

GIVING UP THE GHOST

by Dan Dillard 2013

Published by Dan Dillard 2013

From the Author of:

Demons and Other Inconveniences (2011)

What Tangled Webs (2011)

The Unauthorized Autobiography of Ethan Jacobs (2011)

Lunacy (2012)

How to Eat a Human Being (2012)

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Giving Up The Ghost

Written by Dan Dillard

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Dan Dillard 2013

Cover art by Stefano Cardoselli

Copyright Stefano Cardoselli 2013

ISBN 10: 1301578436

ISBN 13: 9781301578436

License notes:

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase additional copies. If you're reading this and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

To Wong Foo: Thanks for everything.

*****

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Stephanie Dillard, for being my navigator. I am always getting lost.

To Dad, Elerie Stroud, Linda Swink, Meghan Dayton, Lucie LeBlanc, Michael Yowell and Yen Ooi, thanks for reading and for being brutally honest. Your eyes and brains are invaluable and enviable.

For anything you readers see that conveys quality editing, correctly spelled words, proper punctuation, or continuity thank those people above. For any errors you might find, blame me.

And to Stefano Cardoselli, thanks for the vision. Your art is magically delicious. I also owe some of the inspiration for the cover to Daniel Galli, a friend from the webs.

To The Damned, I appreciate the camaraderie and the writing, you folks are twisted.

To friends and fans on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Google +, Smashwords, and wherever else you might lurk, thanks for being there. Remember: it's free to encourage any artist to continue, but discouragement can rob you of your next favorite book, song, painting, film, dance move, joke, recipe...the list is endless.

Thanks to Mom (rest in peace) for my wicked streak...and Dad for words of wisdom, even if I ignored most of them. To the rest of the family, these are just stories, I ain't tetched (look it up).

Just as a note, I did some research on committing suicide with pills, solely for the purpose of this story. Someone out there cares about you—suicide is NOT the answer. It's a sad thing, and I don't recommend it, even if your kid does grow up to be an asshole. Don't try anything you read in this book at home.

*****

GIVING UP THE GHOST

Chapter 1

Gerry Sheffield flicked peanuts onto the floor. His jeans were dirty, worn for the third time that week and the plaid button-down only served to cover the sweat stains in the armpits of his t-shirt. The cocaine was wearing off. The quality hadn't been so good, but it was all he could afford. The bar was hazy and thick, one of the few left that allowed smoking, and over the thud and twang of the house blues band, he shouted at the bartender.

"Get me another?"

The bartender, a grisly man with tattooed sleeves and black leather vest on nodded, and pulled the handle on one of four beer taps, filling another mug. Gerry looked around. He could count the number of patrons on one hand, the number of staff on the other.

The band, a blues group of four, was decent in Gerry's estimation. A gravelly singer belted out tunes with soul, the guitarist scorched riffs honed by decades of experience. Why they were in that bar was a mystery he was too sideways to consider.

"Twenty-five," shouted the bartender.

"Huh?" Gerry said.

"Twenty...five...bucks."

The tattooed man sneered, placing both hands on the bar, a stance that emphasized his size and unwillingness to barter.

"I asked for one beer?" Gerry argued.

"Yeah, for the fifth time. Pay up."

Gerry rolled his eyes and retrieved his wallet. He fished out a twenty and a five and smacked them on the counter. The bartender gripped the bills, crushing them in his fist. Gerry laughed to himself and picked up the glass mug, downing half of it in three gulps.

"No tip, I guess," said the bartender.

"Not likely," Gerry laughed.

He pushed a hand up his sweaty forehead and through his thinning hair, slicking it back. When the lone waitress—a thirty-something in tight jeans—walked by, he grabbed her by the arm. She turned to him, almost spilling her tray and glared. It was a sour expression on an otherwise pretty face.

"Yeah?" she asked.

Gerry straightened up, looking at the deep cleavage visible in her low cut shirt. Then he looked her in the eye, noticing the bored expression she wore, and found his way back down to her chest.

"I was wonderin' what you might be doing later?" he said, attempting charm but sounding smashed.

She switched the tray to her other hand before wrenching her arm away.

"Someone else," she replied and walked away.

"Someone else," he muttered.

Finally getting the joke, he laughed to himself and swallowed more beer.

In the corner, the bitter waitress placed two drinks on a table for a wide-smiling old man who was already ordering another pair for himself and his date. His date was much too young for him, revealing too much skin and obviously working for the evening. Her bored expression was entertaining. Gerry noticed the wedding ring on the man's hand.

"Good for you, buddy," he said under his breath, then finished his beer.

He stood and walked to the door, winking at the lone waitress. She didn't acknowledge him. The band sounded muffled behind him as the door closed, dwindling to a droning hum with the occasional thud. Five beers in conjunction with most of a flask of whiskey he'd had on the way to the bar rendered him wobbly. Illuminated by the green and yellow neon light of the bar's sign, he puked into the gutter.

A cab drove by, ignoring him, as Gerry wiped his mouth. It didn't matter as he didn't have any money to pay for the ride anyway. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked west, heading for his apartment. It was a typical Wednesday for Gerry. Thursday through Tuesday wouldn't be much different.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through the address book, shaking off the sick feeling and the cold sweat. He stopped on a name and number he didn't recognize. Sandy, no last name. A quick press of his thumb dialed the number and Gerry let it ring as he walked.

"Hello," a sleepy voice said.

"Sandy? Gerry."

"Gerry? Gerry who?"

"Sheffield. Can't remember where we met," he slurred.

"Oh, I remember you. Look, it's after midnight, Gerry. Is something wrong?"

He pulled his phone away from his ear and looked at the clock on its face.

"Holy shit. It's after midnight."

The fact struck him funny and he laughed, placing the phone back to his ear.

"I could yoosh a ride," he said, still chuckling, starting to slur.

Sandy groaned and hung up. It clicked in his ear, and went silent.

"Sandy?" he said. "Sandy?" Her name came out, Shandy.

He sat on a bus stop bench and pulled the flask of whiskey from his shirt pocket. It was mostly empty, but still, he let the last bit drip into his mouth. Gerry pulled a crumpled pack of smokes from the same pocket and smiled when a pair of singles came out with it. Firing up a cigarette, he took a deep drag, inhaled, and staggered across the street to a convenience store with bars on the windows. He looked at the two dollars in his hand and laughed.

"There's your freaking tip, asshole," he said.

The door to the store beeped when he opened it. The cashier nodded with recognition. The young man looked relieved to see Gerry and not someone more sinister. Gerry walked straight to the refrigerator in the back and found a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor and approached the counter, dropping the two bills on the counter.

"Actually, it's $2.10 with tax," he said.

Gerry stared at him for a minute, waiting for his eyes to focus. He grabbed a handful of pennies from the need-one-take-one tray and sprinkled them on the counter one by one. The young man sighed with slight frustration and smiled.

"Okay, okay sir. Have a nice night."

Gerry gave him a two-fingered salute and popped the top off the bottle, taking a gulp before he even reached the door. Outside, he lit another cigarette and despite the chill in the late-night September air, continued to sweat. A black car sped by, spraying water from a puddle onto the walkway. Gerry sidestepped it, stumbling and then righting himself, continuing toward his apartment.

The traffic lights shifted from green and red to flashing yellow as Gerry reached the last corner before his building. He stared at them for a full minute, feeling the warm tingle of the alcohol as he downed the last bitter swallows from his bottle. When it was gone, he dropped it on the curb and crossed the empty street.

When he finally reached his door, he was too drunk to work his key in the lock and dropped the key-ring on the ground. This brought an uneasy laugh from him and he said something that sounded like, "Damn it," but it was so garbled, most wouldn't have been able to make the words out. He passed out when he leaned down to pick them up and that was where he slept for the next four hours.

The first two neighbors who met Gerry's sleeping body in the hallway simply stepped over him. It was the landlord, Mr. Tinsley, who kicked him and brought him out of his slumber.

"Wha...what the...fuck'd you do that for?" Gerry said.

"Get up."

Gerry looked up, squinting against the hallway light, glowing fluorescent yellow in his bloodshot eyes. He still didn't recognize Tinsley.

"Get up, you piece of shit. Get off my floor."

Gerry struggled to his knees prior to grabbing the doorknob to pull himself up.

"You smell as bad as you look, Sheffield."

Tinsley bent down and grabbed the keys, then handed them to his tenant.

"I pay rent, this is my floor too," Gerry said.

"No. You pay some rent, some time. Your parents pay the rest, when I have to call them. Nice, decent, well-off people. I'm not sure how a turd like you came from that stock. Either way, this floor is mine, and it will stay clean and free from alcoholic bags of shit. On the other side of that door? You can do what you like as long as it doesn't disturb your neighbors. And trust me, they all know it will only take a phone call to get you out on your fat ass."

Gerry stared in amazement, his head throbbing, taking in only every third or fourth word. Tinsley watched him for a moment, then shook his head and walked off. As he left, he said, "Rent's due by Friday. Hope you didn't drink it all."

Gerry waved him off, twisting the key until it finally slid into the lock. He fell through the door as it opened, kicking it shut and dropping his keys again. He peeled off his flannel shirt and wiped his face with it, then fell onto his thread-bare couch and pulled a pillow down over his ears, going back to sleep.

Chapter 2

The phone rang sometime between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. It was an old phone company push button with a heavy base and handset connected by a curly cord. The ringer was an actual bell and it was loud. The sound ripped through Gerry's head causing an instant headache he could no longer sleep through. He almost rolled off the couch swatting at it. Finally, in a struggle, he managed to knock it from its cradle and stood there panting as he realized where he was and what was happening.

"Gerry?" a voice said through the phone.

The handset was on the floor, twisting on its cord. He breathed a sigh of disappointment when he recognized the voice, Margaret Hanlon Sheffield—Margo to her friends, his mother.

"Gerry?" she said again. "Are you there? Why won't you at least get an answering machine?"

"I'm here, Ma," he said, picking up the receiver.

"Oh, good. I've been trying to call you since Monday night.

"I've been out. Whatta you want?"

"Whatta you want," she mocked. "I want to talk to my son. Check on his well-being. I guess you were out drinking all night?"

"In truth, Ma, I been out drinking all week. I'm glad you called, actually. Let Dad know the rent is due on Friday. Oh, and I'm busted. Lost my job last week."

"Lost your..." she started. "Of course you did. That's what you do best."

"Look, don't preach. I'm workin' on something. It's just taking longer than I thought."

"This the same thing you've been working on for the last twenty five years?"

"No, Ma."

"I think the only thing you're working on is your liver. You can't go on like..."

"Ma," he interrupted, "Let me talk to Dad, will ya?"

She made an angry sound, like air escaping a tire with a nail in it. "Fine. Wait a second."

He heard her put the phone down on the counter and mutter something in the background. It sounded like, "he's at it again," or something similar. His father, William Gerald Sheffield—Bill to his friends, picked up.

"Gerry?"

"Hey Dad."

"What's the problem, son? You drinking again?"

Gerry laughed, "You say that like I stopped at some point. Hey, rent's due and I'm busted. Out of work. Can you spot me for a few weeks?"

There was a long silence. Gerry crushed his eyelids shut trying to alleviate the pain for a minute, and switched the phone from one ear to the other. The line was still silent outside of his father's breathing.

"Dad?"

"Alright," his father said, sounding defeated.

"Alright?" Gerry prodded, wanting more information. Dollar amount, delivery time, etc.

Bill cleared his throat in Gerry's ear and spoke over his wife who was arguing in the background, all to Gerry's delight.

"Yes. I'll send you some money and pay your rent. But this is the last time. You're a grown man. Start acting like it."

"Last time. That's a good one," Gerry said. "I'll write that one down."

"Don't be an ass, son. This is way out of control. You are way out of control..."

Gerry placed the receiver down as his father continued to lecture. He shuffled into his tiny kitchen, pulled a bottle of painkillers from the cabinet over the stove and put three pills into his mouth. He opened his refrigerator and found an open beer bottle which was less than half full and washed them down with it. He went back to the phone and picked it up as his father was getting really spun up.

"...and your mother, your poor mother just can't take your bullshit anymore. Do you..."

Gerry interrupted, "Bullshit? Such language. Look, I've got to get moving if I'm going to find another job. I'll get back to you. Thanks for the breathing room."

With that, he hung the phone up.

"Shit," Gerry said, then chuckled. "This just gets easier and easier."

His apartment was clean, surprising given his current shape, but he hadn't been there in over a week and he was sober when he left. His paychecks were rare, amounting to no more than a few hundred to maybe a thousand dollars. It was enough money for a few days of drinking here and there. Enough to impress a woman, maybe two, for a couple dates. Enough to get one into bed, even if he had to pay her for sex.

The phone rang again.

"Christ, what now?" he said as he answered it. "Hello."

It was an angry statement, not a question.

"Gerry, it's Sandy. I..." she tapered off.

"You what?" he said, letting the headache and hangover color his tone.

"I just wanted to check and see...I wanted to make sure you were alright. That you made it home. You sounded so awful last night."

Gerry growled.

"But you couldn't help me out last night then, right?"

In truth, he didn't even remember calling her, talking to her last night. He barely recognized the voice, or the name it was attached to. She made a huffing sound into the phone.

"You were so rude last time we talked, you're lucky I called. You're lucky to have me."

"Had. I had you. I'll have others." He laughed at himself, proud of being so cruel.

"Gerry!" she whispered, hurt and angry. "I've never done anything to deserve this kind of..."

"Right. Look, what did you want?" he interrupted.

There was a long pause as Gerry flopped down on his couch, pinching the bridge of his nose and waiting for whoever it was on the phone. He'd already forgotten.

"Don't call me anymore," Sandy said with an angry calm. "Ever."

"Yeah, who called who?" he said.

She had already disconnected. Gerry dropped the phone and it bounced on the couch cushion before dropping to the floor. Minutes later, the painkillers kicked in and he was asleep again.

Chapter 3

Margaret Sheffield worried and worried. She paced from one side of the kitchen to the living room and back across to the kitchen. The house smelled of corned beef as the pair had just finished an early dinner of sandwiches. She opened the refrigerator door and poured herself a glass of apple juice. Bill shook his head as he watched her. Margo, as he had called her for decades, worried him.

"Margo, you're going to wear a path in the carpet. Sit down," he said.

Truth be told, there was already a worn path in the carpet. The twenty-year-old low pile was a drab tan, cleaned and vacuumed regularly, but thousands of trips in and out of the well-used kitchen left it begging to be replaced. That was the house they'd moved into when Gerry was born and it had been renovated during his teenage years. Paying for Gerry's wasted college years, fixing his car, putting a down payment on his first house which he lost in the divorce—a wedding they had also funded—and now paying his rent and various other bills had left them drained.

"What is it? Is it Gerry? Is that what's got you so worked up?" Bill asked from his lounge chair.

She snorted at him, but didn't say a word as she picked up an empty plate and glass from the end table next to his chair and whisked them away to the kitchen sink for washing. Bill frowned and groaned as he stood up, his seventy-five-year-old bones creaking.

"Honey, please tell me what's wrong," he said.

"You know good and well what's wrong. Your son is what's wrong."

"Oh, he'll come around."

"Bill, he's thirty-seven years old. He can't keep a job and he's killing himself drinking on our dime. When do you think he'll come around?"

"You're right," Bill said.

Margo soaped up the plate and scrubbed it with a scouring sponge, yellow on one side, blue on the other. Then she did the same with the amber colored glass.

"I know I'm right. You just keep paying his bills. Aren't you worried about him?"

Bill thought for a moment, while Margo rinsed the dishes. Her face was drawn up into a hurt expression.

"Of course I'm worried, but do you really want him to move home? I mean a few thousand every few months is a small price to pay to keep him out of here. It took so long to get rid of him the first time."

"Bill," she said, turning red in the cheeks.

"Well? It's true."

Margo laughed nervously and Bill joined her.

"I don't know what to do," he said. "I just don't know. Wanna have another one? Give it a second chance? Maybe we used the wrong position conceiving him. I've got a book of different ways to do it. We could start at the beginning and go 'til we get it right."

"Bill," she said, her cheeks a deeper shade of red. "Lord no," she said, her laughter stopping.

"We've got enough money, Margo, it'll be okay."

She wiped the plate dry, then the glass and placed both in the cabinet.

"Money. That's not what I'm worried about. He's just waiting for us to die so he can drink and whore it all away. Did we raise him to be like this? I feel like the one thing we should've done right was a failure. Nothing else really matters, does it?"

Bill grabbed his wife, hugging her and placing a kiss on her forehead. She put a paper-skinned hand to his cheek and slapped it gently, gritting her teeth.

"I blame you," she said.

"I know you do. You should. I'm a bad, bad man."

Margo looked deep into his light blue, cataract stained eyes. She put her other palm on his other cheek and held his sweet, old face there and just stared at it.

"He's just a worthless bastard, isn't he?"

Bill laughed out loud, almost losing his upper plate.

"Yes. Our son turned out to be a worthless bastard. Wanna watch some TV?" he asked.

"Of course, dear. Then can we look at that book you were talking about?"

Bill's eyes gleamed as he reached down to squeeze her backside with both hands.

"Yup. But we can just look. At my age and condition, even window shopping can cause serious injuries."

She kissed him on the corner of his mouth and hugged him close for a long time. Bill savored the experience, gently squeezing her shoulder. He led her by the hand to their small living room and to her usual place on the couch. They sat next to each other and he held her hand while they stared across the room and out the front window. Kids were playing in their neighbor's driveway across the road. One directed imaginary traffic while the other rode a skateboard along tiny streets they'd drawn with chalk.

"Cute," Margo said.

"Sure. That's how they sucker you in. With cute. Then they shit all over you."

"You sure it was nothing we did?"

Bill thought for a minute, even scratched his chin as if digging for the answer. Finally, he turned to her and shook his head.

"We gave him every opportunity. Maybe too many. So many choices, his damn head musta been spinnin', Margo. He just couldn't ever get a grip on how good life was. That's all I can figure."

"Well, when do you stop being a parent and let them go?" she asked.

"I was planning on quitting when we were grandparents," he said.

"So we're still on the clock?"

"I suppose," Bill said.

"What can we do, Bill? I mean we can't ground him. Or take away his car keys."

"We stop payin' his bills and he'll move back home," Bill said.

Margo rolled her eyes. "Last time we did that, he almost burned the house down. And the women he brought home...I don't even want to know what they were doing back there."

She glanced toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Bill smiled an evil smile. "I know what they were doing," he said. "Want me to show you?"

"No. No, I don't."

His evil smile faded.

"I'll think of something," he said. "Let me make one last payment. I'll give him rent and enough money for utilities and groceries this month. That will give us time to plan something like we used to when he'd act up as a teenager."

"Bill, I don't think having one of your police buddies take him to jail is going to work at his age. He's smarter than that. Plus he's been to jail, it won't be that much of a shock."

Bill watched the kids across the street again. One had fallen, skinned his knee and the mother and father were there, comforting him while his older brother looked on. The boy got up, teary eyed and dusted himself off, going right back to the game.

"Atta boy, get back in there," he said under his breath.

Margo noticed and smiled. "Is that what you think happened? He stopped getting back up and trying?"

"No doubt. None at all."

"Well, he didn't get that weakness from you. Nor did he get it from this tough old woman."

"No. Definitely not," Bill said.

"What about an intervention? Like on television, where all the family and friends confront him and tell him all the bad things he's done."

Bill pondered the thought, still watching the brothers play across the street. One was a policeman now, writing a ticket for the speeding skateboarder.

"What friends? We're all the family he's got left."

Margo teared up. One spilled over her lower eyelid and down her cheek. She slapped her hand down on the armrest of the couch.

"What kind of person has no friends?" she asked, crying through her anger.

Bill had no answer. He held her hand and put an arm around her as she cried on his shoulder. They didn't speak any more on the subject that afternoon or evening. At bedtime, they exchanged I love you's and dressed for bed.

"Tomorrow is another day," Bill said to her.

It was how he had always put the bad days into perspective.

"I hope so," she replied. It had always been her response.

Chapter 4

Gerry checked his email several times that next morning. He grew agitated as 9:00 am came and went, then 10:00 am.

10:30 am.

Finally at 10:45, he saw what he was looking for. A note from his bank saying that he'd received a deposit. A cool thousand bucks to get him by for the month. He pulled hard on his last cigarette and crushed the butt into a cereal bowl that was sitting on the table, doubling as an ashtray. Smoke billowed out from his nostrils like a medieval dragon.

"Thanks, Pops," he said grinning.

On his way out the door, he ran into Tinsley. Alert, unlike their last meeting, he was chipper and pleasant.

"Good morning, Mr. T."

"Gerry," Tinsley grumbled.

"Off to look for a job," Gerry said.

"Really? Good for you. Oh, and your father called this morning. Paid for your rent this month. Told me that it would be the last time and that I should probably start looking to rent the place to someone else."

Gerry's good mood leaked out onto the floor somewhere.

"He said what?" Gerry asked.

Tinsley's face was stone, but there was an underlying smugness that Gerry could sense. It infuriated him to the point he almost threw a punch. Almost, Gerry thought, but he held it back.

"He said he was done paying for you to live here. Said he'd call you some time today and explain the new rules."

Tinsley gestured quotation marks in the air around the words new rules. Then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants and stared, stifling a smile. Gerry locked his door, mumbling curse words under his breath. He turned to give his landlord an earful, but he was already gone, halfway down the hallway and whistling happily.

"God damn," Gerry said. "I'll just bet that old bastard thinks he's done. He needs to think some more."

He pocketed his keys and hit the stairs, then exited the building and darted to the first ATM he could find, pulling out a couple hundred dollars. He hailed a cab and had it drop him off at a diner in town where he ordered coffee and breakfast, even though it was lunch time.

"Work late?" the waitress asked.

A thin, short woman with pale skin and stringy hair that had been dyed a dozen times too often, she scribbled his order on a pad of paper and smiled at him. The bags under her eyes made him wonder who she thought she was to ask such a question.

"Nope. Out drinking," he said without emotion.

"Oh. That'll do it, too," she said and gave him a wink and a tobacco-stained smile. She looked at him more than once as she stood behind the counter getting the coffee pot. She was no supermodel, but all the attention she was giving him turned him on.

When she came back, he asked her for a cigarette.

"Sure, hon. But you can't smoke in here."

She dug a pack out of her apron pocket and shook one halfway out for him to grab.

"I won't," said Gerry. "Forgot to pick some up on the way in. Where do you smoke?"

"Out back."

She smiled again. "Way in from where?"

"10th. Corner of 10th and Stone."

"Huh," she said and walked off.

He sipped the black coffee, steaming along with it. In his head, he was strangling his old man. How dare he, he thought at first, then he said it aloud.

"How dare he."

Gerry ripped three packs of sugar open and dumped them in the mug, helping it dissolve by stirring with his fork. He watched an older couple walk in that reminded him of his parents. They approached the counter and the old man helped his wife onto one of the stools, then sat beside her.

"Precious," Gerry said. "Probably loves his kids."

The waitress blocked his view. She set his plate of food in front of him. Her chest was eye level as she filled his coffee, and he saw her name was Jill. She poured it slowly, leaning over and giving him a good, long stare down her uniform shirt. Her skin was freckled, loose and leathery, like she had tanned too many times. Her legs looked thirty, but that skin, and the lines and bags surrounding her eyes said fifty.

