I sit, numb. I can’t believe it never occurred to me to sell my husband’s ghost.
They leave me on the sofa. I think over my choices while I watch them move furniture, clearing space around me.
Wing returns from wherever he’s squirreled away the cash, face still bland.
I say, “Will you abide by our original deal, at least, Wing?”
“Your wishes, you mean?” He nods. “It’s easy enough.”
Stella’s great-nephew finishes drawing the blinds. The room grows shadowy. “What wishes? There something extra we gotta deal with?”
“No,” I respond. “If I die, he said it’ll look like a brain aneurysm. If I’m a vegetable or I go crazy, I’d just as soon die the same way.”
The reedy one looks impressed. “Fuck. You can do that?”
Wing nods. “It’s actually a pretty easy spell.” He peers at Stella’s great-nephew. “I call 911. I say I was teaching her meditation, to help with her chronic pain. Next thing I know...” He mimes shock, then resumes a mild expression. “Her family gets her body, etc. All above board.”
The reedy one shrugs. “Fine with me. Don’t gotta take care of the body.”
The smarter one, though, he considers me for another beat. “What if you’re fine?”
I glare. “Don’t patronize me. We all know how this ends.”
He nods, turns away.
You’d think I’d be frightened or sad — or angry at the thought of dying at the hands of three heartless assholes. But what’s the point?
I planned it out as soon as I discovered Brother Wing last year. Started up the health insurance scam. Bought a life insurance policy. Socked away money like a madwoman. Had the will drawn up, nice and proper. Spent as many waking moments as possible with my little monkeys.
I clench my hands, thrust away thoughts of them now.
I let myself smile, just a little, imagining Christopher’s bewilderment at the windfalclass="underline" five figures placed in low-risk bonds, a separate trust fund for the twins — and a million-dollar life insurance payout. Enough for him to buy that ugly house outright.
Oh yes. I knew where I was headed. And why not?
Life is pain. Best to move on.
The Threshold
by R.M. Greenaway
Waterfront
Blaine is out before daybreak, shooting the city as it begins to stir. He’s up on the curved Main Street overpass, leaning on the rail above the train tracks. A cold, quiet morning.
No, not quiet. The docks are crashing and beeping. There’s a howling noise he can’t source — omnipresent, the sound of industry, and the ruckus of wind in his ears.
There’s the whiff of the strait waters, and no signs of life at this hour, except a wandering methhead down at Crab Park, minding his own business. And of course the pigeons, great flocks of them rising and settling.
He casts the eye of his telephoto at the harbor. Endless good imagery down there. Fuck the beauty of mist, water, and blue-layered mountains — it’s the man-made chaos he’s after, badly coordinated prime coloration, chipped and rusted, bent and broken, to fill the pages of City.
He focuses on the tracks, then sweeps toward the harbor, at mammoth container cranes fouling the North Shore view. Pans down across Canfisco, the sprawling red fisheries plant, to the more immediate moored tugs, blackberry bushes encircling a parking jetty, sleeping tankers. Then, with a jerk, back to the bushes.
He adjust his stance, zooms, switches to manual focus to fight the interference of dumpsters and razor wire. Is that an arm sticking up from the brambles? Or driftwood? Too distant to say, even zoomed in to max. Probably just a trick of the light.
Still...
Like any good mystery, this has to be checked out. What would be faster — continuing along the overpass and zigzagging down on foot, or returning to his car on Powell and driving along Waterfront Road?
He chooses the wheels. In minutes he’s entering the parking jetty he had seen from above. He doesn’t drive right in, but parks near the entrance. If it’s a body in there he has to tread lightly, to not mess it up for the cops.
From the safety of his car he studies the area. Nobody down here. Not even a hobo, not even a pigeon. Skies are brightening, but the sun has yet to rise. The arm or stick in the brambles is not visible from where he sits. He’s got to leave his car to be sure.
Blaine walks over, clutching his camera bag, and stares down at the man.
Dead. The body lies on its back, spine arched over lumpy ground. Dark clothes, soiled and gored. Face to the sky, eyes open but past caring. Bloodied nose points toward the mountains to the southeast. One leg is on the pavement, the other lost in the arching, tangled nastiness of blackberry stems. The arm that flagged Blaine’s attention is sticking up, wedged in the thicket, and the hand dangles at the wrist.
Must call 911. Blaine snaps to life, digs in his pocket for his phone, can’t find it, and realizes it’s in his camera bag. He swings the bag off his shoulder and kneels to unzip it.
Glancing at the dead guy again, it occurs to him, this is the epilogue he’s been looking for! The final shot. He squints at the sky. The lighting is intense but fragile, filtered by mist, in peril of sliding into mediocrity once the sun pops over the mountains and the rays lose their dramatic slant.
He switches lenses, chooses the 50mm, no zoom but great for low light conditions, and amazing depth of field. Something large is moving at his back and he glances around, but it’s just the dawn creeping over the tarmac as the planet rolls. The rays pierce the clouds, and Blaine moves with anxious speed, worried more about the light than the assailant who could be still lurking about, knife in hand.
But unlikely. This is the morning after. The dead guy is leftovers from the night’s fun, and the knifer is long gone. He’s a gang guy, by the looks of him, sparkle of bling at his throat. It’s a drug deal gone wrong, or turf wars, or he got jumped for his wallet. Happens.
Telephoto packed away, 50mm out, along with a brief pause: what if Blaine is caught here and accused of the crime? He shakes his head, standing now, attaching the new lens. It clicks in place, and he checks the glass for specks. He’s still thinking about consequences. He’s still thinking about 911. But not before he gets his prize shot.
So long as he doesn’t touch anything, no blame, no sweat. He steps back to get the whole body in the viewfinder, but decides a close-up would be cleaner, more dynamic. He shifts the ISO down far as he dares — doesn’t want grain — and inches in closer. The body is a white male about his own age, early thirties, in expensive black jeans and pricy Nikes, leather jacket awkwardly shoved up to the waist, gray T-shirt underneath steeped in blood. Hair is buzzed short except for a fashionable bit of forelock that lifts in the breeze.
The dead man twitches, and Blaine gasps aloud.
Not dead, but dying. Blood still creeks from the nostrils. The head tilts so the open eyes are taking in a sort of upside-down view of the exquisite skies, a gathering bank of clouds.
It’s the dying man’s hyper-awareness that fascinates Blaine. The open eyes, the rising sun, death, a fabulous convergence. He edges around so he can see the face directly. Within arm’s reach, fingertips on pavement, he says, “Mister? Can you hear me?”
The irises swim, and though the pupils don’t shift to focus on Blaine, they seem to search and sharpen. The mouth moves, just a feathering attempt.
“Don’t worry, bud,” Blaine whispers, “I’ll get help.”