, measuring the quickness of the suggestion’s settling in on his mind. Finally, he sighed deeply.
“Well, since you’ve asked nicely,” he began. Brigit smiled and crossed her legs at the knee. She would listen to the story patiently. She was sure all realization would sink in eventually on him. Only then, would they be able to continue on with the business that had brought her to him in the first place.
“I was born in what we call ‘a one-horse-town’. That means there was only one horse to ride and if you didn’t ride it, you were the outcast. My father was the local Baptist preacher, a holy-roller to beat the band. Trust me; those boys on T.V. have nothing on my father. He could preach a rock into believing it was headed to hell for not coming to church and tithing ten percent of the mud it had collected.”
“Was he handsome?” Brigit asked. Matthew-Matilda shrugged in immediate reply as he mulled over the question.
“I guess, if you’re into The Grim Reaper,” he finally voiced. Brigit only smiled. She decided she would reveal the point of his unintentional joke later. “My mother was a stay at home mom. She was a mouse compared to my father. I used to imagine that she once had a will of her own, but as I grew up, I began to suspect that she had always been a sheep. She never went against anything my father said or did.”
“What happened?” Brigit asked, even though she already knew the answer from reading his portfolio.
“I had a habit, you know? I would spend hours playing dress up and singing torch songs in front of the mirror while my dad was at work. My mom would let me bring in the laundry when it had finished drying on the line in the back yard. So, it was easy to put on one of her dresses and while away the time in front of the mirror pretending to be Miss Smith or the royal Miss Holiday…” a faint smile came to Matthew-Matilda’s lips as the memory eased through his mind.
“Anyway, my father came home early one laundry day. I was fifteen. I had been ‘performing’ for years at this point. Naturally, he came home on the day I had stolen some make-up from some girl’s backpack on the school bus. My mother didn’t wear make-up because my father always preached about the whoring Jezebels that painted their faces to tempt a man. It was a temptation every god-fearing man was to resist and every woman should avoid using if their souls were to be heaven bound.
Reapers, Inc. - Brigit's Cross Page 8