"So, Jill. Your boss hiring?" he asked.

She thought for a second.

"No. Least I don't think so. I can ask him if you like. You need a job?"

"Always. Lost mine last week. I'm not broke, but can't be out of pocket too long. Ya know how it is."

She nodded.

"Yep. Sure do. Barely scrape by around here, even with this job."

She crouched down, table level, and whispered to him, "Sometimes a girl has to make ends meet in other ways."

He took a bite of his eggs and a drink of coffee, then a bite of toast, chewing while she stayed there, looking at him. Her eyes lingered a bit too long on him. He wasn't used to women staring at him. Most didn't give him a second look. He thought maybe she was the appropriate level of woman to be looking at him. He knew she was not only working, but that she was also working.

"Anything else I can get ya?" she asked.

Her expression was wide eyed. Like a knowing wink, full of dirty promises. He chewed, letting the moment get uncomfortable. That was where he liked to live. He smiled at her.

"Can you ask your boss?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll go talk to him right now."

"Thanks," Gerry said.

She smiled and disappeared while he finished his breakfast, but was back with an application in hand before he finished his coffee. She set the paper in front of him and filled his cup again, then put a hand on his to get his attention. She left it there too long.

"Says he could use another cook for the late shift. Pay ain't much, like I said. Fill that out and I'll get it to him if you like," she said, smiling and now chewing gum.

Her eyes were focused on his, never breaking contact.

"Can't I talk to him myself?"

Her smile faded a little.

"Nothing against you, I just like to know who I'm workin' for," he added.

It raised her spirits back up a little. She nodded.

"Oh, yeah. He's here most of the day today. Drop it by whenever. Name's Steve."

"Steve. Thanks, ahh..."

She turned around.

"Jill," she said.

She was too eager. Too easy.

"Jill. Thanks Jill. Say, you want to..." he started, waiting to see how interested she was.

She leaned her head toward him and stopped chewing her gum.

"Want to..." she said, encouraging him, leaning on the table, placing herself in reach.

"You wanna make a hundred bucks?"

Five minutes later, he was in the alley behind the restaurant, fucking her hard against the brick wall. He didn't care if anyone saw. He hoped, in fact, that someone was watching.

The whole situation was unexpected, him pounding away, and her with her uniform shirt and legs open, telling him how good it felt. She breathed smoky, spoiled breath on him, moaning with a blank look on her face. It all felt rehearsed, but he didn't care. He expected it. In a couple minutes she would be nothing but a memory. He looked down at her flat, sagging breasts, dark brown nipples against pale, pink skin. They reminded him of a pig, a sow ready to feed her litter. His erection softened and he looked away, straining to not smell the dumpster or her rancid breath. It wasn't just the cigarettes, but there was a hint of sweet rot, perhaps a tooth gone bad. Finding a position he could maintain with a cold breeze coming from upwind of the trash, he was relieved and quickened his pace, thrusting harder.

"Oh God," she moaned. "As hard as you can, baby."

"Shut up," Gerry said. "Please, shut your mouth."

Gripping her shoulders firmly, he came, taking all his anger and frustration with his father out on her. He pulled out and zipped his pants, leaning against her to catch his breath. She shifted under his weight and sighed.

"Okay, hon. I gotta get back to work," she said, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, okay," he said, straightening up.

She situated her panties and bra and buttoned her shirt before she opened the back door. Gerry was walking away when she turned and spoke.

"Come by again sometime," Jill said, with the same tobacco-stained smile.

The thought made him sick. Her voice grated on him, an annoying and harsh sound. Her face was ugly. To him, everything about her was repulsive, something equivalent to a scab. Once expended, he never wanted it back.

"I might. But next time, I'm only offering twenty."

She leered at him.

"And wash your hands before you serve any food," he said, trying to sound hurtful.

The door slammed and Gerry laughed as he lit the cigarette she'd given him. He left the alley and pulled the job application from his back pocket and looked it over, then crumpled it and tossed it on the ground as he walked. Cool wind blew through the street, biting at his ears and nose and causing him to put his hands into his pockets. His stomach churned, processing the greasy food. He wanted a drink.

Instead of waiting, Gerry pulled his cell phone from his pocket and ducked inside a bus stop shelter, dialing his parents. There was a bum, sleeping on the bench. He kicked the man's feet, knocking one off the bench.

"Get up," Gerry said, as he listened to the ringing on the line.

He kicked again, rousing the man.

"Easy, buddy. I'm movin'," the bum said.

"Ain't your buddy. Get!"

The bum gave him a dirty look and yawned as he gathered his bag and moved toward another bench a block away. The phone rang a third time, a fourth, and just as Gerry was about to hang up, there was a voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

It was his father, slightly winded.

"Hi Dad."

"Gerry. I hope you're calling to tell me you got a job," Bill said.

"I'm working on that. Applied for one just a minute ago."

"Good, good."

"No, I'm calling because I heard a nasty thing about you this morning..." he paused.

"From Mr. Tinsley..." he paused again.

"About my rent?" he stopped.

There was a moment of his father's labored breathing and then a long sigh.

"I'm not paying anymore, Gerry. Not a dime."

Gerry felt the anger boil up in his stomach again and gritted his teeth, gripping the phone so tight, it might have broken.

"I don't have a job, Bill."

He emphasized his father's name.

"An excuse. A different excuse every day for two decades, son. It's well past time you grew up."

"Grew up?"

"Is it the booze? Is that your problem? We can get you help. I can help you find a job, but I'm not paying another cent for you to drink yourself to death."

Gerry looked at the bum, down the street, settling into another park bench. It scared him. It sent vibrations up his spine and made his hair stand on end. He felt nauseated.

"Then I'll move home."

"No no. That's not an option either. Sink or swim, son. You have to make this work. Call if you need me, but you have thirty days to get things in order. No rent next month. You screw up again and I'll give Tinsley my full blessing. You can do this."

"You fucking..." Gerry started but Bill cut him off quick.

"Watch your mouth, boy. Watch your filthy mouth or you'll be done completely."

"Don't threaten me, old man..."

Bill interrupted again. "Ha. Or what? You couldn't get a loan for a pizza right now. You can't hold a job. You can't pass a bar without blowing your entire measly paycheck and spending the night in an alley or in jail. You're probably loaded with disease. I don't want you in my home, or my life..." Bill cleared his throat before he finished. "But I will help you because you're my son."

Gerry closed his eyes. He saw Jill's sagging breasts bouncing again. He saw the orange-brown stains on her teeth. He thought about her willingness to give him what he wanted in broad daylight and in an alley. Bile bubbled up in his throat and he swallowed it. He opened his eyes and looked back at the bum again, kicked out of a second bench and walking further down the sidewalk.

"I don't need your help," he said.

It was the exact opposite of what he was thinking.

"I'm sure," Bill said. "You're screaming for help, son. Anyone's help. You just have to let someone help you. You have to help yourself."

"You know nothing about me."

"I know what you put out to the world. I know that Gerry. That Gerry is a worthless drunk. He's a spoiled brat. He's a full grown-person, but not a man. I know that Gerry, and I know another Gerry. A kid with dreams of being an artist or a writer. A smart kid with emotions and a good solid brain in his head."

"Don't get all misty on me."

Bill made a disapproving ahh sound in his throat.

"Don't get weepy, old man. You know nothing..."

Bill interrupted again. "You shut up. Shut your mouth," he said with venom, but also with restraint.

Gerry could picture his old man's clenched teeth and see the vein that pulsed in his forehead when he got mad. It was a face he'd seen often enough as a kid. Still, the voice on the phone startled him and he complied with the command.

"You've murdered that boy and killed all his dreams. He's gone. So if I'm weepy, it's because I'm in mourning for my son. My son is dead, and that carcass you drag around is nothing but the cancer that killed him off."

Gerry shook his head, laughing.

"Yeah, Dad. That's all very dramatic."

"Gerry, I want you to prove me wrong. I want you to find yourself in all that...that..." he paused. "That shit. Find yourself and get back to us. Your mother and I would love to see William Gerald Sheffield Jr. again."

Bill was panting by that point, breathing heavy into the phone. Gerry listened as the pant turned into a cough. The cough grew worse.

Good, he thought.

For a moment, he felt bad for his father. He felt bad for his mother. He grimaced and held the phone away so he wouldn't have to hear the coughing. Gerry wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, leaning against the bus stop's shelter wall. He glanced again at the bum and felt a wave of emotion he didn't know he owned.

Is this for them or is this me feeling sorry for myself? he thought.

"I'll try, Dad," he said.

His dad continued coughing but managed to choke out, "That's a good start, boy."

Then the call disconnected. Gerry stood there watching the bum disappear down the street. He noticed another on the opposite corner. He remembered being woken up on his own doorstep by his landlord and the look in Tinsley's eyes.

Have I gotten so far off the path that I can't get back? he thought.

A taxi coming down the street got his attention and he flagged it, pocketing the phone and wiping his eyes once again. He checked the cash in his wallet. Still more than eighty dollars. He climbed in and leaned over the seat.

"Get me to the library."

Chapter 5

Margo folded her fingers and bounced the clasped hands gently against the bridge of her nose, tears streaming from her eyes as Bill hung up their phone. He was still hacking.

"I'm so proud of you," she said, patting him on the knee.

She fell into his arms and on his lap in the old recliner, and he coughed while he held her. He puffed on an inhaler and after a couple minutes the cough dwindled into wheezing and clearing his throat. Bill stared at the wall over the couch on the opposite side, the front window to his back. Margo hugged him tight.

"I never thought I'd have to say such things to family. Not to my own son."

"I know, Bill. You were so strong."

He took her hand in his, examining its soft spotted skin and rubbing a thumb gently across it. His face was wrecked, saddened and stained with tears.

"How did he sound?" she asked.

Bill took a deep breath through his nose and then his face gained some confidence. His brow furrowed, wrinkling up beyond his original hairline, lost long ago.

"Arrogant at first. That awful, entitled tone he gets when he's drinking. But then, just before I hung up, he sounded sad, and hopeful. He said, 'I'll try, Dad.'"

She leaned back from him.

"Do you believe him?"

Bill's face lost its confidence again, and he looked at the floor, letting his eyes lose focus.

"I want to, Margo. He sounded sincere. But how many times can he go through this cycle? He's stolen from us, lied to us. I've bailed him out of jail and mortgaged this house to pay off his debts."

"If you cut him off, he'll stop. I know he will," she said. "Where else will he get the money?"

Bill looked out of the corner of his eye at her, shaking his head. "That's what I'm scared of. He's low right now. But he'll get much lower. He'll find ways to get what he needs, even if it kills him. I'm not ready to say goodbye to my son. Not like that. Not yet."

"I know. Deep down I know those things, but I don't want to think like that. I want to think he'll come around. You know, like when he was little and we'd say, 'It's just a phase, he'll grow out of it.' Like that," she said.

"Twenty years is a long phase. I'm just not sure there's anyone living in there anymore."

Bill smiled. He gripped her hand and looked her directly in the eyes with as much sincerity as he could project. He shook his head the way a surgeon does when he wants to let the family know the patient is lost. Margo understood. She'd hidden those feelings deep inside, but each incident with Gerry had dug a little closer to them, and at that moment, they'd breached the surface.

"He's not our son, is he Bill?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "I'm afraid we should've said goodbye to Gerry long ago."

They sat for a long time in that chair, Margo's tiny, thin frame on Bill's lap. He was, in his prime, more than a foot taller than her, but he'd shrunk down and hunched over so they could almost kiss without much adjustment. He liked that part of growing older. He liked looking at her at her level and had often told her so.

"I should've been looking up at you all those years, Margo. You're the bigger person."

"You're right, Bill. I am."

"Tomorrow is another day," he said and chuckled.

"I hope so."

Margo stood, easing herself up from his lap, and turned to stare out the front window. The boys weren't playing in their neighbor's driveway yet. They were still in school during that part of the day. She stretched her back, pressing her hands into her hips, and then leaned in and kissed her husband on the cheek.

"You hungry?"

"Not really. Guess I better eat something besides a mountain of pills."

Margo patted him and trekked her way along the worn carpet path toward the kitchen. Bill creaked and popped as he stood up to look out the window. He puffed on the inhaler once more and was breathing easy again. He caught some movement from the doorway and looked in time to see Margo standing there, holding a dish towel.

"What's next?" she asked.

"What's next for what?" he said.

She stepped into the room, wringing the towel.

"For Gerry. If he does come around and start taking care of himself, then what?"

Bill waved his hands, shooing her back into the kitchen and following. He pulled open the refrigerator door and grabbed a soda, popping the top and finding two small glasses to split it in. When he was done pouring, he sat at the small dining table and shoved one across to her. She sat, dropping the towel on the table and picking up the soda.

"Then," Bill began. "I guess Christmas will be a lot more joyous. Maybe we'll get some grandkids and we can die happy."

She wasn't satisfied with the answer, and he could read it in her face. Something about the way her eyes lit up whenever she was thinking, and the way one corner of her mouth raised into something that was not a smile. She sipped her drink and looked at him, wheels turning frantically in her head.

"And what if he doesn't?"

Bill sighed and looked at her with determination.

"It's like I said. If he can't swim, he'll sink. I'm finished with him."

She nodded, still not satisfied.

"I'm not satisfied with that," she said and Bill nodded.

"I could see you weren't. What's bugging you besides the usual?"

She drummed her fingers on the table for a moment.

"Bill, I don't want to die wondering if he's going to be okay. I don't want to die worrying about his safety. And, now this might sound cruel, but I don't want to die knowing he's going to sell everything we own so he can get...well...shitfaced."

"Easy, tiger," Bill said. "What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. I just don't know. But I know I haven't lived seventy years, most of that with you my love, just to have it all ruined by Gerry. My son or not, I deserve better than that. You deserve better than that."

"Agreed. What are you thinking, Mrs. Sheffield?"

"Let me work on it for a couple days, Mr. Sheffield. I want to see what the boy does, then I'll get back to you."

Chapter 6

Gerry paid the cab driver and entered the public library, an old limestone building on the corner of a downtown block. It sat across from the community college. He was there to look through the Internet classifieds and to check the local newspaper, but saw a job-seeker section on the bulletin board in the lobby and approached that first.

It was covered with printouts and fliers and handwritten papers with tear-off tabs on the bottom. After scanning the lot for a few minutes, he picked several that sounded promising and went to one of the round tables and sat down. He read them over more thoroughly. A few had expired. One only said it paid minimum wage which wasn't enough to cover his rent. He had warehouse management experience and had made decent money back when he could stay sober.

"That might do," he said.

Gerry pulled a pair of labor and warehousing jobs to the top of the pile and discarded the rest. It felt good to be searching for something, a goal he thought he might be able to attain. He was glad, for a change, to find something positive to cling to even for a moment, rather than drowning everything in alcohol, or blurring the world out with drugs when it wasn't working out.

Gerry caught his reflection in the glass window between the lobby and the room full of bookshelves. It was pathetic. A sweaty man with thinning hair and a ridiculous paunch looked back at him wearing dirty clothes. He barely recognized himself. He knew there was a store across the street where he could buy some clothes. Something new and clean would be better to hunt jobs in. He could stand to brush his teeth as well.

The table next to him had a newspaper folded up on top of it. He grabbed it and fished out the classified section and checked the date. Yesterday's.

"Good enough," he said.

He went back to the job board and pulled one of each of the fliers. Taking a golf pencil out of a cup that was haphazardly stapled to the board, he wrote down a few more possibilities and a handful of websites. An attractive young woman, a volunteer, smiled at him from the information desk. Her warm smile was not to be misconstrued for anything but kindness. It was something he hadn't seen in a long time.

"Must be my lucky day," he said and left out the front door.

At the department store, he picked up a pack of underwear and undershirts, four pair of clean socks, two pair of black slacks, two white button-down shirts and a sensible tie. Shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush, a pack of razors and aftershave finished his list, and he paid for it all at the front counter.

Walking next door, Gerry grabbed a bag of groceries: lunch meat and bread, a dozen eggs and some frozen meals. It was a strain, but he grabbed a six pack of soda rather than beer. Outside, he considered a taxi, but the wind was brisk and he felt energized, better than he had in years. So he walked all the way back home.

When he reached his apartment building, he practically danced through the entry doors and onto the elevator. He did dance out of the elevator doors and down the hall on his floor. By the time he got to his apartment door, he was winded.

"A new world. Maybe Dad was right? I should've been a writer, or an artist," he said.

Inside, he hung his new clothes in the closet, bagged the piles of dirty clothes in a suitcase, and dragged it across the hall to the coin washer and dryer. Fifty cents into the vending machine next to the washer got him a box of laundry soap. With the requisite buttons pressed, his clothes were spinning and getting clean.

"At least they won't smell anymore," Gerry noted.

He went back to his apartment and showered, brushed his teeth, and shaved. Then he pulled on the clothes he'd bought and a pair of black, leather dress shoes that had been in his closet, untouched for years. After lacing them, he approached the mirror in his bathroom.

"Holy shit, Ger. You clean up okay."

His reflection was not displeasing. It actually improved his already stellar mood and his hair even looked thicker, just a bit. He finished tying the tie just for practice and checked the clock. It was roughly 4:00 pm, which meant he still had time to call a few places from the job board. Gerry retrieved the stack of papers he'd grabbed and sat at his kitchen table, dragging his phone with him and grabbing a glass of water from the tap.

The first number he dialed was for a general laborer in a plant downtown.

PAY NEGOTIABLE BASED ON EXPERIENCE, it said.

The conversation was pleasant enough. A woman answered, she said she was the receptionist. Her name was Shawn.

"I'm calling about the job posted at the library. Is the position still open?"

"We're interviewing. Can you tell me a bit about your experience?" she asked.

He let her know about some of the similar jobs he'd held. He made sure to neglect telling her of the vast number of jobs and the variety of positions from which he'd been fired. They made small talk about the job market and how he was getting back on his feet after being laid off, all lies. There was a pang of guilt as he spoke. You gotta do what you gotta do, he thought.

"I'd be glad to set an appointment for you to come by on Wednesday and speak to the manager, Mr. Solomon," Shawn said.

"Solomon. Wednesday," Gerry repeated as he wrote the words down. "What time?"

"Any time after lunch is fine. Can you be here at 1:00 pm?"

"I need the job, Shawn. I can be there whenever you say. One o'clock is perfect."

They exchanged pleasant goodbyes and he hung the phone up. The possibility of success felt good even though the general labor job for Mr. Solomon ended up being the most promising call he made. The other five or six phone calls were less than inspiring. A few of the positions had been filled, one didn't answer, and the others said to come by and fill out an application. He decided some rest was in order.

Gerry changed his clothes from washer to dryer and when Tinsley passed by, he smiled and offered a chipper "Hello" as he passed. He smiled knowing Tinsley hadn't recognized him, and that was fine. Tinsley continued down the hall, glancing back only once as if he might have seen something familiar about the man at the laundry, but he kept going.

Gerry bought a candy bar with the change he had remaining and opened it as he went back to his apartment. He finished the candy in two large bites and turned on his small television, finding nothing of particular interest. There was a replay of a baseball game on, something from earlier in the week. He stopped it there, turned the volume up and looked around his apartment.

"Not so bad, but could use some help," he said.

There were stacks of mail on his living room end table, a few empty beer and liquor bottles in the kitchen. The trash can was full, and starting to spill over.

He spent the rest of his evening cleaning. It took multiple trips to the dumpster with three heavy bags of trash and old clothes that didn't fit, or were ruined from lack of care. There was a broken end table, one that used to be part of a matching pair before he'd tumbled over it, turning the wrong way in his living room one drunken evening. He boxed up the pieces and carted them out to be hauled off as well. Gerry wiped down tables and countertop and even cleaned the toilet.

After a quick scan, he found the remainder of his apartment satisfactory. He thought for a moment, and held up one finger in a sort of Eureka! pose. Opening the coat closet door, he pushed aside the items that hung there. The floor was empty. He looked in the bedroom closet, then in the utility closet which doubled as a pantry. His face scrunched up.

"Shit," he said.

A first for Gerry, he knocked on his neighbor's door.

"Barry?" the man said.

They'd been introduced months ago, but Gerry was drunk and didn't remember the man's name. He played it off and shook his hand using his firmest grip.

"Gerry, with a G, not a J."

His neighbor nodded, mouthing the word, "Oh."

"Listen, hate to bother you, but do you have a vacuum cleaner I could borrow for maybe thirty minutes? Mine's on the fritz. Need to get a new one."

The man stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. Gerry had no idea what had happened to his own vacuum, maybe he imagined it was there. He'd owned one at some point, but couldn't remember the last time he'd used it.

"Um...Yeah, sure. Wait right here."

In a moment, the man was back, with an upright vacuum in hand. He pushed it out the door on its wheels and Gerry grabbed it with a smile. He had taken off the tie and rolled his sleeves up, but he was still clean and shaved. Not at all the man this anonymous neighbor remembered bumping into on occasion.

"Great, thanks. I'll have it right back."

"No," neighbor said.

Gerry looked confused. "No?"

"I mean, I'll be out. I'm getting ready to go out."

His story made sense, he was in a bathrobe with shaving cream across half his face. Gerry smiled and nodded. Neighbor continued.

"Anytime after four tomorrow. I usually get home around four, just drop it by if you would."

They shook hands again and Gerry vacuumed his apartment. He stuck the vacuum by his front door so he wouldn't forget to deliver it back to its owner. Then he made a sandwich and sat on his couch, flipping channels on the tiny, flat-screened television. That night he set his alarm clock, went to bed sober and slept.

Chapter 7

At 8:15 the next morning, Bill Sheffield's phone rang. He knew it was trouble. Every time the phone rang and he wasn't expecting it, he feared the worst. Gerry's recent behavior made him believe it would be the police, or maybe a hospital asking him to come identify his son's body. With a tentative hand, he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Dad?" Gerry said.

"Good God, son. What's wrong?"

Gerry laughed on the other end.

"Are you drunk? Are you in jail?"

The laughter grew louder. But it wasn't the biting, sarcastic laughter Bill was used to from his son. He found himself grinning.

"Gerry?" he said.

"I'm fine, dad. Just fine. I wanted to call and tell you I have a no-shit interview tomorrow. A couple other job possibilities as well."

"What?"

"Job interviews, Dad. I have a couple lined up. Well, one interview and a couple applications to put in today."

Bill sat dumbstruck. "Am I dreaming?" he said.

Gerry chuckled again.

"I know I haven't been the bundle of joy you'd been hoping for. That conversation we had yesterday hit me at just the right time, I guess. I'll explain it to you one day, but it was a low point. I'm still at a low point. Nowhere to go but up. I just wanted to let you know I was serious when I told you I'd try."

Bill choked up, a near impossible lump to swallow in his throat.

"I...don't know what to say," he said.

"Well, when I get this job and don't need your help anymore, you can say congratulations and buy me a cup of coffee."

Bill smiled. The grin was so wide, it almost hurt his cheeks to stretch that far.

"It's a date," he said. "I'll bring your mom. She's at the store, but I'll tell her the news as soon as she gets home."

"Do that. Apologize to her for me. I'd like to do it myself as soon as possible, but you can tell her I said so as well. I owe her more than I can count."

"Yes, you do," Bill said. "But I'll tell her."

There was silence between the two men for a moment when Bill sighed. A contented sound.

"It's a start, Gerry. A good start."

"Thanks," Gerry replied.

"Take care," Bill said.

He hung up the phone with a new worry. He worried about his new hope and if it was misplaced. He worried that he was beyond the point where he cared and would invest his emotion into hoping his son would succeed. Would it be the kind of slight joy one got from watching a feel good movie? He worried about what Margo would think, and if she could take another disappointment.

"Don't build me up, boy," he said, staring at the telephone as if Gerry was sitting on top of it. "I don't have enough life left in me for that kind of disappointment."

He struggled to breathe, puffing on his inhaler and sipping his cup of black coffee. The tightness in his chest eased, and after a few breaths he grabbed the remote and flipped through the list of channels. Sighing out of boredom and also frustration, he turned off the set and struggled to stand. After he was upright, he drug his chair around to face the window and sat down again.

"Much better show," he said.

Bill watched outside. He knew the boys from across the street wouldn't be home from school for several hours. He enjoyed watching their antics. He enjoyed their imagination and how it reminded him of his own son back when he was full of life. He noted the cars that passed and a handful of neighbors who walked by. Mothers strolled with infant children; an older couple walked a pair of dogs down the sidewalk. There was something peaceful about that window that he enjoyed. What it framed was a world he could understand.

After half an hour had passed, Bill was crying. Emotions from the past twenty years seemed to bubble to the surface of the man and spill over. So much stress escaping at once. He felt like maybe he had the strength to forgive his son's sins one last time, if only Gerry would stick to the plan this time. But if he didn't, there was no more room in his heart and that would be the end. He bowed his head onto crisscrossed fingers and prayed to a God he hadn't spoken much with over the years.

"Lord, let my son find his way. A safe way, so that I might rest. So my wife might rest. So he might rest. He's on the wrong path."

When he opened his eyes, there was a bird on the brick ledge beneath the front window and it was watching him, bouncing on black legs from brick to brick, staring in the window at him. It fluffed its wings and preened, then it flapped its wings as if it might have lost balance for a moment. The bird stared at Bill through the window as intently as he was staring at it. Bill smiled.

"I expected you to be bigger," he said, and added, "but thanks for noticing me."

The garage door opened and the noise caught Bill's attention even before Margo pulled their minivan into the drive. He wiped his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could muster before standing in an attempt at giving her a hand. He knew she wouldn't take any help and that he wouldn't be much even if she had.

Her voice rang out from the garage door in the kitchen, melodic, if a little strained by age.

"I'm home," she sang, stretching out the words.

Bill hobbled into the kitchen, feeling tired and weak, more than usual. His strength had been sliding steadily in recent weeks, but he smiled just the same. She patted one cheek while she kissed the other.

"Let me help you bring those bags in, Margo."

"No, you have a seat. It won't take me a minute. Sit down, now, Bill."

He grunted his disapproval, but it was only a formality. He was relieved to sit back down, unsure how long he could've stood there without passing out. The oxygen just didn't get into his lungs the way it used to.

"Have any trouble?"

"No," she said. "Store wasn't busy. In and out."

Bill weighed the pros and cons of telling Margo about Gerry's call. She could normally read when something was on his mind. He saw her looking in the living room, and seeing his chair turned backwards.

"Something wrong, Bill?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"You only turn your chair around when you've got heavy thinking to do."

He looked over at the recliner, then glanced at his window and remembered the bird.

"Gerry called."

Margo's face lost its color. She stopped putting groceries up and stood there with a loaf of bread in her hands, squeezing it until it was out of shape.

"He's fine. He sounded fine," Bill said, relieving her. "Said he wanted to apologize to you. Wanted to do it himself, but asked that I passed it on anyway. Said he was actually trying and had a job interview already lined up for tomorrow, I think."

"Do you believe him?"

"Like I said, he sounded fine."

Margo smiled and set the bread down, walking over to Bill and rubbing him on one shoulder.

"So what's bothering you? You should be happy," Margo said.

"I am."

"Then what is it?"

Bill pursed his lips and took a deep breath. His skin looked a little gray, his eyes dark and sunken. He rubbed a finger along the edge of the dining table and looked at his wife with concern on his face.

"I just get the feeling he's not going to make it. Even if he does, I'm not sure I'm capable of feeling joy for him anymore. Not like I should."

"It will take time, Bill. It's not like the movies. You love your son, whether you like him or not."

"I suppose. Is that how you feel?" he asked, a slight wheeze to his breathing.

"At times. I'll always love him, but I haven't always liked him. I am hopeful, though."

Bill placed his hand on hers as she rubbed his shoulder.

"I'm worried I won't be here to see him succeed, I guess. And that I will be here to see him fail this one last time. Maybe that'll be what finally kills me."

She felt his forehead, then went back to putting groceries away, something tugging at her mind like a toddler tugs at his mother's sleeve. Bill sat and watched her. She was graceful and organized, knowing exactly where everything went. In the almost forty years they'd been in that house, he still had to hunt for common items.

"If it is what kills you, then I'm going with you. We can haunt him together."

Bill chuckled at her although he saw tears in her eyes. He pushed himself up on old muscles and hugged her to him. He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"None of that, now. Tomorrow is another day."

"I hope so," she said, but it wasn't the same. Her voice had real dread in it.

"It's not a bad idea, though," Bill said.

"What's not?"

"Haunting Gerry. It would serve him right for all the pain and suffering he's caused."

"Bill, you've lost your mind."

"Maybe."

Chapter 8

Gerry lit a smoke and put the lighter and the remainder of the pack in the pocket of his new pants. The brisk wind blew by, giving him a chill that honed his senses. He hadn't been so alert in weeks. Two sober nights in a row helped his whole being, even if his sleep had been troubled. He had one more application to fill out after he stopped for breakfast. After, he could relax until his interview at 1:00 pm.

He walked into the same diner he'd been to dozens of times before to feed some grease to his hangover. On that day, it felt a bit different. Jill was behind the counter, but didn't come to serve him. Another girl, younger and plump, came by with a pot of coffee in her hand. Her name tag said "Lauren".

"Coffee?"

"Yes, please. And can I get a couple scrambled eggs and toast?"

She nodded, smiling, and filled his cup before disappearing. He saw Jill talking over the pass-through to the kitchen, and looking at him in between every few words. She grabbed a tray full of plates and delivered them to a family on the other side of the restaurant. The swinging door opened from the kitchen and a man in a shirt and tie, not unlike Gerry's, walked out. He was older, fifties maybe, and had silver hair, cut military style. He approached Gerry's table and introduced himself.

"Steve. I'm the owner. How is everything?"

His accent was pure Philadelphia, and deep and husky from smoking.

"Fine. Coffee's good. Just ordered my breakfast."

"Look," Steve said. "Jill says you were lookin' for work. I think she brought you an application last time you were here, is that right?"

Steve gestured a lot with his hands. Thick, muscled forearms stuck out from his carefully folded sleeves, and his callused hands told a story that didn't say restaurant owner. He might have done manual labor most of his life. His words were slow, carefully thought out, as if he didn't know many and wanted to make sure he was communicating clearly.

"Oh yeah, she sure did. I hate to say it, but I misplaced that application."

"Is that right?"

Gerry nodded.

"Well, I don't wanna bother you while you're eating. That would be rude. You're still my customer, right?"

Gerry stared at him. Steve gave him the feeling that he would wait for a response, no matter how long it took. Gerry nodded to speed things along.

"If you're still interested in a job here, we can talk after you eat."

"Great," Gerry said.

He held a hand out for Steve to shake. Something that might pass for a smile crossed Steve's lips, and he was gone back through the swinging door. The chubby girl passed him as he went into the kitchen and she placed Gerry's food in front of him.

"More coffee?" she asked.

"No. Thanks."

"Anything else for now?"

"No. No, I'm fine."

He noticed Jill watching him. She wasn't scowling, but her expression wasn't exactly loving. Her glances to the kitchen unnerved Gerry a little, making him uncomfortable. He ate his food thinking he was being paranoid. Jill disappeared into the kitchen, passing his table in a blur. He could hear the tone of her voice, but not the words. Then a tone that sounded like Steve. When she passed through the door again, her face was smug, satisfied.

Gerry waved two fingers at her and attempted to smile with a mouth full of food and she nodded courteously. Lauren appeared again, placing the handwritten bill in front of him. He looked at it, adding up the amounts just to double check. The family on the other side was getting up to leave as Gerry pulled a five and several ones from his wallet. He placed the bills on the table as the chubby waitress came back by.

"Keep it," he said.

Tipping was something he normally didn't do. Even though it was only a couple dollars, she seemed genuinely thankful. Her smile brought deep dimples to her cheeks, making her eyes almost disappear into dark slits.

"Thanks. Have a great day and come back," she said.

Gerry finished his coffee while Jill watched. He felt guarded, as if he wasn't allowed to leave for some reason. Like she might stop him, like she wanted to say something. Still, it wasn't the same way she'd watched him before. The way she had displayed herself before, practically asking him to take her out behind the building.

He stood up and Jill shifted from leaning on the counter to standing, as if she was going to approach. When Gerry found Lauren and asked her a question, her stance relaxed. Lauren went into the kitchen and came out seconds later with Steve, the owner. He looked at Jill and Gerry saw her relax. Jill turned and started filling containers with artificial sweetener packets and salt and pepper shakers.

"Come on back," Steve said.

He led Gerry through the small kitchen and past two deep sinks stacked with grease-caked pans and utensils. A teenage boy was scrubbing a stainless pot while wearing rubber gloves that went to his shoulders. He had earbuds in his ears with music so loud, Gerry could hear it over the sizzle of frying food, the hum of ventilation and the running water. They stopped at an office in the back next to a walk-in freezer. Inside the small room was a desk, a file cabinet and three chairs.

"Sit," Steve said.

Gerry did. Steve slid a clipboard with an application attached across the desk.

"You can fill this out while we talk, if that's okay with you?"

"No problem," said Gerry.

"So you can multitask?"

"I guess so," Gerry said.

Steve chuckled.

"Tell me about your work history," he said.

Gerry carefully picked out a couple restaurants he'd worked in, lying about the dates and duration of each job. Steve nodded at appropriate places. He held a legal pad and pen, but didn't write anything down.

Steve asked about a few recipes, how Gerry would go about cooking them.

"Just to get an idea of what you know. We don't make anything complicated here."

Gerry answered simply and seemed to satisfy the owner.

"What about the hours? Can you work a third shift?"

"I'm available for any shift," Gerry answered, continuing to fill in blanks on the application.

"And why would you fuck my wife?" Steve asked.

Gerry stopped writing. He looked up slowly from the clipboard.

"You came into my establishment and ordered my food. Then you fucked my wife out by the dumpster. Is that what you think of her? And you come back to ask for work?"

"I had no idea she was your wife," Gerry said, talking fast. "I thought she was..."

"What?" Steve said.

"I think I should go."

He turned, and Jill was there, in the doorway. She closed the door behind her, crowding the three of them in the small room as Steve opened a desk drawer and pulled a handgun out. He laid it on the desk.

"No. I think you should stay," he said.

An all too familiar feeling of failure crawled up from Gerry's belly and stuck in his throat. His head started to throb.

"Now," Steve said. "You thought my wife was a what?"

Gerry looked at Jill, who leered back at him.

"A hooker," he muttered.

"What? I didn't hear that."

Gerry's anger grew quickly. The ugly side he'd been suppressing for the last two days was clawing its way to the surface. Steve glared at him, leaning forward in his chair and fingering the gun, spinning it so it pointed at Gerry.

"She came to the table," Gerry said.

"Yes?" Steve prodded.

"She practically had her tits out, begging for it. Said she had to find other ways to make ends meet. She kept touching my hand. Look, I had no idea she was your wife. I thought she was just some waitress that hooked on the side."

"Not the way I heard it."

"This is a con, right? Some kind of sick scam you two are running?"

Steve ignored the questions.

"Way I heard it, you asked for a cigarette. Then went outside and smoked it. She happened to go on her break at the same time and when she came out the back door, you raped her."

Gerry's blood boiled in his face. His teeth ground together in the back of his mouth and his fingers gripped the seat of the folding chair with white knuckles. He was ready to fight or ready to die.

"You and I have different definitions of rape, Steve. She took a hundred bucks from me and told me how good my big cock felt inside her."

His lip coiled into an evil smirk.

"Izzat true, Jill? His cock feel good?" Steve said.

Jill didn't flinch. "Tiny thing. Hardly felt it."

Steve stood from behind his desk and tucked the handgun into his belt, in the small of his back. Gerry tried to stand, but Jill pushed down on his shoulders, keeping him seated in the small room. Before he had time to struggle, Steve's massive fist caught his jaw squarely on the left side, causing white stars to spin in front of Gerry's eyes. He reached up in reaction to the blow as if trying to block it, but the second blow came from the right. Another fist landed, aimed straight at his nose, busting it in an explosion of pain and hot, red liquid.

Jill let go of his shoulders and he slumped in the chair, trying to remain conscious as another fist hit him, knocking his head back and pinching a nerve in his neck, sending a burning sensation down both arms.

"That's for calling my wife a hooker." Steve said. He wasn't even breathing heavy.

Another fist flew. "That's for raping her."

Gerry slid off the chair onto the floor and Steve picked up the chair, folded it and dropped it on top of his desk. It slid off onto the floor with a clang. He kicked Gerry in the chest.

"That's for lying to me about it."

He picked Gerry up by the collar and said, "This is just because I'm enjoying myself."

He slammed Gerry down onto the ceramic tiled floor, bouncing his head on the hard surface. The white shirt he'd bought for his interview was covered in greasy dirt from the floor and blood from his nose and split lip. Before he slipped out of consciousness, he saw Steve open the door and leave the office. Jill pulled a wad of cash from her bra, stripping off five twenties and throwing them on his chest. She spat on him.

"That's for being a lousy lay," she said.

*****

When Gerry regained consciousness, hours had passed. He was in the alley behind the restaurant leaning against an overflowing dumpster. Bags of trash were stacked around and on top of him. He hurt and cringed as he looked at his watch. 3:47 pm. He'd missed the interview.

"Damn," he said, then winced from the pain in his jaw and lips.

He touched his nose gingerly. Most of the blood had dried, but it was still sticky. It was so swollen, he could see purple from the corners of his eyes. His ribs ached. Shoving the trash bags from his lap, he stood up on unsteady legs and waited to see if he was going to be able to stay upright or if he was going to pass out again.

The back door to the restaurant opened. It was Jill. She laughed.

"Oh, you're awake. Why don't you get the hell out of here."

Gerry held up a hand and nodded his understanding. He started walking as she lit a cigarette. He pulled one out of his pocket and did the same as he shuffled down the puddled alley to the sidewalk. The pain was intense when he took the first drag to light the thing, but it was necessary.

"Gerry," Jill called.

He turned halfway around, not looking at her, but far enough that she would know he heard.

"Position's been filled. Just FYI."

For whatever reason, he found the statement funny. It was like a summation of the past twenty years of his life, tied up in a neat and tidy bow by a table-waiting hooker in a back alley.

You fucked me for free, he thought and laughed even harder.

Stopping in a convenience store just across the street from the diner, he got a cup of ice and dumped it into a couple paper towels from the men's room dispenser. He filled the cup with Coke before stopping at the counter. There, he opened a package of Tylenol, popping five or six pills, and dropped one of the twenties on the counter for the clerk, who watched him with a shocked look on her face. She counted out change without saying a word and placed it in his hand.

"Thanks," he said and left to sit on the curb outside.

Gerry sipped the soda and swished it around in his mouth trying to rinse out the taste of blood. He spat that mouthful on the concrete leaving a foaming bloody stain. He swallowed the second gulp. The clerk came to the door and opened it, jingling the bells that hung from the closer.

"Are you alright, sir?"

Gerry nodded and waved. After a few seconds, she left.

He walked a few feet down the sidewalk just to be out of her point of view and sat again. For a long time, he thought about his conversation with his father and about the bum he'd kicked off the bus stop bench. Then he thought about how good a whiskey on the rocks would taste and maybe some valium. He wondered if he might find some stronger drugs to kill the pain and give him a little boost to continue the job hunt when his phone rang.

"Hello?" he said.

"Gerry? It's your mom."

He swallowed, still a bloody taste in his mouth. "Hi, mom."

"Your Dad told me about your conversation earlier. How'd the interview go?"

Gerry shook his head. He wanted to tell her he had to reschedule, but instead said, "Fine. Looks good."

"Great. That's excellent news."

He didn't offer any more words.

"I won't keep you, son. Just call if you hear anything."

"I will," he said.

After they hung up, he wrapped his arms around his knees and sobbed quietly into them. The need to give up, to quit, was overwhelming. The bar was calling. He could walk back into that store and tell the little cashier he wasn't okay and he needed one of those fifths of whiskey she had behind her. A twelve pack of beer could wash it down. He could probably even find a woman to share it all with. In his shape, he could find some lonely soul to take pity on him for the night. Or he could try.

Neither option seemed acceptable to him at that moment, so he stayed there, on the sidewalk until the Tylenol started to take the edge off of his cuts and bruises.

"One thing at a time," he said as he stood up.

He pulled his wallet out and found the number for Mr. Solomon and his missed interview. He could tell them he was mugged. He had the wounds to prove that story. They'd have to give him another interview. Finding the number, he hailed a cab, and dialed as he got in and sat down.

"10th and Stone," Gerry said.

The cab drove out, starting the nine block drive to his apartment and changed lanes, stopping at a red light. The receptionist answered.

"Mr. Solomon, please. This is Gerry Sheffield."

"Hello, Mr Sheffield. You missed your appointment today," she said.

"I know. I was hoping I could reschedule. See, I spent most of today at the emergency room. I was mugged this morning."

The cab driver looked at him worriedly through the rearview mirror. Gerry ignored him. He pulled twenty dollars from his wallet and dropped it over the seat. The cabbie nodded.

"That's terrible," said the receptionist. "Let me see if I can get Mr. Solomon on the phone."

The light turned green and they continued on three more blocks before stopping at another red light. Mr. Solomon answered.

"Mr. Sheffield?"

"Yes. Mr. Solomon, I would really like to reschedule our meeting. I wa..."

Solomon cut him off. "Mr. Sheffield, let me be straight with you, as I feel you weren't straight with me."

Gerry jerked his head back, confused. The cab rolled again as the light changed.

Solomon continued, "I called your reference, a Mr. Tinsley, when you didn't show up for our meeting. He told me he could only vouch for your residence, but as a personal or business reference, he had to decline. I'd never heard such a thing before, so I asked him why. Reluctantly, he told me you were unreliable at best."

"Bastard," Gerry whispered.

"I'll say. My point here, Mr. Sheffield, is that I feel like you're yanking my chain, and I'm a busy man. I'll tell you, because it's the law, to come by and fill out an application...leave your resume and we'll take a look at it. But as for another appointment, I'm not going to make one because I feel you'll have another excuse. Best of luck to you, sir."

Solomon slammed the phone down. Gerry was speechless, seething with anger, his pain completely overshadowed by it. The cab stopped in front of his building. The driver held up the twenty and looked at Gerry in the mirror. He glanced at the meter which read $11.15.

"Keep it," he said and got out of the car.

He stormed into the building, walking the entire main floor, searching for Tinsley. His good natured attitude, the hopeful one, had disappeared completely, and the animal that lived inside him was back, Tinsley its prey. A young male tenant opened his door, leaving on an errand of some sort.

"Good God, mister, are you alright? Your nose. Have you seen a doctor?"

Gerry ignored him. "Tinsley. You seen him?"

"No," the stranger said.

Gerry moved past him to the back staircase and walked up to the second of four floors. He walked each hallway until the third floor, where he found Tinsley at the vending machine gathering the coins for the week. The landlord stood up, laughing.

"Shit. You are a mess, Gerry."

Gerry didn't respond, but grabbed Tinsley by the shirt and smashed him backward into the vending machine, breaking the glass. It opened cuts on the man's neck and the back of his head. Tiny bits of glass sprayed onto the floor and clicked as they fell through the rows of candy bars and bagged chips. Tinsley pushed back and swung for Gerry's face. He blocked and countered.

The punch left a red mark on Tinsley's cheek that bloomed purple in an instant. Gerry grabbed him and threw him down to the floor, punching and kicking at him furiously, missing as often as he hit. He was livid, wild. Tinsley held his hands in front of his face and pulled his knees up trying to protect his middle. A door opened, two apartments down, and a woman shrieked then slammed the door again. Gerry was screaming.

"You want me to pay rent? I got a fucking interview and you fuck it up! What the hell is wrong with you?"

He stomped on the man on the ground as he shouted, spitting with each word. Tinsley was already out cold, in much the same shape as Gerry was several hours before. He was breathing, but blood bubbled from his nose, and dripped from his open mouth. He had a tooth missing. Gerry slumped down against the wall, exhausted, and sat. Within minutes, a pair of policemen entered the hallway and found him sitting there. One cuffed Gerry, who put up no resistance. The other checked on Tinsley and called for an ambulance. The shrieking woman watched from within her apartment, door cracked, security chain latched. As one cop led him by her door, he said, "Thank you."

He was completely sincere.

Chapter 9

Jail was a snap. Gerry had been there half a dozen times to sleep it off. It seemed more juvenile, more stupid to him this time, perhaps because he was sober. He felt like an idiot sitting there, and he couldn't sleep. Instead, he spent the night thinking. The thoughts were not good and pure. He didn't think about pulling himself up by the bootstraps and rolling with the punches. He thought about his father, about killing him, and about killing other things—animals, women, even himself. He considered ways he might kill himself right there in the cell.

For a moment, he was distracted by the thought of having sex with Jill in that alley, her slack pale breasts and foul cigarette breath. What a rush it had been and how the breeze blowing between his legs had made it that much more exciting, the thought that someone might see them, that someone was probably watching. He remembered how vile she was and how the sex was nothing but a release for him, same as the drugs and the booze. He wondered if Steve had been watching them. He hated being handled in that way, used for someone else's amusement. Controlled.

That's what Bill Sheffield had done his whole life, controlled him. He told him how to live, how to get his life together.

"No one's going to control me again," Gerry said.

He thought about what a fool his father was and how those old morons lived in a fantasy land that didn't exist anymore. Their rules weren't his rules. Not Gerry's rules. He refused any responsibility for his situation.

"This is not my fault," he said and he repeated it throughout his stay that night and into the next morning.

"This is not my fault, you bastard."

He spoke the words to his father, as if he'd been sitting there. The other inmates paid him no mind. Some slept, one was passed out, a few were scared, keeping to the corners so they could watch the others.

At 8:00 am, he was shocked as the police let him go.

"Sheffield," they called. "You're out. Congratulations."

He stood slowly and followed the man with the keys to the front counter to be processed out. He expected his mother or father to be standing there, posting bail, but they weren't. He was alone with the uniforms.

"What gives?" he asked.

"That guy you beat up...Tinsley?" the cop said.

"Yeah."

"Didn't press charges. Said he'd thought about it and you really weren't dangerous to anyone but yourself. Said you were broke and couldn't afford to be sued, and you weren't worth his time or taxes either way."

Gerry shook his head. He was too tired to be mad.

Sarcastically, he asked, "He say anything else?"

"Yeah," the cop said, looking up from the paperwork. "He said you were evicted and not to step foot on the property or he would press charges. Said he'd send your stuff to your parents' house. Oh—and he said he wasn't scared of you, that he had guns."

"Great," Gerry said.

"Funny thing tellin' a cop he's got guns. Sounds like a threat to me. But, lookin' at you, and after the number you did on him...I'm guessin' you'll be back in here soon enough."

Gerry stood, unable to say or do much of anything while the gray-haired policeman laughed at him.

"So, here's one cell phone—I charged it for ya—protect and serve, right? One wallet and a small bottle of Tylenol. Sign here and have a nice day."

Gerry signed the paper, took his things and walked out the door, pulling off his tie and dropping it in the trash on the way. No longer angry, he walked to the bus stop and caught the first one that stopped. He felt nothing as he passed row after row of occupied seat, finally finding an empty one in the back. The smell of sweat and Lysol permeated the vehicle. Buildings passed by in a blur. Cars honked and crowds walked from place to place. When it reached uptown, he got off at the next stop and walked into a package store. He picked up two pints of whiskey and set them on the counter.

"Looks like you need these," the cashier said. "Can I see some ID?"

"Really?" he asked.

The cashier was dumpy and more interested in the television that sat on the counter than her job. She leered at him without saying a word.

Gerry produced his license and paid for the bottles. He opened one and pocketed the other one as he left. He wandered the sidewalk looking like a homeless person, which was in fact what he was. By 11:00 am, the first bottle was gone and he opened the second one. By 1:00 pm, he was sitting inside a New York style pizza place with two huge slices of pepperoni and a warm buzz. People stared at him. The manager questioned one of the cashiers in the background. Gerry listened in, smiling.

"You feed that bum?" the manager asked.

"He paid," the kid said. "He had plenty of money."

"He looks like a bum."

Gerry finished the pizza and emptied the second bottle. The world again had that fuzzy grayness to it that he so enjoyed. Shoving his chair back, he stood up and staggered out the front door, back to the streets.

He walked for a long time, oblivious to anything around him. Thirty minutes of mindless movement turned into an hour when he realized he had been going in one huge circle, passing the same store over and over. He saw a pub that he recognized, the one with the bitter waitress, and went in.

PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF was printed on a sign that stood just inside the doorway. He hadn't noticed it before. Most of the seats were empty. Gerry chose a booth as far from the door as possible. Another waitress was there, bubbly with an attractive smile.

A student, he thought. She hasn't been beat down by life yet.

"Here for lunch?" she said.

"God, you're happy," he said, grimacing. "No thanks, just ate."

"What happened to your face?" she said, and a look of concern washed over her pretty face.

"I'm a boxer," he lied.

"Oh," she said.

He could tell she didn't believe him, but it stopped a conversation he didn't want to have, so he was satisfied.

"Can I get a pitcher of whatever's on draft?"

"Sure. Right back."

Gerry watched her walk, a beautiful thing in his mind. He considered hitting on her, pressing her to see what she would put up with. He was drunk enough to talk big, but still sober enough that he knew it would never go anywhere. Still he could gawk. Women who looked like her didn't have sex with older, out-of-shape drunks. Still, if he offered, she might work him out for a couple hundred bucks. College girls are experimental...and perpetually broke, he thought. If he could just get her alone, he could take what he needed.

He slid further into the bench and kicked his feet up to the other side of the booth. A baseball game played on the TV over the bar and he watched it, zoned out, until she returned. He placed a twenty dollar bill on the table, forgetting all about the proposition he was considering.

"Bring me another pitcher and keep the rest," he said.

"You expecting friends?" she said.

Gerry laughed. "Not any time soon."

The girl smiled, but looked confused. Gerry admired her shape as she walked away. He missed youth, thought about how her taut skin and her toned muscles might feel. How everything was still where it was meant to be. By the time the first pitcher was empty, he was a drunken mess. It wasn't long before the same grumpy, tattooed bartender was walking out to his table.

"I remember you," he said. "No tip."

"Hmm," Gerry replied.

"Tell you what. I'm gonna help you out, buddy. Here's your money back for this pitcher. I think you're done."

Gerry tried to protest, but the pitcher was already gone. He felt the world blinking in and out of focus. Then there was a slap to his face. It stung his broken nose and split lip and sobered him up momentarily.

"No wonder you got your ass beat, buddy. Looks like you just don't know when to quit. I need you to get out of here."

Gerry shook his head.

"I can call someone to escort you."

His eyes widened, unfocused...focused. He saw the bartender was returning an unpleasant, no-nonsense look of his own, and fuzzy as his brain was, he decided it would be best to go ahead and leave. He was sore, and he'd had enough. Gerry took a deep breath, causing a sharp pain in his nose, and tried to stand. His legs proved unreliable. The bartender grabbed him, while the young waitress looked on, still concerned. In one fluid motion, the tattooed man had Gerry propped upright, and was walking him to the door.

"You need to puke?" he asked.

Gerry shook his head, surprised that he didn't.

"You need a cab?"

Gerry nodded, then shook his head remembering he had no place to go.

"I'd suggest pulling up a seat next to Rex over there and taking a nap. You don't wanna end up in jail."

Gerry looked over at Rex, a dark-skinned man with a matted, yellowed beard and a toothless smile. He was waving and saying, "Come on, bruddah. I share my spot."

The bartender took Gerry over to where Rex had his spot set up for the night and dropped him on the bench.

"Take care of him, Rex. I have a feeling you two might be neighbors one day."

Rex smiled his toothless grin. "Neighbors," he said, nodding.

At 7:28 pm, Gerry passed out, his head hung down onto his chest.

*****

An hour or so later, Gerry was sore, his neck locked in that awful position. He groaned as he straightened up. Rex looked at him with a surprised expression and smiled. It was infectious, even if the teeth were rotting, and even if he smelled like shit and body odor.

"T'ought maybe you..." he stopped, pausing to think of how to express himself. Gerry couldn't tell if he was burnt out, drunk or there was a language barrier.

"T'ought maybe you sleep and sleep," Rex continued, and gave a giggle.

Gerry looked at what felt like his older, Jamaican or maybe Haitian reflection. His head was throbbing so he couldn't place the accent of the hunt-and-peck English. The only difference was that his reflection would've been miserable, not happy to be a bum. He pinched his temples to keep them from throbbing.

"You got any booze?" he asked.

"No. Don't drink n'more. Drink what put me out here," he said.

Gerry considered the statement for a moment. "If you don't drink anymore, why are you still out here?"

"Ahh," Rex started, thinking, then continued, "got used to it, I s'pose. Street be my home now. Not so bad."

The door to the pub opened and the young, bubbly waitress walked out with two paper sacks. She smiled and handed them to Rex, who smiled back at her.

"Closing down the kitchen and had leftovers," she said. "You boys stay warm, okay?"

Rex opened the bag and his eyes grew wide. "Thank you, lady. Kindness. Lady have kindness."

Gerry couldn't look at her, not in the eye. He wasn't like the wild haired man he sat next to. He still had a chance. The girl touched Rex on the shoulder, and then she touched him. It lasted a split second, nothing but a gesture of good will and it pissed him off. He was not like Rex at all.

Rex held out one of the two bags and Gerry took it from him. Inside there were three burgers wrapped in foil. They were still warm. He opened one and ate it greedily. Once he felt stable enough to do so, he stood up and walked away from the bench.

"See you," Rex called after him. "See you later, neighbor."

Gerry stumbled once, but got his feet under him. He was angry, frustrated and cold. His life had gone from promise to shit in a matter of minutes. It had escalated, or maybe de-escalated was more precise, to that point. The choice to eat toast and eggs at the diner instead of McDonalds had been all it took to fuck his luck. That whore scammed him, for what? Just to watch her husband kick the crap out of him? Was it some sick fetish they had?

And there was Tinsley.

"That slimy piece of rat-fuck garbage," he said under his breath.

Tinsley lost that job for him. Everything was someone else's fault.

"I'm just trying to get by. Just trying to live my life and not be bothered. Is that so much to ask?" he said to no one, or anyone who might be listening.

His words were slurred, still sounding like a drunken man even hours after his last drink, the combined effects of alcohol and exhausted depression. Gerry pulled the phone out of his pocket. Still blurry-eyed, he had to dial twice as the first try was a wrong number. By the time his mother answered, he was enraged.

He didn't wait for her to speak. As soon as he heard the click interrupt the ringing, he was shouting.

"Your fault. All your fault."

The words were thick, like his tongue didn't quite fit in his mouth.

"Gerry? Gerry, it's late. Did you get the job? I didn't understand you?"

"I said," he paused to take a breath. "I said, 'it's all your fault'."

"I don't know what you mean? Are you drunk? My God, Bill, I think he's drunk," she said.

"I'm more shober than I have ever been."

"Jesus, Gerry. I can't understand you. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Hurt, he thought. What does she know of hurt.

"Fucking right. Everything hurts. I should just...end it so you two can go to Florida, visit Mickey Moush."

Margo was crying on the phone, into the phone and the sound was irritating Gerry's ear.

"Shut up," he said. "Just shut up. All you do is cry. Never help."

There was a scuffling noise as she handed the phone to Bill.

"Is that you, Gerry?" Bill asked.

His voice was harsh, shaking. The anger was obvious.

"It's your fault too," Gerry said.

There was a pause.

Bill sighed. "None of this is my fault. What happened?"

"You shit on me. All my life, everybody shit on me."

"Gerry, get a grip. Drinking, drugs, laziness. That's not anyone's fault. You've given up. You gave up years ago. We've been through all this. You just won't help yourself."

"No. 'S your fault."

"You're pathetic. I've given you every opportunity. Everything I could to make your path easier. Now she's crying. What did you say to my wife?"

The question sounded odd to Gerry. Phrased wrong.

"Don't you mean my mother?"

Bill's breathing in the phone was as steady as if he'd been twenty five years old. Gerry was intimidated, shaken into a clearer state. His body broke out in a cold sweat.

"No. You gave up that right when you quit. When you became this worthless thing. You can't call her mother."

"Fuck you, dad. You don't know. Fuck you."

"You're filthy. You need help," Bill said, completely offended.

Gerry shook his head, holding the phone out to scream into it.

"I have no place, no job, nothing. Your fault. All...your fault!"

He slammed the phone against his thigh as he shouted in the street. The few people who walked the sidewalk stared at him, one crossed the road to avoid confrontation.

"Nothing," Gerry said, falling to his knees.

He put the phone back to his ear and was silent aside from his heavy breathing.

"Are you finished?" Bill said.

"For now," Gerry replied. His words were juicy, filled with tears, his voice scratchy.

"I want you to stay away from us. Do you hear me? I've had enough. From this moment on, you're on your own, completely. Understand?"

Bill's words were curt, harsh and growing in intensity. Gerry's eyes grew wide with each phrase, his stomach churning. He started to pound his free hand on his leg in protest, but listened to each word.

"You won't call. You won't come to this house, and we will give you nothing else until your act is cleaned up. If I hear a word from you, or if you upset my wife again, I will have you arrested."

Gerry was gritting his teeth, grinding the molars in the back of his mouth, tears of anger rolling down his cheeks.

"Your own son? You'd arrest your own son?"

"I have no son," Bill said, then shouted, spacing the words out with wheezing breaths, "I...have...no...son!"

Then he was gone. The line wasn't dead, but he was no longer there. Gerry threw his cell across the street. It hit the ground in a skid and shattered on the opposite curb. The street had cleared and he was alone, save for the occasional passing car. He sat for a time feeling sorry for himself.

With nothing else to do, he started walking. His mood elevated with each step until he was in a full sprint, cursing at top volume. When he couldn't run anymore, he stopped, bent over, hands on his knees and panting, leaning against a bus stop shelter. When he finally caught his breath, he ripped at the poster attached to the outside wall, kicking at the enclosure and finally breaking the plastic sheet that covered it.

Like an animal, he shook the upright, kicked at it some more, and finally put his foot completely through the case where the poster was, tearing a hole in the thick paper. His rampage continued to the trash that sat next to the bus stop. He pulled the plastic can from the metal container and tossed it into the street, just in front of a passing car that slammed on its brakes, slid sideways on the road and crashed into a parked car. At the next corner was a police cruiser with its left blinker flashing. It continued on its turn and the siren chirped, its lights flashing as the owner of the wrecked car stepped out screaming and pointing at Gerry, who was standing on the side of the road.

His chest was heaving, his hands clenching into fists, relaxing, clenching again. His eyes were angry, psycho-wide and red. The officer checked on the owner of the wrecked car before reporting the incident. Finally, he approached Gerry.

"Sir, are you alright? I need you to calm down," he said.

His hand perched just above his sidearm as he walked cautiously toward Gerry. Gerry stood, still panting.

"Can you understand what I am saying?" the officer said.

Gerry nodded, trying to speak. His speech was strained, like a child trying to stop crying after a tantrum.

"I have...nothing...I...have..."

"Slow down," the cop said. "Catch your breath."

"Arrest...me. I...have...nowhere...else..."

Without protest, Gerry went with the policeman, who placed him in the back of the cruiser while he attended to the wrecked vehicle and its driver. The owner of the parked car was located and understandably, angry. After thirty minutes, the cruiser took Gerry back to jail.

Chapter 10

Bill stared at the phone. Margo was crying. He heard her, but his focus was all on that phone, his hatred for it, for the message it had brought him. He was wheezing hard when it started to beep, and then to inform him that he should hang up and try his call again. He puffed on his inhaler and it gave him enough relief that he shifted his focus to his wife, but his breathing was still labored. He sat next to her on the couch.

"Bill, calm yourself. I'll be fine," she said. "You have to get control of your breathing."

"I'm okay," he said, but he wasn't. She could see it in his gray skin and sunken eyes.

"I'll call the doctor. We can go in for a treatment. It'll be like a date," she joked.

Bill smiled weakly and waved her off. "I'm angry, Margo, but I'll be fine. He just got me riled up is all."

"I'll say. You were impressive, sir. Just like old times, always winning my favor. I'd pay you for it right now, but I'm not sure your heart could take the excitement."

"Funny lady," he said, puffing again on his inhaler. "I'm willing if you are."

She laughed, bringing a light back to her face amidst the tears. He held her hand, trying to get ahead of his need for oxygen, but failing for a long time. He was tired, as tired as he'd ever been. He looked at her with longing, affection, seeing a young bride of twenty-two, seeing a doting mother, seeing a wonderful and giving lover, seeing his best friend.

"You stop, Bill. That face is a man giving up. You're no quitter. Let me call the doctor."

He shook his head, his breathing calming, smoothing out. "I'm not ready to go just yet."

"I'm not ready for you to go, not unless I can go with you."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "As long as I go first. I'm a lost cause on my own."

They sat for a moment, his breathing steadily improving. He got a look on his face, like an idea had just occurred to him.

"Maybe I should go, Margo. I could haunt that little bastard."

"That's terrible," she said.

"What's so terrible? Nothing but grief. He's given us nothing but grief for the better part of his life, the part where you were supposed to be a grandmother, and I was supposed to sit in my chair and watch game shows and old westerns."

"You're talking like a crazy person."

Bill laughed. "I feel crazy. Let's do it. We'll off ourselves like that damn Thelma and Louise, out in a blaze of stupid glory, and we can come back and haunt his ass until the end of his days."

"Bill?"

He settled down, staring into space. "Silly thought, I guess."

Margo tried to find that same place in space, but her eyebrows furrowed and her lips puckered showing the tiny, radial age lines around them. He raised his eyebrows and slowly looked over at her.

"What's that face for? That's your thinking face," he said.

She turned to him, touching her index fingers together, then to her chin, thinking some more. She placed her hand on his leg and scooted a little closer.

"Oh Bill, what if the end is just that?"

"What?"

"The end."

He sighed.

"Shit Margo, either way, we'd be off the hook. I look at it like this. If we get into heaven, it'll be grand. I figure we're already in hell. But, if we get to hang around here and torture the little turd, it'll be grand as well. And if the candle just winks out...well, that'll just be some well-deserved peace."

The last part jolted her, but only for a second. She straightened.

"You might be right," she said.

"So how you wanna do it, you know, hypothetically?"

"No guns. Hate guns."

"Pills?" he asked.

"We take forty pills a day between us. What's another bottle or two gonna do?"

"True," Bill agreed.

"We could cut our wrists," Margo suggested.

Bill shook his head, but his face showed excitement, as if they were on an epic adventure, looking for the answer to some cosmic puzzle.

"The last doc who tried to take my blood had to stick me seven times. I'm not sure I could cut my own vein. If I did, dust might just pour out," he said.

"What about carbon monoxide? Head in the oven? We could go nap in a freezer, drown ourselves in the lake. Or maybe jump off a building? What about hanging?"

"Christ, Margo, you are one dark, old woman. I love you."

"I love you too, Bill. That's why I've thought of so many ways to kill you."

They shared a laugh.

"Hanging seems a little Old West. A little barbaric," he said, and then his eyes gleamed. "What about sexual asphyxia?"

"Oh, honey, I've always wanted to try that."

"Really?" he said, smiling.

"Yep."

"Huh. Learn something new every day."

"You should've been paying better attention," Margo said.

She gave him a wink and they laughed again, starting his cough back up. He kept laughing despite the hack, his inhaler finally taking hold.

"Okay, enough talk of suicide. It's morbid," Bill said.

"Agreed. Besides, your breathing has calmed down. I might get to keep you for a few more days."

"See," he said, smiling, his eyes weak with deep dark circles beneath them. "I told you I was okay. Need to rest up a little so I can get these old bones to bed."

"If you say so."

"I do. Tomorrow is another day, Margo. Another day."

"I do hope so," she said.

They looked at each other for a long time, minutes of staring, studying and remembering. Decades of understanding passing between them without a word. Her frail hand in his, her head laying over on the cushioned back of the couch. She ran her other hand through the sparse silk strands of his hair and smiled at him. He closed his eyes, soaking in every single moment and smiled back, sighing with pure, contented joy. Bill never opened his eyes again.

Margo knew the second he was gone, but she sat with him anyway. She stroked his hair and held his hand, her grip compensating for his as he let go, slipping away. She hummed a song, then sang a bit, and then hummed some more. It was a hymn, one she had always loved.

"Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee," she sang, barely audible.

She didn't shed a tear, but smiled, knowing he was no longer in pain, and she prayed for his safe passage.

An hour later, Margo kissed Bill on his thin lips. She positioned his body on the couch so he would look more comfortable, as if he was only sleeping. She called for an ambulance and over the next few hours, he was attended to, the funeral home was contacted, and the body taken for preparation. Somewhere around 3:00 am, on the same couch were Bill passed, Margo went to sleep.

Chapter 11

The jail was quiet, almost empty as if all criminal activity was on hiatus and, as a result, the gym locker smell was faint. Gerry watched a small brown spider cross the concrete ceiling above his head. It moved fluidly in its alien way, stopping to investigate a crack in the surface, and continuing on. He was sprawled across one of the benches, one knee up, one foot on the bench, the other on the floor. Losing interest in the spider, he looked around, bored.

One other inmate shared the holding tank with him, a younger man, dark skinned with wide, deep brown eyes. He looked quite frightened. Gerry stared at him, wondering why, in two hours of being roommates, they had yet to speak.

"First time?" Gerry asked.

They young man stared at him with wide, bulging eyes and shook his head left and right with quick, jerky motions. Gerry knew he wasn't answering the question, but pleading to be left alone.

"It's not all that bad," Gerry said. "What'd you do? DUI? Maybe you're a rapist?"

The man looked at him with a pale face, horror in his eyes.

"Not murder? Really?" Gerry continued, joking with the man.

At that point, he realized his cellmate might not speak English.

"Didn't picture you as a killer. I'm honored to meet ya, uh, what's your name?"

Silence.

"You look Indian. You from India?"

Silence. His eyes showed a glint of recognition, but still he didn't speak. He only watched Gerry.

"How about I call ya Chief?"

He stood up and bowed, causing the frightened man to jerk, and then went back to watching his spider which was most of the way to the opposite wall, not more than a tiny dot floating across the ceiling. He thought about his other visits to jail: several times he'd used it as a place to crash, seeking out cops when he was drunk, just so they'd take him in.

He'd raped a girl once, maybe more, but he was never caught. He even killed a man in a fight once. At least he thought he had. There were no real memories, only flashes of the argument, flashes of a fistfight in a dimly lit, dirt lot behind an abandoned building. He didn't remember why he was there, exactly where he was, or what they were arguing over. Best he could figure, the man was homeless and had simply rubbed his fur the wrong direction.

Gerry also had flashes of a knife, one he used to carry for just such occasions, back when he was heavy into drugs. When he came to hours later, and some distance from where the fight had broken out, he was covered in blood. He must have walked for some time, and maybe passed out on a public bench along the river bank. He had rinsed his hands and taken his button down shirt off and thrown it in the water, and he had made it back to his apartment in the cold wearing only his T-shirt. He hadn't been caught for that either.

Chief sighed quietly, and his tense shoulders slumped into a more comfortable looking pose. Gerry ignored him for a minute, watching the spider again; it had made it halfway down the opposite wall. A grin sprouted from one corner of Gerry's mouth.

He stood up and took a step toward Chief, just enough to make him flinch again. Gerry laughed. In a small show of power, he walked over and crushed the spider, leaving it smeared on the pale gray concrete, all the while staring at his cellmate.

"Sheffield?" the guard said, walking down the hallway and ending at the cell door, peeking in.

Chief sat there, equally horrified at the uniformed man, his eyes dark and drawn upward, like a puppy pleading for a treat.

"You ain't Sheffield. Sheffield?" the guard repeated, tapping on the bars with his pen.

Gerry walked around from behind the bunks and stood next to Chief. He looked at the guard without speaking, just stared. The guard nodded, pointed at him with his pen and looked down at a sheet of paper.

"Hearing, this coming Monday. Looks like you're up for drunk and disorderly, destruction of public property and blah blah blah. Get comfortable, unless you got bail money. But somethin' tells me you don't."

"Is there no privacy in here?" Gerry said, sarcastically.

"Hell, he don't know what I'm sayin'."

They both looked at Chief, then the guard looked back at Gerry.

"You hungry? I'll have somebody bring you guys something."

He stood there staring at them for a few more seconds. Neither responded. The scared Chief mumbled something in a language neither of the other two men understood. The guard shrugged and walked away.

"Get some rest," he said as he disappeared down the hallway.

"Where are you from?" Gerry asked as he slid to the other side of the bench.

Chief held his silence, turning his head slightly away, but still watching from the corner of his eye. He looked like a frightened, cornered animal.

"Fair enough."

A few minutes later, a uniformed policeman showed up with a box that had two leftover doughnuts in it. The same doughnuts, no doubt, they had eaten that morning with their coffee, maybe even the day before. The cop picked one up and took a bite out of it, grimaced, and leaned over, dropping the box on the floor just outside the cell door. There were two bottles of water inside as well, and they fell over upon impact.

"Bon apetit," the guard said and wiped the crusty glaze of sugar from his mustache.

Gerry moved to the bars. He wiped his hands on his pant legs and grabbed the unbitten doughnut and bottle of water. He didn't offer anything to Chief, but instead went directly back to his corner and devoured it in a couple bites. His cell mate never moved from his seat. Within minutes of eating, Gerry was asleep on the bench.

*****

The cop with the mustache banged on the cell door, waking Gerry and some new inmate, young and angry looking, who wasn't there when Gerry went to sleep. It startled Chief, who made a sound like a squeaking rat. Chief put his hand to his chest as if trying to catch his heart before it burst out. His head jerked, almost imperceptibly, from Gerry to the new inmate and back, keeping tabs on both.

"Sheffield?"

"What?" Gerry said with as much bitterness as he could.

"You know a William Gerald Sheffield Sr.?"

Gerry shifted slightly to get a better look at the guard.

"Says in the obituaries he died of natural causes. Gonna be cremated. Says he was survived by a Margaret Sheffield, spouse, and a William Gerald Sheffield Jr., son. Same name as you. Zat you?"

It had to be, Gerry thought. He put his hands behind his head and rested it on them while looking at the ceiling.

"Old man finally croaked, I guess," he said without emotion or expression. "And?"

The cop looked shocked by the question, or rather by the manner in which it was delivered.

"And, I don't know. Guess you two weren't close?"

"Practically Siamese twins."

"Okay, alright," the cop said. "Didn't know if you might want to call someone, maybe someone might be lookin' for you."

"Isn't it your job to keep the peace? You make it a habit of trying to upset the inmates, do you?"

The cop stared at him with a disgusted look.

"No. I just thought you might want to know. If you didn't already, that is."

He shoved the paper through the bars, waiting for Gerry to grab it. Gerry didn't look at him, didn't react at all, even as the man walked away, dropping the newspaper on the floor. He didn't look at his other cell mates either, didn't care what they thought or how they felt about the loss of his father. Not his father.

I have no father, he thought. Just some old man who died.

"Then there's no need for me to be upset, is there," he muttered.

He didn't feel any specific way about the news. It wasn't relief, nor sadness that he felt. Just emptiness. The emptiness made him angry. It was a hole where there should have been something, anything. All he wanted was a drink. Maybe two. Or ten. He punched the wall with the side of his fist, angry that the news got to him on some level. His old man hadn't suffered enough in his opinion. There was illness and the inconvenience of old age, but Gerry hadn't been able to cause the suffering he had planned. He punched the wall again. The new inmate laughed, a short, simple exhale through his nose.

"Something funny?" Gerry asked.

He didn't answer, but stared at Gerry, who wasn't looking back, with a taunting smirk, either unafraid, or at least not showing fear. He moved a lock of blond hair out of his eyes and back over his left ear.

Gerry sat up, having a brief flash of opportunity. He stood and looked at Chief. Then he got his first good look at the other prisoner, a punk kid of about twenty with an outdated haircut and pants that sat too low on non-existent hips. He picked up the paper and tucked it under his arm to read later, maybe wipe his ass with.

Jacked a car, Gerry thought. Or maybe he had a domestic dispute with his sixteen-year-old wife and her other baby daddy.

"You know what I'm gonna do?" he asked.

Chief shook his head, again indicating he wished to be left alone. The punk kid sneered at him, trying to maintain his tough visage. Gerry moved his gaze from one set of eyes to the other.

"I'm gonna get out of here and get a hotel room."

He stepped up on the bench and looked down at them.

"I'm gonna stock up on beer and liquor, maybe find something a little harder, Chief. Firewater, right?"

Punk kid chuckled. "He ain't that kind of Indian."

Gerry ignored him, stepping down and sat next to the punk kid, placing one hand on his shoulder, and with the other hand, he gestured to the distance, like he was visualizing a new monument or describing a future hotel casino to an investor.

"Then, I'm gonna find a young woman, even if I have to pay her, and I'm going to violate her in that hotel room in every way she'll let me, and some she won't."

He sat there and smiled. Chief closed his eyes and kept shaking his head. The punk kid nodded.

"After that?" he said.

Gerry smirked.

"Thought you might ask."

The kid gave a sniff, a sort of laugh he probably thought was cool. "So?" he said.

"After that?" Gerry repeated. "Let's see. Then, I'm gonna move into my dead father's house, and put his widow bitch in a home. After that, I'm going to find another young girl and..."

He paused, looked the punk in the eyes before finishing, "and ruin her."

His face was unflinching, his eyes hollow and dark, no soul in sight. He stared at the kid with a look that said any more fucking questions?

"Nice," the punk kid said, but his voice shook and his face lost its stone quality. He swallowed hard, giving insight into his heart.

He hits girls, Gerry thought. But he feels bad about it.

Gerry noticed the swallow, and in that instant, he knew the kid had a heart that beat with warmth and compassion under the hardened exterior. In that same moment he also knew his own heart was shriveling and retreating deeper into a place that was dark, and a place that would always take the easiest route from point A to point B. Those facts didn't bother him.

He patted the punk kid on the shoulder, taking joy from the sickened look the kid had on his face, the shudder that he sensed as he gripped the kid in a quick, side-armed hug. Then he considered hugging Chief, but thought he was already close to cardiac arrest, and that whatever crime he was in there for, he'd learned his lesson.

"You illegal? Is that it?" he asked to no response.

Gerry stood up and walked toward the door.

"Guard!" he shouted.

He pressed his face up against the bars of the holding cell door.

"Yo! Guard!"

"What...what is it? You find a soul in there someplace?" the cop with the mustache said.

Gerry forced a fake, "Ha ha."

"I just wanna make a phone call. Like you suggested. Can't I get a phone call?"

"To who?"

"Just a phone call, can you just let me..."

Mustache interrupted, "Tell me who you want to call and I might help you. A lawyer, a shrink, maybe a wife or girlfriend?"

Gerry smiled, and calmly said, "I want to call my mother and extend my condolences. She's heartbroken right now, I know she is. Dad and I never got along, but she shouldn't suffer any more than she has to, right?"

Mustache looked at him, even squinted as if he was trying to read truth or bullshit on Gerry's face. He keyed the lock, and paused before he opened the door.

"You make me regret this and I'll find a deep, slimy hole to store you in."

Gerry thought about the deceased spider that was still stuck to the wall. He wondered a moment if it might have still been alive, crying out in its little spider voice.

"Just a phone call."

He smiled at the punk kid, who was not smiling back, as he left the cell.

Chapter 12

When the phone rang, Margo was in mid prayer. She hadn't been inside a church in ages, but she read her Bible daily and prayed often. She was asking for strength to go on without her dear husband, and for her son to find a safe path into her God's glory. On the second ring, she opened her eyes. At the third ring, she picked up the handset.

"Hello," she said, weakly.

"Ma?" Gerry said.

Her heart sank. He was the last thing she wanted to worry about. She didn't want to fight, didn't have the energy. She didn't even want to speak to him.

"Hello, Gerry," she managed.

"I heard about Dad."

His voice was calm, almost melancholy. Maybe he was truly upset. Could it be that something good might come from Bill's passing? The thought gave her some hope and she sighed.

"Yes, in his sleep, thankfully."

"I'm sorry," Gerry said.

"I am too."

There was a long silence between them. Margo twisted the bottom of her pink shirt, looking into space, barely aware she was on the phone. She noticed that the picture from their wedding, the one that sat on the right of their fireplace mantel, was facedown. She stood instinctively to check it, but the phone cord tethered her to her seat, and she was again aware of the conversation with her son. She put her free hand over her eyes.

"Gerry, where are you?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

Her heart wasn't behind the question. It was just a question mothers asked.

"No, Ma. I'm in jail."

The words didn't sink in right away.

"Okay," she said.

"I said 'I'm in jail'."

Margo wasn't listening. Her forehead was wrinkled, her brow crossed, she was looking at the picture frame that was lying face-down on the mantel.

"Ma?" Gerry said. His voice growing tense, as if he was tiring.

"I'm sorry. What were you saying?" she asked, turning from the fireplace to block it out.

"I said I'm in jail, Ma. I need money."

Money, she thought. Always money.

"Why? Didn't your father..." she stopped, cupping a hand to her mouth and attempting to hold back the urge to cry. It didn't work.

"Didn't he what?" Gerry said, a nasty hiss to his words. "Didn't he shit on me? Didn't he deny me help when I asked for it?"

"He did no such thing," Margo said, anger overpowering her sadness. She was offended. "He gave you everything. You're the one who shit on him."

Her words were calculated, not shouted out of control, but cool and smooth, with a commanding edge.

Gerry had no such control, and he bellowed into her ear, "I'm coming home, Ma. When I get out of this tank on Monday, I'm coming home to take the house. It's mine. Five days. That house and everything else that's in it. You'll be in your own jail where you can rot."

"I'll call the police," she said.

"I'm with the cops. You wanna tell them now? Who's gonna believe an old woman?"

"Gerry," she said, shocked.

"I'll see you soon," he said. "May as well pack your suitcase, Ma. I'll be moving you outta there and takin' the place over. Don't think I won't do it. No matter what it takes."

She sat, stunned, listening. She couldn't speak anymore as he ranted, couldn't believe the words, the hatred. She tried to put her focus someplace else, anywhere. Thankfully, there was another voice in the background.

"Hey! Hey, stop that. You can't threaten...your own mother. Give me that phone."

The other voice was the mustached officer, shouting, wrestling the phone from Gerry. They argued, and Margo removed the phone from her ear, setting it on the end table, but not hanging up. Her gaze was again fixed on the fallen picture frame. She stood and walked to the fireplace, passing Bill's chair, glancing at it quickly. When she reached the picture, she righted it, looking at herself some forty-odd years ago in a wedding dress. Bill, in his tuxedo, stood upright, proud, with clear eyes and a full head of hair.

"So handsome," she whispered, her eyes spilling tears.

She wiped her hand across it, and placed a finger right on his face.

"You trying to tell me something, Bill?" she asked.

In the background, she heard a voice on the phone. It was faint, but it sounded different, not Gerry's.

"Ma'am? Mrs. Sheffield? Ma'am, I wanna apologize for that outburst. I had no idea he was gonna say anything like that. Ma'am? Look, I'm sorry for your loss," the voice said.

She ignored it and carried the framed picture against her heart, walking back by Bill's chair toward the kitchen, stopping to hang the phone up. Once in the kitchen, she sat the picture on the table, propping the frame up on its stand and situating it where Bill normally sat. She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine, then to the cabinet where the glasses were and retrieved a pair of stemmed glasses, pouring a small amount in one glass.

"What to do about that one, Bill? That was always your area, you had the guts to deal with him and his antics."

She poured an equal amount into the second glass.

"He's caused so much trouble, Bill. So much we know about. I hate thinkin' about the things we don't know about."

Behind her there was a loud click.

When she turned, the picture frame was down again, this time facing up. Margo put her hand to her chest in a surprised pose. She looked around the room, back into the living room. She walked to the door in the kitchen and checked it was securely shut. She then checked the window over the sink. It was also closed.

She looked back over her shoulder at the picture frame and shook her head, eyes closed.

"Just that old frame. Must be wobbly. Just a wobbly coincidence," she said.

She picked up the wine glasses, swirling the liquid inside before delivering them to the table with caution. One, she placed in front of Bill's chair, just next to the picture. She flipped the frame one hundred and eighty degrees so she could see it, but left it flat so it wouldn't fall again. Margo sipped her wine and stared at the other glass.

"I'd like to propose a toast," she said.

She held her glass up.

"To doing the best we could with what we had."

She clinked it against Bill's glass, smiling and closing her eyes. A tear fell and rolled down her cheek.

"If you're still here, Bill..." she paused, looking around the room, then back at the glass and the photo.

"If you're still here, I'd like for you to hang around for a while. Just until I've figured out how to move forward."

She downed the last swallow of wine in her glass. It felt like the medicine she'd always needed. After a long moment with her eyes shut, Margo shrugged and drank Bill's as well.

"I don't know how I'll do it, especially if you're going to be knocking things over around here," she said. "I'd just feel better if I still had that feeling you were looking after me, like you always did."

She rinsed the glasses, adding a drop of soap to each and cleaning them by hand. She watched out the window as the darkness settled in and dried them with a dishtowel. They fit back in the place in the cabinet that she had removed them from moments ago, his and hers glasses amongst many other pairs of matching items. Everything in the house seemed to have its mate, matched to the two of them. She was the only outcast.

In the next cabinet, she pulled out a handful of pill bottles, popping off the lid from each, spilling a tiny pile of colorful shapes into her hand and taking them with water from the sink. She placed them back into the cabinet next to a box of sleeping pills which she picked up and handled momentarily and then set back down.

"Who am I kidding, I'm exhausted."

Margo went to her bedroom. She stood in the doorway for a long time and stared at the bed. There was a stack of paperwork at the foot of the bed, where a dog might sleep. It was all the documentation from the funeral home, the signed papers for the funeral. It was all set for that next afternoon. Cremation information. Counseling information. Information for any donations to be given to the study of lung cancer. More paperwork for her to fill out when all that was done.

Beyond the bed, there was a dresser full of Bill's clothes. His old watch and a lined hat he wore outside in the winter lay next to his back-up glasses. He wore those when he used to work outside, or in his woodshop in the back of the garage. Those glasses hadn't moved since he'd been diagnosed over two years ago. She had no idea what to do with his things, if she had to do anything with them, or if she wanted to do anything with them.

With a sigh, Margo crossed the bedroom's threshold and gathered the papers into a pile, which she moved to her nightstand. She undressed and put on her night gown, a gift from Bill that past Christmas.

You're sexy, he'd said. Fresh as a new bride. I can't keep my eyes off of you.

She put her hand to her mouth and sobbed for a moment, sitting on the edge of her bed. When she lay down to sleep, she hugged his pillow, but faced away from his side, and cried until the sandman came to give her a moment of peace.

There was little peace in her sleep. Margo tossed, babbling and thrashing in the bed, dreaming of Gerry and of that last phone call.

"In a home. I'll put you in a home and no one will care. You'll rot in there, alone and stinking of your own sweat and urine," his dream voice said.

She rolled over, taking the pillow with her, kicking the covers onto the floor. In her mind, she was in the house alone when Gerry kicked in the kitchen door, cornering her. He was menacing, dark and unclean, threatening her and keeping her trapped. Bill was behind him, tiny in the vision, struggling to get to her and protect her, but he couldn't get around the monstrous version of his son. Holding Bill back, Gerry kicked him and swatted at him like an insect while Margo fought to get to her husband, all while Bill screamed in agony. Gerry laughed, cackling with a low guttural voice. His chest heaved. He had broad shoulders and was heavily muscled, a nightmare version of her son, a comic interpretation of the evil thing she thought him to be.

She screamed at him, reaching her hands out to Bill, trying to pull him away from Gerry, out of his grasp so he would be next to her, protecting her, but Gerry was too strong, too large. He seemed to grow larger with each passing moment, his eyes bloodshot and angry, his unshaven face shadowed, his breath hot. He loomed over her like a wicked, leafless tree, lowering its branches to grab her. His face was inches from hers, growling with each exhale. He gripped her, his hand surrounding her entire form as if she was a doll.

He shit on me, the Gerry thing said, its teeth dripping. Now I'm going to shit on you.

She woke, sweating, clinging to the pillow, and sat up in the bed. Margo let out a scream of frustration, a short burst of shrill, powerful energy.

"Damn you!" she shouted.

As she started to cry again, she said, "damn you."

She remembered the box of sleeping pills in the cabinet and stood up, marching out of the room to the kitchen. Margo flipped the light switch as she walked into the room, passing the table and putting a hand on the cabinet door where the medicine was stored, but something stopped her.

"Was it?" she said.

She knew...she'd seen out of the corner of her eye, that the picture was upright again. But she was tired, stressed out from the dream. It could have been a remnant of something, or just her eyes, still blurred from sleeping. She couldn't move, neither to turn around and find out for certain, nor to open the cabinet door. Margo grabbed the cabinet door handle for stability as her legs felt weak. She closed her eyes and lowered her head for a deep breath.

When she opened them, she also opened the cabinet and grabbed the sleeping pills. She pushed one through the foil backing and popped it into her mouth, swallowing it dry. Shoving the box back in amongst the other medicines, she closed the cabinet, laying her hand flat against it as if trying to keep something from escaping. With another breath, Margo spun around to face the table.

The picture was as she thought: upright, propped by the frame's stand. She and Bill stood hand in hand on their wedding day, smiling and young. Margo clamped both hands, crisscrossed to her mouth and gasped. She began to laugh, relief and joy wrapping her in a warm hug.

"Tomorrow's another day, Bill."

When she went back to sleep, she rested until morning.

Chapter 13

On Saturday, the viewing was brief. Neighbors and a few of Bill's old coworkers came, giving Margo the appropriate condolences and hugging her awkwardly. She watched them come and go, but she wasn't sad. Many things were right about the day and the ceremony. Bill was dressed in his best suit, looking a healthy color instead of the sickly gray she'd grown used to in his last few months. And her son was in jail, even if it was only temporary.

She stared at him for a long time, stroking his hand after the others had filed out. When they were alone, she leaned down to his body.

"I'll miss these hands," she said.

"Mrs. Sheffield?" a voice said from the back of the room.

She stood, feeling embarrassed for some reason, and turned to face one of the ushers who worked for the parlor. She nodded, giving him a raised-eyebrow, open-mouthed look.

"You take all the time you need, ma'am. And if you need anything at all..."

She nodded and the young man gave her a smile. It was a textbook smile. Such a perfectly practiced compassion wrapped in the kind of suit she thought they must issue morticians and the like. She wondered if he felt anything at all dealing with the dead all the time. Or if maybe he knew if spirits roamed the earth knocking over pictures and such. When he was gone, she looked back at Bill.

"I know you're still hanging around. Probably outside watching all your friends drive away. So many folks came to say goodbye."

She rubbed his hands again and leaned down to kiss him.

You aren't warm, she thought. The last time I kissed you, you were gone, but still warm.

The feeling made her frown.

"I'm going home now, Bill. I hope you'll do the same and meet me there?"

After another pat on his folded hands, she wandered to the back of the room, through the double doors and out into the main hall of the building. The young man was there, immediately morphing into his act of sullen understanding. He approached her swiftly.

"Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?"

"No, no thank you. Everyone has been so kind to me."

He nodded. "The limousine will take you to the service. It is waiting just outside."

"Thank you, son."

The word, son, felt strange in her mouth. It sat in her mind as she passed through the exit and even until she was seated in the long, charcoal gray car. It set off a spark in her mind, recalling the dream of her Gerry, dripping teeth and threatening, saying those awful things to her. She looked out the window, worriedly, at the passing landscape and held a gloved hand just below her nose.

Margo listened as the minister read passages and rattled off tired anecdotes. She'd heard them all. At seventy years of age, she had attended many a funeral. Her husband's was no different, and her mourning would take place in private, not in front of a crowd, not because of some token ritual. Two things weighed on her mind. Gerry's phone call, and the possibility that Bill wasn't entirely gone from this Earth. She began to anticipate the ride home, and getting past the unpleasant well-wishes and further condolences, past the delivery of casserole dishes and baked goods. She wanted to be alone to investigate. To test their wedding photo, which still stood on the kitchen table as she left that morning.

An hour later, Margo stepped out of the car at the end of her driveway. A few others pulled up behind as the limousine driver offered to help her to the house.

"No thank you. I'm fine," she said, shooing him.

A pair of rather large, cardboard boxes sat on her front porch. She looked at them, wondering what they might be, then glanced back at the approaching guests. Stepping up onto the porch, she read the address. The boxes were indeed intended for her, although addressed to Bill and Margaret Sheffield. She nudged the larger of the two with her foot. It had weight, but moved with relative ease.

A young man, maybe sixteen years old, stepped up behind her. He looked back at his parents, his father a former coworker of Bill's, and shrugged. The man and woman both nodded, prodding him to offer assistance to a woman he'd never met.

"Ma'am?" he said.

She turned, startled. "Well, hello there," she said, trying to sound sweet, trying to smile.

"May I help? I could carry those inside for you."

She looked down at the odd packages, staring for a moment too long, as his parents reached the bottom of the three steps that led to her front door. Margo nodded, pulling her keys from the small clutch she had carried to the service.

"Yes, thank you. So nice of you to offer," she said.

She unlocked the door, holding it open for the boy who grabbed the larger of the two boxes. His father picked up the smaller one and followed him into the house.

"Put them there, to your right, in front of the fireplace."

The boy's mother, with whom Margo was unfamiliar, smiled, following with a pan of some sort of bread or cake. Another family followed behind her, and an older couple behind them. More cars parked along the street, careful not to block driveways or hydrants, and before long there was a line of suits and dark, conservative dresses. Margo stayed on the porch to greet each of them, becoming more and more nervous.

Rushing into the kitchen, she confronted a pair of women, one she recognized as Linda Sewell, a friend from church. The other was unfamiliar. They put on faces of concern.

"Margo, I'm going to miss Bill so much," Linda said.

Margo looked at the table, and the counters. Each covered with pans and trays and dishes sealed in plastic wrap. She felt her heart drop. Her lip quivered.

"Where is it?" she asked.

"Where is what, dear?" Linda replied, looking around.

The other woman looked around as well, and someone else walked in, placing a Rubbermaid bowl with a red lid on the table. Margo moved to the table, her head bobbing and weaving like a boxer, trying to find the photograph. She was frantic, her pulse racing.

"Margo? What are you looking for?" Linda asked again.

"A photograph. It was in a frame, me and Bill on our wedding day."

The women stared at her, and scanned the small room.

"Where was it?" Linda asked.

Margo looked at her, poison in her eyes. "It was on the table when I left this morning. I put it there so I could..."

The other woman left the kitchen, presumably to check the living room for the photo.

"So I could speak with him," she finished.

Linda put a hand to her heart and approached, putting the same hand on Margo's shoulder. Her face was a combination of emotions.

"Maybe you carried it with you, into the bedroom or somewhere else you went this morning?"

Her eyes were hopeful. Margo was not having any of it. She knew where it had been. Her mind was not clouded, she hadn't made a mistake. She hadn't dreamed it, misplaced it, or forgotten it elsewhere. Just then, the other woman—the one she hadn't recognized before—entered the kitchen.

"Is this the one, Mrs. Sheffield?" she asked.

In her hand was the framed photo, the very one. She held it out for Margo to inspect, and inspect it she did, snatching it from her hand. She looked at the stranger with contempt, with how-dare-you-touch-that eyes.

"Where did you find it?" she hissed.

The woman cocked her head, obviously hurt, but trying to be understanding. She pointed through the open doorway, toward the fireplace. Margo's eyes followed. She immediately knew where it had been, and how it had gotten there. She looked back at the framed image.

"It was on the mantel, the end on the right side," she said.

Margo hugged the picture and sighed, feeling sorry and embarrassed. She set the picture down carefully as the other women watched, neither knowing what they should do next. The widow reached both gloved hands up and hugged the woman, causing her eyes to widen with shock, then soften.

"I must apologize," Margo said. "I didn't mean..."

"I completely understand," the stranger said. "If something happened to my Roger, I'd just be lost."

Margo nodded, satisfied with the statement, although she wasn't lost. She just hadn't expected a ghost to be moving her things about. But she wasn't about to explain it that way. It might have been better that those people paid their respects and left her thinking she was just a confused woman, grieving and not completely clear headed. She picked up the picture and carried it back to the mantel, placing it in its spot marked by dust.

It wasn't long before the visitors were gone and Margo was left alone in the house with too much food, and two boxes that sat in front of the fireplace. She sat on the couch, staring at them, unsure what to do.

Maybe Bill will know, she thought.

"Did you order something?" she asked, looking at the picture. "What are they?"

She stood up and walked to the hearth and sat down next to the largest box, running a hand over the brown surface. In her periphery, something moved. A shadow, maybe a flash of light reflected off the window. She stood and looked quickly back at the photograph. It was still where she had left it.

"Maybe I am crazy," she said. "Just nuts, wishful thinking."

She walked to the kitchen for a pair of scissors, and returned with them in hand. Kneeling next to the larger box, she sliced through the brown tape and pulled the flaps up. The inside was half full of clothing, another box filled the rest. A folded piece of paper lay on top. She opened it and skimmed through the handwritten note.

Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield,

I'm sorry to have to do this, but due to a recent altercation, I have evicted your son. I have also placed a restraining order on him and he is forbidden to enter the apartment complex. These are his belongings, if you would please get them back to him.

Regards, Duane Tinsley.

She folded the note back and set it in the box, folding the flaps back into place. Their presence filled her with a new dread, another reason Gerry might come for a visit. She wished at that moment she'd had them placed in the garage or in the spare bedroom, the one Gerry used to sleep in. She set about dragging them back there to get them out of sight.

His old room was stacked with items she'd meant to go through for years. There was plenty of room for the boxes. After the second trip, she closed the door and looked down at her shoes. Dress shoes, she thought. Perfect for manual labor. It dawned on her that she still wore the funeral dress, the pearls, and the black gloves.

Stepping into her room, she took the clothes off, hanging the dress and placing the shoes carefully in her closet floor. She pulled on some comfortable pants and a sweater and moved to her dresser to place her necklace and earrings in her jewelry box. In the reflection, she caught sight of the glasses and of Bill's other things. But there was something else there. There was a faint outline of a man, standing and watching. Margo stood motionless, looking, trying to make the mist come into focus, willing Bill's apparition to be there. He always stood and watched her as she changed clothes, put on her makeup, fixed her hair. He was amazed by the process, and often told her so.

She was afraid to turn around and look at him directly, terrified he wouldn't be there if she did, but when she gained enough courage and moved, he was still there. The outline floated there, undulating slightly, like a heat mirage. It was barely visible, but the stance was correct. Not the hunched over Bill, but a younger, straightened out version possessing all of its strength.

Margo felt her eyes grow wet, and couldn't speak, but a wide smile spread across her lips. It appeared as if the spirit was also smiling. There was slight movement where its cheeks would have been, bulging outward and upward.

"Is that you?" she whispered.

The apparition dissolved before her eyes. She gasped and stomped a foot.

"William Sheffield, you make yourself known!"

Her eyes darted from place to place, looking for another sign of him.

"Don't toy with me," she muttered.

She started out of the room, but before she finished the first step, the air grew thin, and the wisps of hair on her neck and arms stood on end. A sound built slowly in the room, like a reverberation played in reverse and she heard a clicking sound...and another. Then the words, faintly as faint could be, "I'm here."

"Oh my God. Dear God," she whispered.

She sat on the bed, hands clasped on her lap.

"Where are you?" she asked.

There was a scraping sound behind her followed by a soft thud, and she turned toward it. The watch had fallen from the dresser. It lay on the carpet, face down.

"Knock on the dresser if you're still there."

A faint tapping sound came from the dresser. She stood and moved to the piece of furniture.

"Do it again."

Another tap came from the opposite end of where she stood. She took a step toward the sound.

"Again," she said, smiling.

Her smile widened as the tap came once more, and she moved into a cool spot between the bed and dresser, and again her hair stood. An electric tingle moved through her and around her, like a buildup of static just before touching the doorknob. Margo hugged herself as if she'd just stretched and stepped into a ray of warming sun.

"I want to talk to you, Bill. Can't you speak?"

He tapped the dresser again.

"Once for yes, twice for no."

He tapped once.

"Can you speak."

There was a pause, and for a moment, she thought he was gone, but there were two taps. Margo let out a held breath.

"Is it too difficult to speak?"

Tap.

"Are you in any pain?"

Tap tap.

"Are you in heaven?"

There was a pause, as if thinking about the answer. Then, Tap tap.

"Do you know where you are?"

Tap tap.

"Are you frightened?"

Tap tap.

"Are you lost?"

Tap tap.

"How long can you stay, do you know?"

Tap tap.

"I miss you. I love you."

Tap. Then a pause. Tap.

The tingle whirled around her like a small tornado, and it made her giggle like a school-aged girl. Like the first time he'd told her he loved her. She beamed, her eyes glossy with joyous tears. He was dead, but he still loved her. She wanted to dance, even in the crappy circumstances. Margo did her own single tap on the dresser, showing her approval.

Concern crept back onto her face, aging her again.

"Bill..." she started, but paused, trying to find the words. "Bill, did it hurt when you died?"

Tap tap.

"Is it what you thought it would be?"

Tap tap.

"No. No I guess there's no way to know, is there?"

Tap tap.

"I have an idea. Can you follow me?"

Tap.

She nodded, then, with reluctance, stepped outside of the cold spot, moving quickly to the spare bedroom. She ignored the boxes that had been delivered that day, but instead moved to a cabinet in the opposite corner. Opening the door, it revealed a mess of papers and unfinished crafts. On the top shelf, at the end of her reach, there were some board games, things they used to play often, before Bill's cancer had taken hold. She pulled down the box labeled, "Scrabble", and tucked it under her arm without closing the door.

In the kitchen, she set the box down, and went to the living room to retrieve the wedding photo. Back in the kitchen, she put the photo next to one chair, and sat in the other, opening the game.

"I just want to have something to look at while I talk to you," she said.

She disregarded the game board and dumped out the lettered tiles on the table top, arranging them all so they faced upward, and pulled the few blank ones out. Margo tossed those back into the box. Looking at her handy work, she smiled and let out a satisfied sigh.

"Now, can you move these?"

Silence. She waited for something, anything to happen. She waited for the hairs on her neck to stand again, for the tingly feeling in her belly and along her arms.

"Bill?"

Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours.

"I'm crazy," she said. "Loopy as a loon." she added, desperation in her words. "Bill, are you still here?"

After a moment, she saw one of the tiles move. Then another, and another. The process was slow, almost painful to watch, like a mystery unfolding in an intense film. When it was done, she saw this:

YES LEARNING TAKES TIME

"Shit," she said.

Margo smiled. She looked at the picture, focusing on her husband's smiling face.

"I'm sorry. I guess this is new to you. To both of us."

The tiles for LEARNING TAKES TIME slid away, back into the pile and only YES remained.

"Maybe a typewriter would be easier?" she suggested.

The letters started to move and she watched in amazement, grinning as they took form.

LIKE THIS BETTER

"Old school like the old school," she said. "Well, you'll just have to practice so we can speed the process up."

YES moved back into the center as the other tiles slid to the side. She tapped her fingers.

"I wish I knew where to start. What to ask you."

The S in YES slid away, and other letters came out and arranged themselves to form, GERRY. Margo shook her head.

"He's in bad trouble. I think he may be lost for good, Bill. Called me from jail. He threatened to put me in a home...to take the house now that you're gone. I fear he'll do it."

After a minute or more, NOT IF I CAN HELP. She smiled.

"I know. I'm glad you hung around."

She paused, looking at the letters, then at the photo. Margo crossed her hands on the table top, soaking it all in. A special sort of peace that settled over the room, over Margo. It reminded her of so many nights when they sat, watching television or when she read a book while he napped. Just one another's presence was always enough.

She didn't even notice the tiles had continued sliding on the old round table. When she looked back down at them, one word was there.

HAUNT

"Are you haunting me?" she asked, amused.

NO slid together, sat for a moment, followed by the word GERRY, making a sentence.

NO

HAUNT GERRY

She thought back about their conversation of suicide and tormenting their son. She thought again of the nightmare, how Gerry was holding Bill back, away from helping her. She felt much that way now. Bill was there, but she couldn't get to him.

"I'm not sure a slow game of Scrabble is going to fix him, Bill. I don't know how this is going to help. He said five days. That puts him here day after tomorrow."

The room emptied. Margo didn't understand exactly how she knew he was gone, but the presence she had felt simply vanished. She panicked, holding her hands out as if she might bump into him. She stood up, wondering if she might have dreamt the whole thing, might have been moving the game pieces herself. A dragging sound, the pulling of carpet fibers, caught her ear. As she looked into the living room, she saw the final thing she needed to see to be convinced. The recliner was moving, spinning slowly in place until it faced the window. It meant Bill was going to have himself a think, and it made her quite happy.

"I love you, old man," she said and marched over to the chair, stopping to hover just above it and kissing what was, in her approximation, the top of his head.

Chapter 14

Early frost covered the rooftops and awnings of the downtown buildings. Gerry slept alone in his own room. It was another holding cell, situated around the corner from the other two, a private room for the naughty ones that didn't live well with others. In the center of the floor was a drain, so the place could be hosed down. All manner of filth had occurred in that room over the years. Worse than Gerry, but not by much.

He snored as the sun came up over the top of the buildings, melting the frost. The sharp clang of a police issue flashlight against the iron rail of the door jarred him awake. The flashlight beam paralyzed him as he swallowed, peeling his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth and shielding his eyes from its intrusive stare.

"What? What time is it?" he asked, gruffly.

"Seven. Maybe six thirty. I dunno," the guard said.

He opened a small hatch in the wall and shoved a recycled cardboard tray through to the inside of the cell. It contained a box of cereal and a paper bowl, a flimsy plastic spoon and a carton of milk. There was also a box of apple juice and a banana that was covered in black spots, looking like a muddy Dalmatian.

"Breakfast. You got fifteen minutes before I come to get the trash. Eat up."

The guard gave one more clang to the bars as he walked off. Gerry sat up.

"The customer service around here sucks!" he shouted.

The guard kept walking, but replied, "File a complaint when you see the judge tomorrow."

He propped his head on his hand and stared at the tray of food. It didn't look all that bad, considering. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been awake that early, at least when he'd woken up that early. There had been many nights he'd come home after 7:00 am. He considered asking to make another phone call, something quick, just to remind Margo that sonny-boy was coming home, but doubted the staff would oblige his request. He was glad they hadn't tacked on some kind of threat charge to his list, and didn't want to delay the visit to his mother's home.

"Movin' in with Mommy," he said as he poured the milk over his cereal.

The two ingredients barely fit in the disposable bowl, and tasted stale. He popped open the skin of the banana and took a bite. It was mushy, but satisfying. The juice he dumped on the floor, just because. He drank the cereal, instead of using the spoon. He dumped the trash on the floor, and kicked it with his boot, making sure it scattered about the five-by-eight enclosure.

"I should piss on the floor," he said with a grin.

But he had no urge to go, even after just waking up. He was dehydrated, and preoccupied with his plan. There were plenty of ways he could coerce Margo into a home. He would have to be thorough in his study because she was still sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. There could be no physical evidence, no bruising or cuts. And he might have to prove his own character, and that might prove a challenge.

Gerry was drawing a circle in the spilled apple juice with the toe of his boot when the guard came back.

"Goddammit!" the guard shouted, kicking the door with a metallic thunk.

He laughed a little, nodding. "I should've expected this, Sheffield," he said. "In fact, I oughta turn the fire hose on you, but I don't want to give anyone reason to pity your stupid ass."

"Thanks for that, boss," Gerry said in a false southern drawl. "Mighty kind."

"Come on. Hold two is empty."

He unlocked the gate and gripped Gerry under his left arm, directed him with no nonsense around the corner, and shoved him into the open holding cell. The punk kid was still in the opposite cell, but the other two men were new. They stared in anger, obviously awakened because of him. Gerry turned and nodded to them. He stretched his arms out, emphasizing all the extra space.

"Feels good to stretch out, boys."

The guard walked by with the tray full of Gerry's trash and dumped it into a larger trash can at the end of the hall. Seconds after he walked by the next time, the sound of rushing water from the high powered hose echoed within the concrete walls. When it was gone, the sounds of a rubber squeegee squeaked and chirped like a basketball player changing directions.

"What'd you fellas eat for breakfast?"

No one answered. Only the punk kid watched him.

"Anything good? Had me an old nanner. Looked like a pecker, but it tasted a'ight. How 'bout you, boy? You like peckers?"

The boy looked at the floor. The sneer he'd worn when he got there had been replaced by something that resembled defeat. He looked much younger, smaller, and tired.

"Alright, that's enough. You want to go back in the back? Better find some civil things to talk about if you don't wanna spend another night alone," the guard said, rolling his black sleeves back down and smacking his hands together as if to shake the dust off.

Gerry shook his head. He didn't care to talk to anyone or to see anyone. His only concern was getting home, getting to his mother. The house was paid for, had been for a decade. With power of attorney, he figured he could live there for years, or until his liver gave out. She could stay in the cheapest of state-run nursing homes, slowly turning to dust. It would be like a game. He would drink and fuck and use and see if he could still outlive her.

Chapter 15

Margo rose from a decent night's sleep. There were no boogeymen trying to hurt her. Even still, she awoke with concern. It started as a tremble in her brain, increasing in intensity as an earthquake might until she cried out.

"Bill?"

She knew he was still dead, but hoped she hadn't dreamed the rest. She rushed down the hall to the living room and saw the chair was still turned to the window. Relief slowed her heart rate. She entered the kitchen to ask him a question, but there was a message there already.

TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY

"I hope so," she whispered. "You still here?"

There was silence and the room felt empty, empty as a crypt. Margo pushed the tiles spelling TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY to the side, saving them for herself. She didn't want them to disappear, even if by Bill's hand.

She smelled a faint odor, like menthol and soap. When she closed her eyes, she could see Bill shaving. It filled her with warmth. A charge filled the air, and the empty room held presence again.

"Bill? Are you here now?"

The letters YES slid out from the group and danced into place. She let another sigh of relief escape. Margo smiled to herself, clapping her hands together. Rubbing her hands across the three tiles, her look changed from joy to something more inquisitive.

"Bill," she said. "Do you sleep?"

The letters were all pushed aside, and replaced with NO. She tilted her head.

"What do you do? What did you do last night?"

Quickly, the letters spelled out, PRACTICED.

Margo smiled. "You're getting much better. Faster, but, can you talk?"

USES ENERGY

Followed by, TIRING

She nodded, enlightened, trying to grasp his existence.

"Okay, maybe we'll get to that point."

She sat and stared at the photograph which hadn't moved from its place on the round table. Thoughts raced through her head, and they showed on her face. Very slow creases formed between her eyebrows and her lips drew tight, into a short straight line.

WHATS WRONG appeared on the table.

"Oh, I wish I could see you," she cried.

LOOK AT PHOTO

"It's not the same, love. Not at all the same."

BEST WITH WHAT WE HAVE

She shook with laughter. "Yes, you shit," she said, still chuckling. "Always knew the right thing to say."

HAHA

"Exactly. Ha ha."

Her laughter dissolved back to concern and again, the ghost formed the words.

WHATS WRONG

Margo gripped her chin, two fingers across her lips and cringed, not wanting to admit what she was thinking. Tears formed in her eyes.

"I can't help it, Bill. About our last conversation, the night you..."

NO

"Well, it's just been on my mind."

NO

She shook her head and drummed her fingers on the table, staring and silent. Bill was also silent. After a moment, she held her head in her hands and wept. Her whole body convulsed with the sobs. On the verge of hysterics, she slammed her fist on the table, bouncing the letters and knocking the picture over.

"I don't know how to be by myself. Not like this," she shouted.

Margo waved her hands trying to find more words, but there weren't any. She continued to sob, wishing he had been there to hold her and tell her they would figure things out. Her tears stopped and the room was quiet except for the tiny scraping sounds of the game pieces sliding across on the table.

ME EITHER

It was a full minute before she composed herself enough to look at the words. Her fingers twirled the wooden tiles nervously. Her eyes found something distant to look at and she thought the situation over. She stepped to the counter next to the sink and leaned on the heels of her hands, then looked back sharply to where she imagined he was sitting.

"Bill, I'm afraid. What if he comes here? He's already said he was going to put me in a home."

NOT READY YET

"He said he wanted me to rot!"

There was a heavy rapping on the table. Margo could picture Bill thudding his index finger next to the words, NOT READY YET. He never liked having to repeat himself.

"What, Bill? Not ready for what?"

TO DIE

"No one is ever ready to die."

LIVE

"Bill, I don't want to live without you here. Why can't I be with you?"

Again, thumps next to the word, LIVE. This time they sounded deeper, like he was pounding the meat of his fist rather than a single finger. Her lips pursed and she gave an angry look to the room.

"What if he tries to hurt me?"

The tiles didn't move. The room was still.

"Bill, he has no soul. He has no conscience. He'll try to hurt me and what kind of a fight will I be able to put up? How will I keep him from coming in this house?"

Still silence. Margo looked around. He was still there, the pressure was still in the room and she felt as if she was being watched, though by a comforting, not a menacing, presence.

"Bill? I have no doubts he would try. Anything to get his selfish hands..."

She was interrupted by the air leaving the room, an almost inaudible whooshing sound, and the feeling of a breeze passing by her. It made her catch her breath. There was that same ghostly sound again, the backwards reverberation of Bill's voice.

"I won't let him."

Margo started to cry. She sobbed while sitting in that chair, holding herself as her body shuddered until it ached. Slowly, the presence wrapped around her. It caused a tingling in her belly and on her neck and arms, like a hug from beyond. Her chest stopped heaving, and she calmed her crying. I LOVE YOU was written in the tiny wooden tiles.

"I love you, too."

She watched the room, hoping for another glimpse of her husband, another misty human form, just something in the room to focus her attention on.

"I want to believe you...that you might protect me, Bill. But he's a monster. Moving letters around...how will you help me?"

THINK

"Not much time for that."

Loud slamming thuds on the table, letters tinkling back into place, some landing on the hardwood planks of the floor. Then the room became quiet. She sat back at the table, waiting for him. The word was swept away, its letters spread back into the larger group, and four more replaced them.

LIVE

At the top of the table were still the words, TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY, although slightly scattered.

"Alright. I trust you."

Chapter 16

The hearing was cut and dry.

"I sentence you to a fine in the amount of $500.00, plus the damages you caused to the Plaintiff's vehicle. And, for good measure, I'm giving you one thousand hours community service, Mr. Sheffield. I'm hoping that's enough because I see you've been in this court several times over the past ten years. This list of infractions may be minor, but they make me wonder what you've been up to that we don't know about," the judge said as she frowned.

"Do you understand these things as I have explained them?"

The judge stared at him without wavering, not even blinking, until he acknowledged her. He did his best to look humble, downtrodden, and remorseful. The mostly empty courtroom was quiet until Gerry said, "Yes, your honor."

He would've said anything to speed up the process and was surprised he had been able to behave as well as he did that morning. There was light at the end of his tunnel, light that led him home to his mother. He would be able to get the money he needed to pay his fine, after which he would work on getting that house and free access to his parents' accounts and to their car.

His thoughts were interrupted when the judge said, "Dismissed."

Before she struck the gavel, she added, "One more infraction, Mr. Sheffield, and you will serve time. Is that also understood?"

Gerry nodded. "Yes ma'am."

He was escorted to a clerk where he was given some paperwork, and assigned an appointment with a counselor with whom he would discuss his community service requirement and tracking. While he was there, he requested information on state facilities for the elderly and was glad to find more than one to choose from. One was close by and Gerry planned to stop in for a visit.

He gathered his things and took off the faded jumpsuit. His own clothes were ruined, and smelled of alcohol and the faint odor of the bum, Rex. Instead, he foraged through the boxes of lost and found, and donations of socks and underwear. Clean clothes felt good, but his face still throbbed. He thought his broken nose might need to be seen by a doctor. One more thing he had to do before going home. The throbbing made it difficult to think straight, and he needed to be straight for a few days.

At last, he passed through the large wooden doors that allowed him to exit the courthouse, walked down the stone stairs to the city walk, and hailed a taxi. He handed the driver one of the brochures, one for the nursing facility closest to the government complex. After a short drive, the cab stopped.

"Can you wait here? Shouldn't take more than ten or fifteen minutes," Gerry said.

The cabbie narrowed his eyes looking at the meter, and smiled.

"Where to next?" the man said.

"Next, we go to the hospital, I need to get this nose looked at."

The man studied the bruising, and the scabbed gash on the bridge of Gerry's nose. He raised one eyebrow, still smiling.

"Pay me this ten dollars," he said, pointing to the meter, "then I wait. Meter running of course."

"Of course," Gerry repeated.

Slightly angered, he reached into his pocket and produced some bills, dropping them through the window.

"Fifteen minutes," he said.

Steps led up to a pair of glass doors. From there, Gerry walked through a vestibule, and another pair of glass doors. The lobby was dingy, all white walls and a linoleum tiled floor, lit from fluorescent lamps in the ceiling. Fake, potted, tropical plants sat in the corners of a small waiting area. A man in a sweater sat behind the front desk, a glassed-in room behind him.

"Good morning," he said. "I'm Ben Stevens. Something I can do for you?"

"Gerry," he said as he shook the man's hand. "I wanted some information on bringing my mother here."

He continued looking around the building, noticing the multiple monitors in the room behind the desk where Mr. Stevens sat. Another man watched them and a woman in a nurse's uniform rifled through a stack of papers and file folders.

"Is she ill?"

"Old, Ben. She's old."

"I see. Have you spoken to her doctor?"

"Not yet."

Ben stood up from his seat and walked around the counter, then casually leaned on its surface on one elbow.

"You should speak with her doctor, find out what sort of help she needs. Is she making sense? Forgetful or confused?" Ben asked.

"Yes, I'm worried she might not be taking proper care of herself. I don't want anything to happen to her now that my father is dead. No one is there to help her."

Ben nodded, his face soft and understanding.

"Have you thought about assisted living? Somewhere she might..."

"No. She'll need round the clock care. And we don't have much money. I think a state facility would better suit us," Gerry said, giving a brilliant performance.

Ben nodded again. "My advice is to speak with her and her doctor. You can also bring her in to take a look at the place."

Gerry looked at the floor, then up, hopefully, at Ben. "I'm not sure she would be agreeable about the situation," he said.

"Well, who would? If she is unable to care for herself, you should probably discuss this with an attorney first. Find one who practices family law and guardianship. They will be able to help you. That's the best way to go about a situation like this. That's about all the advice I can give you. A lawyer and a doctor."

Gerry nodded, maintaining his disappointment. "Sounds like the beginning of a joke," he said.

Ben smiled. "I hope everything works out."

They shook hands and Gerry left back through the two sets of double doors, grumbling all the way to the cab. He opened the door and sat down in the vehicle, staring out at the building as it started to drizzle.

"Where to next? A hospital, you said?"

Gerry turned to him, catching the reflection of the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"No. Take me to a hotel. Someplace cheap, nothing fancy," he said.

"King Lodge on the south side run you about twenty-five a night. Hundred bucks a week, I think."

"Perfect," Gerry said.

He paid the cab fare and checked into the motel, noting a package store on the opposite corner and a grubby restaurant and lounge that shared the same parking lot. He climbed the concrete-topped steps while holding the twisted iron railing and found his room. Inside, there was a bed with an old plaid comforter a desk with a lamp and a metal-framed chair. An old dresser held the telephone and a CRT television.

"Welcome back to 1980," he said.

The walls were covered in a textured paper, and the carpet was dark blue and covered in stains. It smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. The air conditioner under the window hummed, but the drab curtains didn't move. He waved a hand over the vent and felt nothing.

"Home sweet home," he said.

He'd given the desk $100.00 cash for the week and that left him with $20.00 in his pocket, and only $400.00 more in his bank account. Either way, it was a place to stay while he figured things out, and there was a shower. More important, he had a phone.

He grabbed the phone book from the drawer in the night stand and flipped through page after page of attorneys. They were grouped by type of practice. Dozens were listed under the category of Elder Law practice. He tore that page out and set it aside before he dialed home. His skin itched from his scalp to his ankles and he didn't know if it was anticipation of what he was trying to do, his need for a drink, or the soap in the county jail that morning.

"Hello?" Margo said.

Gerry smiled.

"I'm out," he said.

He hung the phone up, satisfied with his day's work. It was time for Gerry to play. He tucked his plastic keycard into the front pocket of his shirt and retraced his steps to the parking lot. It was still early afternoon, and he didn't feel like pulling a hard drunk. He wanted something else, maybe something powdered and expensive. He also wanted something warm, female, and preferably cheap.

The package store was grimy. Not a top-shelf item in the tiny store. Pissed off, he sorted through the plastic bottles of generic rum and vodka, bourbon and scotch.

"Anything worth drinking in here?" he said.

"Most of our customers aren't that picky," the clerk said.

She was an overweight redhead with a blue vest on. Her nametag was worn to the point he couldn't read it, and he didn't really care.

"Okay. How about something with a name brand I recognize, then?"

She looked to a rack behind her and pointed at pint bottles of gin and bourbon, all labels he had seen. Nothing larger. Gerry reached over the counter and grabbed one that suited him. The red-haired woman let out an "ugh", apparently upset by his breach of some unspoken etiquette. She stepped to the side, avoiding him.

"Relax," he said. "I'm just helping you do your job."

Her face was twisted into a frown that said she didn't need or want his help.

"That all?" she asked.

Gerry's blood was burning, and he was ready to cause some trouble. Five days confined had given him time to detox, but he felt clean and dirty. He didn't want to feel clean.

"For now," he growled, tossing some cash on the counter.

She handed him change and watched, uneasily, as he left.

Gerry spun the cap off the bottle, tearing through the paper seal. He tipped it up, taking two big swallows. As it burned his throat and warmed his belly, he closed his eyes, feeling all of it slide down. He capped it and slid the bottle into his hip pocket and walked over to the lounge, stepping over a puddle from the light rain earlier that day.

Inside, the restaurant was dark. Tables sat on the perimeter of a small dance floor and one corner was raised a foot higher making a stage. He was happy to smell smoke, and happier to see an actual cigarette machine against the wall.

"Shit. When's the last time ya saw one of these?"

He slid his last four dollars into the machine and pushed a button. The pack shifted, and tumbled into the opening at the bottom. He tapped it on his palm, packing the contents, and took a seat at the long, black bar, the only customer in the building that late afternoon.

"Anybody here?" he shouted.

A woman, possibly forty, with short black hair and dark eyes peeked out of the kitchen door. She smiled and approached. Her T-shirt was loose, obscuring her figure, and the jeans underneath showed thick, but not overly so, legs. Her cowboy boots clacked on the hard tile floor.

"I apologize, hon. Usually don't see a soul in here until after five. Name's Johnna. Can I get you something?"

He looked her up and down, which didn't seem to bother her. Gerry smiled.

"Hi, Johnna. How about a menu?"

His words were sarcastic, biting and full of venom. She blushed, not taking her eyes from his, and then cleared her throat. She adjusted her eyes in a way that he liked. He could see that she wasn't intimidated, nor was she going to take too much shit from him.

"That might help. How about I bring you a beer since I'm acting like I haven't been doin' this for twenty-five years?"

"Fine by me," Gerry said.

She was gone in a flourish, down the bar a second to drop off a menu and then to the opposite end to fill a glass with beer. He browsed through the menu and put it down. He spun the barstool. When the woman came back, her shirt was tucked in and she had a blue apron around her waist. She set the beer in front of him and leaned on the bar.

"Find anything in there that sounds good?"

She winked at him. He sipped the beer.

Cheap, he thought. Just like everything on this block.

She didn't look cheap. She looked out of place, refined, but a tough confidence.

"Burger, fries. Nothing fancy."

"Coming right up," she said and disappeared through the door behind the counter.

Gerry took another swig from the flask in his pocket, then sipped again at the beer.

He watched the front door like a bird of prey waiting for something to move in the field below. No one came in. No one drove by. It started to drizzle again and darkened a little as clouds rolled in. Music began to play over the speakers in the ceiling as Johnna came back with a plate of food. She checked his beer and assessed he needed another.

"You want another?"

He tipped the top of his hamburger bun and ate a fry.

"Ketchup?" he asked.

She reached under the counter and presented some, along with mustard. Then she laughed, a polite and warm laugh.

"You're a strange one. Quiet, but cute. How about that second beer?"

Gerry nodded. He took note of her shape when she walked away, leaning up over the counter as she walked. She stopped at the tap, pouring one beer, and another, and caught him looking. Her lip curled into a grin.

"You the only one that works here?" he said, loud enough so she could hear.

She walked back and set the beer in front of him, sipping the second one herself.

"Own the place. Like I said, we don't expect folks before five, but I come in early and get the place going. Cook'll be here in half an hour. Waitress maybe an hour, then my bartender. I fill in the blanks."

"Oh. Draw a crowd, does it?"

She smiled and took another drink, leaving some foam on her lip.

"Hardly. Helps to have the lodge, and the package store. Everything comes out in the wash. How's the food?"

He took a big bite of the burger and chewed, purposefully waiting to answer her.

"I'll let you deal with what's in your mouth first," she said and walked away, wiping the countertop with a steaming hot rag. Gerry's eyes lingered on her hands. Even in the dim lighting he saw they were hard-worked.

"Good," he finally said. "Food's good."

"I love a man who can lie with a straight face. I've known two so far—buried one of them. Second one left me all of this," she said, gesturing in a circle like a spokesmodel selling luxury cars.

He laughed, finding her charming.

"Kids?"

"Nope. Good thing. This is no place to raise kids."

Gerry looked up at her, then around at the surroundings. Seemed fine to him.

"Why not?"

"Whores. Drugs. Businessmen banging their secretaries by the hour. And those are my good clients."

He laughed again, before taking another bite. Johnna finished her beer.

"Drugs, huh?" he asked.

She nodded. "You use?"

"I've been known to."

She smiled at him, a crooked thing, but full of nice straight teeth. He hoped there was more to the smile and the conversation than just good business. Gerry wanted to spend some quality time with this woman, Johnna. She might keep him entertained for the week. She looked like she might crush him and leave him broke and confused, which was just fine. His interest squirmed in his lost and found jeans.

"Got to have something. Too much goes on in this world to take it all straight," she said.

Gerry nodded.

"I'd be glad to share," he said.

Johnna touched him on the hand as she stole one of his fries.

"Jury's still out," she said. "I haven't decided if you're an unsavory character yet."

"The worst kind."

"Hmm. We'll see. In the meantime, I've got to get back to work. Nice chat, Burger and Fries."

A young man came in through the front door in a chef's coat. It had grease stains on it, matching the rest of the place nicely. He followed Johnna into the back, giving Gerry a suspicious look.

Chapter 17

Margo held the phone in her right hand. Her knuckles were white. She gripped it so hard, the plastic cracked along the snap-together seam. She was petrified.

I'm out.

The words played over in her head like a busy signal or a ticking clock, each repetition louder than the last. Her breathing shallow, she sat in Bill's chair facing the window and watched as the boys across the street played on the wet driveway. The morning's rain had paused, but the sky loomed dark and threatening.

The younger of the two brothers slipped and fell, skinning his hands on the rough concrete across the street. His mother rushing out the door to scoop him up pulled Margo's attention from her daze. She watched as her neighbor held the boy, wiped his tears and hands, and sent him back to play. The scene was as common as they come, a scene Margo herself had played a part in dozens of times with Gerry. She longed for those days when a hug and simple wiping of a tear would solve the biggest of problems. She wondered where things had fallen apart, and if it had all been her fault. Were there one too many hugs, or one too few? Maybe she'd given him bad advice in answer to a teenage question of love or life?

She released her grip on the phone handset and placed it back on its base. Her hand was sore from holding it so long. Had five minutes passed? Thirty? More? Her feet moved her back to the kitchen where she poured herself a small amount of wine and drank it in hopes it might calm her. The taste made her queasy and she spat it into the sink.

"Alcohol," she said, frowning. "That's what does it. What ruins a person."

She poured the rest of the bottle out. Even though she hadn't ever had more than a single glass of wine in a week's time in her life and even though Bill rarely drank himself, she wondered if Gerry's problem was somehow their fault. Her head started to throb.

"Bill?" she said, hoping for the tingling sensation.

When it happened, she slumped into one of the wooden, spindled chairs and sighed.

"I'm not going to make it," she said.

After a few seconds, the tiles formed a question:

WHY NOT

"He's playing with me, Bill. He called today and said I'm out. then he hung up. His voice was so menacing."

SORRY

"It's like a bad dream. Like a nightmare, Bill. I don't want to live in fear of him. Not in my own home, from my own son."

ARREST HIM

She considered the words, but shook her head.

"I'd sound like a lunatic. What would I say? Hello, officer. My son wants to lock me away so he can have our house? He would play the perfect angel. That would only help him put me in a home."

HIS RECORD

"Yes. I'm all too aware of his police record. It makes me sick."

CREDIBILITY

"I'm an old woman, Bill. I don't want to live with a restraining order on my own son."

WE COULD MOVE

"What if you couldn't come with me?"

SAFE

"But alone."

There was no movement of the letters, and she sat silent as well, thinking. She pictured Bill in his chair, watching out the window. She walked into the living room and stood next to his chair. The boys had gone inside for dinner and whatever comprised the rest of their nightly routine.

"I don't want to be alone," she said. "And I don't want to be afraid. He'll hurt me, Bill. You know it, and I know it."

There was a whiff of cold air over her face, and her arm hairs prickled with electricity.

"How would you do it?" Bill's voice said.

The words sounded strained, as if coming from a man who was short of breath and had a bad stutter. She grinned, glad to hear him, but worried.

"Bill? You said it was too much..."

"How?" he demanded.

She looked down at the chair, certain he was sitting there. Her mouth trembled and her eyes widened. Her words were nervous.

"Pills, I guess," she said.

"No pain," he said.

"No. I don't think so. Just go to sleep. You said it didn't hurt."

"I didn't take my own life," Bill said.

"Is that what you're worried about?"

"I worry about you."

"You should know I'm not afraid of hell. If there is one. You're dead and you haven't even left this house."

"There's more to this, Margo. I don't understand it yet, but I'm..."

She shuddered at hearing him speak her name again, and longed for his touch. Not the prickly sensation, but she longed for his actual touch.

"You're what?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

She sat in his chair. "Pardon me, sir"

She could feel his chuckling in the electrified air, but couldn't hear it.

"You've done a lot of thinking in this spot. I did some myself today, right after Gerry called."

"And?" Bill asked.

"And I think after I'm...well, after it's done, we can stay here together. Gerry will inherit the place, and if nothing else, we can haunt the ungrateful turd."

"Like we talked about?" he said.

"Yes. But I worry."

"About?"

"About you, you were so sick for so long."

"I feel like I'm eighteen again. There's no pain. No constraints, at least none that I've found. Only the strain of making myself known. It's tiring. I don't know all the rules yet."

Her mind shifted. Suddenly she wasn't interested in Gerry anymore. She had questions, and they were bouncing around in her head, making her dizzy.

"What's it like, Bill?"

"Like nothing I'd read about, or even imagined."

"Are you cold? What can you see? Are there others?"

Again, she felt the chuckling. The electrical charge was squeezing and releasing her. It was strange, but gentle.

"I don't feel hot or cold. It's odd. I feel nothing at all, physically. And I see everything just like you do, only, I'm aware of my own self. There are no others, not here in our home."

The answers pleased her, satisfied her need to know. It was all she needed to know, a comfort that all the pain of old age would be gone, and that it wasn't the end, that it wasn't frightening.

"I'm ready," she said.

"I'm against this," Bill replied. "I think there could be another way."

"He's out of jail, Bill. He could be outside waiting. He could show up at any moment and take me away."

Bill was silent. Margo sat up straight and sighed, clearing her mind. It was a gesture she'd made before, one she knew he would recognize as her getting ready to step on a soap box. She was preparing to declare something.

"Bill, I can live in this house with your spirit. Speaking to you has made mourning easier. All the worries about whether you've gone on to salvation? Talking to you makes me feel better about that. Worry if your pain is gone? I don't have that. If there's something beyond this life and this body? You've answered that for me. But I can't leave here without you. I don't want to go out that door for fear that you can't come with me, or that you'll get called to move on while I'm gone. I'm ready. Tomorrow is another day. I know that for sure now."

"Your decision," he said, his voice wavering. "It scares me to have to watch you die. What if it's different for you?"

"It won't be. We are a team, Mr. Sheffield. Always will be."

"But what about 'til death do us part'?" he said.

She laughed, a little shocked.

"Still funny, even in the great beyond. No such luck for you. Forever is just that."

Margo, her mind made up, walked to the kitchen, and opened one cabinet. She removed the sleeping pills and a bottle of Vicodin and closed the door. In the next cabinet, she found an old porcelain mortar and pestle.

"Never thought I'd have a use for this thing."

In the third cabinet, she grabbed a glass and found some apple juice in the refrigerator. She popped the remaining sleeping pills, five in all, into the mortar and crushed them into a powder. Margo pulled the cap off of the Vicodin and spilled them into her hand. The capsules were shiny and gave her a cold feeling. It was a feeling she didn't like, but she laid fifteen of them out on the counter. A good number, she reasoned. One at a time, she popped them open, dumping the contents into the mortar.

The pile of powder looked disturbing to her. She imagined the bitter taste it would surely have, even with the apple juice and wondered if it was going to be enough. She broke open five more of the capsules of Vicodin, leaving only two in the bottle. After moving the powder from the mortar to the glass, she washed the utensils with soap and hot water, then dried them and placed them back into the cabinet. She poured the juice into the glass and stirred it with a fork. Most of the powder dissolved, leaving a white tornado spinning in the center.

Margo dumped the packaging and the empty capsules into her kitchen trash, bagging it up before walking outside and placing it in her next door neighbor's garbage can. Back in the kitchen, the tiny tornado still swirled, but just barely. Bill watched, a vaporous outline in the corner of the kitchen. She paid him no mind, but went back to the glass and stirred it up one more time, bringing up the sediment from the base.

A moment of concern raised her eyebrow. She might vomit up the concoction, then have to start all over, or worse, end up in the hospital. That would make it easier for Gerry. She frowned, then straightened up and picked up the glass, determined to succeed. Determined that Gerry would never have things easy again.

Margo held the glass up to her husband's ghost in a toast, and drank the contents in seconds, grimacing at its bitterness. She rinsed the glass and took a swig of cool water to dilute the foul taste in her mouth. More soapy water washed the glass and the fork and she wiped a bit of dribble from her chin with the back of her hand. Margo placed the glass back in the cabinet, the fork into its place in the drawer and checked over the room. Staring at the Scrabble pieces and the photograph, she picked up the latter and put it back on the mantel. When she got back to the kitchen, the letters were all scrambled and the board and trays were set out, looking like a game was about to be played.

The phone rang, but she ignored it. Bill didn't say anything about it, but continued to watch her with the same amazement he'd had when she would dress and fix her hair and makeup. Her actions always seemed so precise, so knowing, even in this—a situation she had never been in before.

"You've really thought this out," Bill said.

"See you soon," Margo said, walking past his voice and to their bedroom.

She pulled back the bedspread and lay down just after 8:00 pm. Bill moved to her bedside, watching her. He made himself as visible as he could while she watched, and he smiled at her as her eyes closed, the sleeping pills kicking in before the Vicodin.

Early the next morning, Margo slipped into a coma, and before the sun went down on Tuesday, her liver failed and she was gone. Bill waited with her body, studying the situation closely, from his unexpected perspective. Not having a heartbeat to quicken, nor a heart at all to worry, he wondered where the stress was coming from, and how it still manifested within him.

Chapter 18

Gerry finished his second beer, and ordered a third from the twenty-something bartender who spent most of the evening with her nose in a textbook. She came up for air every few paragraphs and checked on him and the two other customers who sat in opposite corners of the room. He cut himself off after the third. It took a great amount of willpower, but the atmosphere wasn't right and the alcohol did little more than provide him with a headache.

He wasn't getting what he needed, and while the exchange earlier that evening with Johnna had proved most interesting, she was nowhere to be found.

"Another?" the bartender asked.

She was adjusting her glasses and smacking on a wad of chewing gum, her hair in pigtails.

"No. Thanks," Gerry said, dropping money on the counter. "Keep it."

She smiled, peeling the bills from the damp counter and counting them, shoving a few in her pocket. The rest went into the register. He took one more drink from his mug, leaving it half full as he ducked out into the night. The rains had subsided, but the cold, humid chill remained. He tucked his hands into his pockets and hurried across the parking lot to the concrete steps, rushing to his room.

Inside, his room was still cold, a bit drafty, so he turned dials and pressed buttons on the ancient unit underneath the window. He pulled the curtain to the side, sat on the bed and watched outside as the heater vibrated and hummed to life. In a moment, warm air poured out, smelling of burnt dust and whatever else had been spilled into its coils. Outside, the rain picked up again.

Maybe Johnna would come back, and he could continue the conversation from earlier. Or maybe he'd see something else, a dealer, a hooker...anything exciting to take the headache away and alleviate his boredom. No such thing happened. He pulled the flask from his pocket, unscrewing the cap and lifting it to his mouth out of nothing more than habit. He eyed the flask, and put the cap back on, setting it on the bedside table. There was a remote control there.

When the old CRT came on and warmed up, the evening news lit the room in flickers and flashes. Gerry watched it absently, leaning back onto the pillows he'd stacked on top of each other. He crossed his fingers on his belly and kicked his shoes off onto the floor. The volume was low and his eyelids were weighted. Compared to the benches and cots in the jail, that bed felt like a mother's bosom. The warm glow of the television and the patter of the rain on the window soothed Gerry, and he drifted into a soft, snoring sleep.

*****

The next morning, light streamed in the window. Travelers, heading to their cars for another day's journey, looked in at him furtively. One dragged what was at one time a rolling suitcase, but was now missing a wheel, along the concrete walk, and its bumping and scraping woke him.

Gerry blinked into the incoming sunlight, seeing the blue of the morning sky and the puddles in the drive and parking lot. More cars came as others left. There was traffic on the road. Everything seemed more alive than the day before. He shoved his fingers into the back pocket of his pants and retrieved the page from the phone book with Attorney, Elder Law and Family Practice at the top and looked at the alarm clock on the end table.

8:07 am.

"Somebody has to be at work by now," he said and pulled the phone off the table and onto the bed next to him.

He dialed and lit a cigarette. The phone cord was long enough to reach even into the bathroom and he walked to the sink, grabbed one of the water cups, placing a dash of water in it, and brought it back to the table. He tore away the top half and set it down, tapping his ashes into it, a trick he'd learned after setting a hotel bed on fire in his youth.

The first number was out of service. He wasn't surprised, as the phone book he tore the page from might have been twenty years old. The second took him to voicemail, where a recording told him they were open from 9:00 am to 5:00 pm, Monday through Friday. He marked it with a ballpoint pen from the same drawer: after 9:00. Then, Gerry dialed the third.

"Morning. Thank you for calling Allen, Ruark, and Baker. This is Suzanne," the receptionist sang.

"Good morning, Suzanne. My name is Gerry Sheffield."

"Hi Gerry, what can I do for you?"

Her voice was cheery, like listening to a rainbow. Its high pitch made him cringe, and he held the receiver away from his ear.

"I need to talk to someone about guardianship."

"Uh-huh," she said.

He sat for a moment, thinking he'd said enough for her to transfer him, or at least give him some info. He heard the orchestration of a twenty-year-old pop song playing in the background.

"In what respect?" Suzanne asked.

"Oh. Let's see. My father recently passed, and I'm worried that my mother, she's seventy, or seventy-one, is in bad health. I don't feel comfortable with her living alone, so I wanted to talk to someone about the legalities of finding her a home."

"Oh, that's so sad. I'm sorry for your loss."

She sounded so sincere. Gerry mimicked her, silently. He was disgusted with the whole situation, with the process of it all. If it had been up to him, he'd have smothered them both and set the house on fire, just to take the insurance money to Mexico or somewhere he could disappear into the sand and sweltering heat.

"Thank you. Does Allen..." he paused, reading off the yellow page from the phone book, "Ruark and Baker handle this sort of thing?"

"Yes, sir. I can set you up an appointment if you like to come in and see Mr. Ruark. He has some time tomorrow afternoon."

Another day, Gerry thought. Another fucking day that woman would get to live in that house.

His house. She would moan and cry about the dead bastard while he slept in a hotel. It made him sick.

What the hell am I going to do for another day? he thought.

"Mr. Sheffield?"

Gerry heard her, but it took a second for the noise to break through his building anger and register. The second time she spoke, he responded.

"Mr. Sheffield, are you still there?"

"Yes, sorry. Tomorrow afternoon would be fine."

She gave him details, time, location and any information he would need to bring with him.

"How much will this cost?"

"Well, the initial consult is free. You can negotiate his fees at your appointment. I assure you, he is fair."

"Fair. Good enough. Thank you, Suzanne."

"Have a great day," she chirped.

He was relieved to hang the phone up. Relieved to have something happening, one more step out of the way. There were some other things he could accomplish, making for a full Tuesday. Then, tomorrow, before the appointment with Mr. Ruark, he thought he might go visit Margo, just to let her know he was thinking about her. It would be fun for all involved.

He dialed the phone again, smoking a second cigarette he had lit from the first. A woman answered at the police station. Gerry smiled broadly, which hurt his still healing nose, as she transferred him to a detective. He described a diner over on 9th street. Detective Watkins knew the place, said he'd eaten there dozens of times. In Gerry's head, Watkins wore a trench coat and fedora.

"I'd like to remain anonymous about this, see, I've got a wife and three kids."

"Understood," Watkins said.

"There's a waitress there, name's Jill. Older, and worn."

"Yeah, yeah," Watkins said. "Rude, smokes a lot."

"Right, that's her."

"What about her," the detective prodded.

"A week or so ago, she propositioned me...and I took her up on it."

"Propositioned?"

"For sex," Gerry said. "In the alley behind the place."

"Classy. Why you tellin' me this?"

"Well, after we finished, her husband came out. Guess he's the owner or something. Well, he dragged me inside and beat the shit outta me. Broke my nose."

"Did he catch you with her?"

"I'm telling you, it's a racket of some kind. She took a hundred bucks from me for sex, and he beat me and left me in the alley."

"Anything missing when you came to? Besides your dignity, that is?"

"Just the rest of my cash."

"I have one word of advice for you, Mr. Anonymous."

Gerry rolled his eyes, still grinning. "What's that?"

"Stop bangin' ugly waitresses in alleys. Find a nice girl. Church picnic maybe?"

"Right. Are you gonna check it out?"

"Absolutely. To tell the truth, we've had a call or two before about this Jill and that...Steve. I'll check it out. Too bad, they make a mean Western Omelet."

"Sorry for your loss," Gerry said.

"You wouldn't want to come down and give a formal statement, would you? Help our cause?"

"And if it doesn't stick, I get my ass kicked again. Nope. No thanks."

"Fine. Thank you for doing your civic duty, sir. No more hookers, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Gerry replied.

Hanging up, he chuckled. It escalated into laughter that made him cough. He reached for the only thing close by, which was the whiskey. Spinning the cap off onto the floor, he took a drink. It burned, causing another cough, but temporarily fixed the wheeze that had started it. Grateful, he downed the rest of the bottle and closed the curtain before lying back down. Satisfied with himself, Gerry fell back asleep.

*****

Gerry woke after 1:30 pm. He lit a cigarette and took his clothes off, hanging them over the door to the bathroom before he showered. He sniffed the armpit of his button-down shirt and found it satisfactory. The T-shirt was another story, and he rinsed it in the sink with some hand soap. He needed his things, figured they'd either been tossed out or donated by the asshole, Tinsley.

After riding in a taxi to a small department store, he dumped the bag of clearance shirts, pants and underwear on the hotel bed. He'd also picked up a heavy zip-up sweatshirt to use as a coat. It was just after 4:00 pm and he'd noticed a red pickup truck parked next to the King Lodge Lounge.

A terrible name, he thought. Tough to say.

Following a splash of aftershave, he thought he'd stroll over to see if Johnna was alone again and hoped he might catch her in a giving mood. The closed-or-better-yet-locked-door kind of giving. At least he might put another good word in for himself. If that didn't pan out, he might see if the college-girl bartender could score him some drugs, or better yet, wanted to share some with him.

It was chilly outside, and smelled of exhaust fumes and rain. When he walked in the door to the lounge, Johnna was sitting at the counter. She saw him immediately that time and smiled.

"Back for more punishment?"

"Whatever you've got," he answered.

"You're a special customer," she said. "One of only eleven I've had since Monday. That means you get better quality punishment."

"Well, at least you aren't busy. I know restaurant owners hate being busy."

She laughed at him and held her hand out, offering him a seat. She wore a dress instead of the jeans and T-shirt. It was turquoise, classy. She looked good in it, but it didn't really suit her.

"Prom night?" he asked.

"Bartender called in. Exams or something. So I thought I'd play the cute little hostess."

"For three people?"

She shrugged, smiling at him.

"Can I fix you something to eat?"

"Nothing greasy."

"Everything here is greasy. How about some apple pie?"

"Does it go with beer?"

"It does if that's what you want."

He nodded and she brought the items to him. She sipped from a highball glass through a straw. The drink looked like cola, but smelled like rum. And her cheeks were rosy, as if it wasn't her first of the evening. He smiled, taking his pie and beer to a booth and sitting down. She followed, sitting across from him.

"Hope you don't mind," Johnna said.

"Not at all," he replied, eyeing her drink.

"What?" she asked, holding it out so she could better see.

Gerry grinned.

"Well, a girl has to keep warm somehow."

"There are better ways," he said.

"Are there?"

He sniffed and took a bite from his pie. He stared at her, and she didn't shy away from his look.

"Are you flirting with me?" he asked.

"No. You'll know if I do. I don't do subtle," she said.

"Good to know."

"Still haven't decided if you're safe. My instincts tell me you aren't."

"Why is that?" he said.

"Alone, staying at a rat-trap, drinking alone with that big ol' cracked up nose. Doesn't exactly say choir boy, does it?"

"You looking for a choir boy?" he asked.

"No. I'm afraid I might break one or two of those. I'm looking for something that won't add up to anything. I prefer to be alone, but sometimes, I just need a little something to get me by."

"Understood. So you don't want someone following you about?"

She nodded, sucking on the tiny straw. Gerry watched her eyes, looking for any sign of weakness, but not finding one. He took another bite, breaking away from her gaze. The door opened, and the same cook came in, wearing the same soiled chef's jacket. Johnna straightened up, then patted the table.

"Either way, Mr. Burger and Fries, then pie...I'm going home alone tonight. You need to work on your approach a bit more."

He smiled, knowing the game was on, and for once, not minding the game.

"Gerry. Call me Gerry."

"That's a start," she said, and walked away.

He watched the dress, the way it curved out from the small of her back to her full hips, and again, she caught him looking.

Chapter 19

Bill dimmed. He saw the moment the life force had left her, saw something electric, a spark maybe. He felt the charge in the air when she passed. Margo did not, however, appear as a wispy image, a woman in white floating before him. Neither was there any bright beam, nor dark shadow, beckoning her to enter. He waited, occupying the room, trying his best to capture anything, any notion of her, but there was nothing aside from the rapidly cooling body her essence once occupied. It was nothing more to him than the furniture it lay on. Her brightness against the still life of the house had gone.

Outside, the rain had stopped, the sun was setting, and a flock of birds was flying south in a V-shaped formation. Leaves stuck to the pavement and the wet, brown grass. The few leaves that remained on the trees clung, defiantly to their posts. The season was as dead as Margaret Sheffield.

Across the street, the two brothers laughed, wearing small, matching rain coats and jeans with wet knees. They bounced a basketball back and forth. The smaller caught it, and threw it back with all his might at the rim of their hoop. It missed, two feet short of the net, but his hands flew in the air, victorious. His brother joined him, retrieving the ball to start the game again. The street lights flickered on in the failing light and their mother leaned out the front door and yelled for them to come in. It was a short battle, which she probably won with promises of dinner and maybe hot chocolate.

Bill darted from room to room like a breeze. The process of his own passing was unclear to him. He had faded from his human body, and later had simply become aware that he was back in the house. His tie to Margo was like a kite string, her floating in the sky, held by the wind and he was a small boy holding the other end, gripping as hard as he could so not to lose the magical thing.

That feeling was gone and he worried the loss of that thing which held him on Earth would free him to move to the next step in the process. Thoughts of heaven were a comfort, if it existed, but nothing felt resolved, nothing felt as he thought it would. He was unsure if he was feeling anything. The thought of not being there as a guide for his deceased wife, and at the time when she might be most vulnerable, was unacceptable. If she had to defend her choice of suicide to the final judge, he was going to be there to speak on her behalf.

He looked in on the kitchen, at the tiles on the table, at his chair, turned by his ghostly hands. It was all worthless, showing himself and communicating with her, if they could not meet in that purgatory.

It hadn't been purgatory until now, he thought. Until now, it was simply home.

He moved to his chair, his thinking spot, and saw the phone. He wondered if he dialed 9-1-1, what might happen. If he could speak to report her death, if he could be understood on the phone. They would come either way, at least to check on the call, and make sure everything was alright.

That led to other worries. If he might stay alone in that house forever. Or if Gerry would move in and share the place with him, a ghost.

He worried that he wouldn't be able to carry out Margo's plan without her. That he wouldn't get through to Gerry, and that he might not have the strength even if she was with him.

"Damnit, Margo," he said. "I knew it wouldn't work. I knew I would lose you. And I had just found you again."

*****

Margo saw Bill first and giggled at him. She didn't know if she could sneak up on him, or what sort of grand entrance she might want to make in their reunion. She found it amazing to be able to move at all, everything so intuitive, so in control. She moved through the doorway from the hall and into the kitchen, peeking at him in his recliner. The motion made her...dizzy was the best way to describe it.

Her mind, if she still had one, raced. She felt young again, but better. She felt free as a bird, at least within the walls of that old home and wondered if the rest of the world would feel the same. The thought of leaving the house—at least leaving without Bill was too much. She knew he was waiting for her, that he was worried. But as she approached, she felt her energy draining, like a dimmer switch taking her into a lack of consciousness, and fading her out completely.

Some time passed before she came back. How much, she could not measure or even estimate. Her return was not viewed through blinking eyes, as if she was waking up, but some other type of transition into being awake or being aware. Black and white at first, the colors washed over her new world in this order: blues, then yellows, then reds. It was all beautiful. Sound came next, starting with the low hum of the heat pump, followed by the compressor on their refrigerator, and finally the low whooshing of the wind outside.

When all was clear, Bill was staring at her. Not solid like before, when they'd been alive, but only the idea of a tangible being. He wasn't smiling, physically, but she could sense his relief, his happiness.

He was nondescript, just a human outline that could have been anyone, a minimalist sketch of a man. She wondered if she might even recognize him had she not known him before, but the presence was so strong, and so unmistakably his. The tingling was gone, and there was no sensation of hairs standing on end. It was different, like radiation from a fireplace, or warmth from the sun, yet it was Bill, his energy. She knew no one else would feel the same.

"Bill," she said, though it felt more like a thought.

"I'm here," he said.

Their spirits embraced in what could only be described as a swirling dance of blue fireflies, energies surrounding energies, invisible to anyone else who might be present. The moment was more intimate than either of them had ever experienced in a human body, and it was exhausting, as if they might cancel each other out. They separated into their own space, looking at one another with theoretical eyes.

"I was afraid," Bill said.

"I know," she answered.

"I thought you'd been passed over, not given the chance..." he trailed off.

"I know, Bill. But we have the same unfinished business."

He was quiet for a moment, then he moved back to his chair.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I don't. I know things. I remember things, but it isn't the same."

"Strange, isn't it?" he asked.

"Very. No tunnel of light. No pearly gates."

"Disappointed?" he asked.

"No. I have you. Wouldn't trade that, not even for heaven."

"Be careful, now. Never know who might be listening."

"I get the feeling we're on our own, Bill. Your presence is so strong, but I don't feel anything else."

Bill thought about the statement. "You may be right. When you...while you were gone."

"What?" she asked.

"It was dreadfully lonely. Complete isolation. None of these things mattered, Margo. I was scared."

"I'm here now."

"Yes. It was just so strange."

"Couldn't be any stranger than when I watched you die. I felt the same way in this house...alone," she said.

"Do you know what is even weirder?"

She didn't answer, but he continued, "I think we're wasting a lot of energy trying to continue being human."

"I don't understand. We're not human?" she said.

"I don't think so. Not anymore."

"Then...what?" she asked.

"Think about it this way," he said. "Our bodies were like vessels, like a pitcher. Our souls—our spirits—like water."

"Okay."

"We're trying to adhere to those pitchers. It's all we know. I was trying to look like Bill Sheffield, to create an image of myself from memory, something that you could understand."

"We don't need to do that?"

"I don't see any reason to. Can't you move around with ease?"

"I...disappeared when I tried that," she said.

"Yes, yes I know. You were trying to walk, to move within your human form. It takes your energy, knocks you on your ghostly ass. I did the same thing at first. But when I relaxed, that's when I found you."

She listened intently to his theory.

"When I relax, I just flow. It's how I moved things, how I spoke to you. I focused on the idea, and it happened. The control is amazing. I think, and it just happens."

"I need a minute with all this," she said.

"Take your time," he said. "Although I don't know how long all this will last."

The pair sat, maybe existed is a better word, in the living room they had occupied for close to forty years. Each felt the other's calming presence. It was a familiar feeling. The sort of unspoken thing old friends and old couples can't describe. Her yin to his yang. Each of them understood now why one elderly spouse never seemed to survive when the other passed.

Suddenly, Margo moved to the kitchen, a small bundle of dim light. Next, she moved down the hallway and into the bedroom. Bill followed, stopping beside her, two orbs hanging in the doorway. She stared at her dead body tucked under the down comforter. It shocked her, but the sight of her corpse seemed distant, like a painting or a film she was watching.

"How long might I have gone on without you?" Margo said.

"I've got a better question," Bill answered.

"What is that?"

"What the hell do we do now?"

Chapter 20

Gerry arrived at his mother's house around 10:00 am. He asked the cab to wait.

"Could be a minute if no one's home. I'll give you the thumb's up if someone is."

The driver nodded.

He stepped quickly along the familiar concrete walk and onto the porch, knocking on the door. Looking in through the window, he could see the living room hadn't changed. He knocked again, bare knuckles on the glass of the window. It stung in the cold of the morning. The sound was quite loud, and he was sure his mother would've heard it, had she been home, but nothing stirred. He turned to leave and noticed three newspapers on the wooden decking of the old front porch, then saw the cab driver waiting, steam pouring from the vehicle's exhaust.

Gerry trotted back to the cab and handed the man some money.

"I'll be fine. Go ahead."

When the cab was gone, he approached the mailbox and opened it. Several letters were inside, and a stack of what must have been sympathy cards. He knew Margo would've been out of sorts, but thought it odd that she hadn't even left the house. He went back to the door, trying the knob, but it was locked and he had no key.

There had always been one under the mat when he was younger, a just-in-case, key. And as he shoved the rubber mat, emblazoned with the word WELCOME, aside, a brass key lay there, just like he remembered. Turning it in the lock, the door popped open, and Gerry walked inside.

It was very warm, and smelled of old clothes and staleness.

"Hello?" he said.

Quiet.

He went into the kitchen, seeing the scrabble game laid out on the table, the rest of it spic-n-span as always. He opened the garage door to see their car was still there. She hadn't gone anywhere. Back in the living room, he noticed the recliner facing the window and thought it strange, but kept walking, past the guest bathroom where he'd spent countless hours as a teen, and to the bedroom where he'd grown up. He pushed the door in and saw the stacks of boxes, the cabinets, and the family Christmas tree.

"Hmm," he said, and then, "Hello? Margo?"

More silence.

"She's hiding from me," he whispered, scowling.

The only room left was hers. Gerry moved into its open doorway ready to pounce, to terrify the woman who had given birth to him. He hoped, momentarily, that she might be there, and that she might have a heart attack at the sight of him. Instead, he saw his mother's corpse in that bed. Her eyes closed and her arms folded, she looked peaceful but gray, and there was no doubt she was dead.

His reaction was unexpected. A knot grew in his throat. He had the urge to cry, to throw something, to kick a hole in the wall, but he kept his cool. And despite all his instincts, he said, "Thanks for making my job easy."

Gerry approached the body, looking closely at her face, her eyes, her neck. He was careful not to touch her, the thought sickening him, but he also wanted to make sure he'd left no evidence. He choked down the lump, left the room and headed into the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator and collected some items to make himself a sandwich.

"Ham and cheese sounds wonderful. Oh, look! Pickles. Mustard. I'm the luckiest man in the world," he said.

In the cabinet, he found a glass, and poured some juice into it. The same juice his mother had used two nights before. Gerry sat at the table, shoved the tiles from the game of Scrabble out of the way, and ate. He finished every bite, drank every drop, set the plate and glass into the sink, and then called the ambulance.

"My mother is dead. It looks like she passed in her sleep," he said calmly to the dispatch.

They took the address and said someone would be there shortly. He worked himself up as much as he could, trying to look distressed when they arrived. It wasn't difficult with the gash on his nose, the bruising on his face. He was sweating as if guilty, and thought that maybe, in some form, he had caused it. But he was clean. Outside of phone records, and his presence there, he was clean.

He walked back into the room where his mother lay dead and sniffed, taking a bite from the sandwich. He set it down, wrapped in its napkin, on her dresser and walked into the bathroom to relieve himself. Gerry was unaware that his father was watching him, unaware that Bill Sheffield held the darkest hatred for him at that moment. Sure, Gerry felt the hair standing on his neck, but he assumed it was because he was in the presence of a dead woman. He pissed with a smile on his face. He closed his eyes and held his head back, listening to the sound of his bladder voiding, splashing into the water below. He didn't, of course, see Bill next to him, the firm glare that stared him down, or the toilet lid dropping. It hit the porcelain bowl with a BANG! and Gerry's urine splattered in every direction, soaking the knees of his pants.

"Fuck," he said, noticing the wetness.

Quickly, he lifted the lid back up so he could finish. He fumbled for a bath towel, found a lavender one hanging on a brass bar behind him, and mopped up most of the mess. Bill might've chuckled if he hadn't been so damned angry.

The police came with the ambulance. A single female officer, whom he was glad he didn't recognize, knocked on the door. Two EMTs behind her. There were flashing lights, but no siren.

"Mr. Sheffield?" she asked when he opened the door.

"That's me."

"Is this your home?"

"My parents'," he said, followed by, "Please come in."

The officer stayed in the front room, while he led the EMTs to her body. Her joints were stiff, the worst of rigor mortis passed. There was no need to check her vitals, but they did, going by the book and taking notes. Gerry went back into the living room, finding the cop looking at the pictures on the mantel.

"I'm just here on routine, not to worry. Do you stay here with your parents?"

Gerry started talking and whether from pent up emotion, or guilt, he couldn't stop. As he spoke, the EMTs left out the front door.

"I know it sounds strange, but I was in jail and just found out my father had passed a few days back. I came over to check on her, and found her like this. I have no idea how long she's been here. I spoke to her on the phone night before last."

The policewoman's reaction shocked him. Her face softened and she touched his arm, leaving her hand there as she spoke. It made him uncomfortable. The EMTs entered with the gurney.

"I'm so sorry. That's quite a week."

"Yes. It's a lot to deal with."

"Any family or close friends?"

He shook his head, and added, "Not in the area," just to be safe.

"Do you go to church?" she asked.

He shook his head, not really understanding why she would ask that question.

"Might want to talk to a grief counselor. I can set you up with one if you like."

"Oh," he said. "No. I have folks I can speak to. Thank you."

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze as the EMTs moved through with his mother, strapped down and covered by a sheet. One stopped while the other continued on, placing her in the rear of the ambulance.

"I just need a signature. We can take her to the funeral home of your choosing for preparation, unless there's some reason for a medical examination."

Gerry shook his head and scribbled his name on the page and showed them his driver's license for identification.

"Smith Brothers," he said and the paramedic wrote it down.

"I don't see any reason why that would be necessary, do you? A medical examination?"

He really didn't see any reason. There was no evidence of any wrongdoing, no suicide note, no marks on her that he'd noticed. She'd died like any other old person who had just lost their spouse. It happened all the time.

"Up to the surviving family members," the EMT said.

"Well, I guess I'm all they have."

"All that information will be discussed with the funeral home."

"I suppose cremation is what she would've wanted as well," Gerry said.

"You'll have to discuss that with the funeral home as well. She may have documented wishes," the EMT said, solemnly.

"Right," Gerry said, smoothing his hair back and looking shattered.

The others looked at him with compassion and concern, but his appearance was more due to the stress of holding in his own laughter than from grief. The stress of needing a drink. He wanted to celebrate. The EMT stepped outside, dialing a cell phone.

"Mr. Sheffield, you take care of yourself, okay?" the cop said.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"If you want to speak to that counselor, let me know."

"I'll do that."

She left out the front door and Gerry moved to push it closed. His excitement started to build, but one of the EMTs was there, watching him when he got to the door. He stifled the urge to smile, the need to laugh.

"Sir, I've contacted Smith Brothers. You should give them a call as well, set up an appointment for tomorrow, make arrangements."

"Right. Yeah, I'll go do that right now."

He nodded and closed the front door to the house. He walked back to the bedroom and looked at the rumpled bedspread, the dent in the pillow where she had been. Then he tore the bedclothes loose from the mattress, and dragged them to the laundry room, leaving them in a pile. He found his mother's purse on the nightstand and fished $40.00 from within, along with her car keys and a credit card. He found her bank card. It had a sticky note attached to it with "PIN: 3347" written on the back.

"Stupid woman," he said and pocketed both.

He'd missed his appointment with Mr. Ruark, Elder Law and Family Practice Attorney, but none of that mattered anymore. After he phoned Smith Brothers, he took a shower, and dressed in one of his father's old suits with no tie. He pulled an expensive trench coat from the entryway closet and went to the garage to take the car.

Downtown, he stopped once for a new pack of cigarettes and two pints of whiskey, which he distributed to each of his jacket pockets. The next time he stopped, he was at the King Lodge Lounge, and Johnna's red pickup truck was parked outside.

Chapter 21

Bill told Margo how Gerry had found her, how he had dispatched her to a pair of EMTs without a tear. How he was so cold upon her discovery.

"It was disgusting to watch. He took my suit and left in the car. He took money from your purse. I'd have strangled him if I could get my hands around his neck."

"Bill?"

"I know. But he stood there and accepted sympathy from that woman, that poor stupid police officer. That woman didn't have any idea she was being had."

"What could she have done, Bill? He didn't kill me."

"Not directly."

"That woman didn't know," she said.

"No. But it's just another person he's lied to. I imagine that list is quite long," he said.

Bill shook his head. Or he would have, if he still had one. He felt the action happening, although in reality it did not.

"Why didn't you?" Margo asked.

"What? Why didn't I what?"

"Strangle him."

"Not sure I'm capable. I mean I am capable, I'm just not sure if a ghost can do that. And I was waiting for you. I didn't know if you were coming back. If I strangle him, I would like for you to be there to see it," he said.

"I hate to say it, but I might enjoy that," she said.

There was silence between them. Those words felt strange coming from her. Enjoyment in watching her own son strangled? In watching anyone get strangled? She had the same sensation building within her, the same sort of anticipation she felt when watching a film, and the bad guy had a violent exit coming. Feeling that way about Gerry bothered her.

"Bill, have we become so like him? To take pleasure in haunting him...in killing him?"

Bill thought before speaking, trying to justify their plan.

"He caused us, and others, so much pain."

Margo paused. The feeling of guilt had not subsided in her.

"Were we like this all along?"

"Margo, stop. Stop trying to figure him out. We're beyond all that," he said.

"What if we aren't?" she asked. "What if we can use this to help him. Scare him, yes. But with the intention of saving him, rather than ruining him."

"I'm dead," Bill said, coldly. "Because of that, so are you. Because of him, you feared so much for your own life, that you ended it. And you want to help him? He's a monster."

"He's our son," she bellowed. Her presence was forceful, and for a moment, she thought she might have been...visible.

"That may be, but something didn't work with him. A birth defect, perhaps. It wasn't a missing limb, or a cleft palette. He was born without a soul."

Quiet filled the house. The spirits each searched for the next thing to say. For a compromise, or some way of comforting the other. Bill's orb circled about the living room in his closest approximation to pacing. Margo stayed in her place, observing him. When he stopped, she was still watching.

"There's no manual for this, is there?" he asked.

"No," she replied.

"I want to do what you want to do. It's served me well in the past, most every time."

She paused before saying, "Really?"

"Yes. Maybe we can fix this. Help him in some way that I won't find myself regretting. If we're going to live for eternity, I don't want new regrets, more than I already have. And I don't want you mad at me for the rest of time either."

"You have regrets?"

"Only that I let you die. And that I fathered a monster. Maybe I can repair one of those."

"How?" she asked.

"No idea. We'll have to take it as it comes."

Chapter 22

The lounge was a bit livelier. A band played country music on the slight stage and a pair of couples danced to the mediocre sounds. They were too loud for the small room, making conversation an impossibility. Five other patrons filled two of the tables and two more walked in behind Gerry. He stood searching, looking for an oasis in the din.

Johnna was missing from the scene, probably in the back avoiding the twang of the vocals and the thump of the bass drum that Gerry felt in his chest. He lit a cigarette and sat at the counter, in the last stool around the corner from the stage. It helped, but not much. The cash register was next to him. A sticker with a picture of the five forms of credit card that the King Lodge Lounge accepted decorated its back. Next to it was a stack of tin foil ashtrays, a bowl of wrapped peppermints, and a push-button toothpick dispenser.

He pulled an ashtray from the stack and laid his smoke in one of the divots. The young bartender from earlier in the week asked him if he wanted a drink.

"Beer. Whatever's on draft."

She smiled. "Weren't you here the other night?"

He heard her, but pretended he didn't and simply nodded, giving her a wink. When she returned with the beer, she leaned closer. Maybe she thought he was hard of hearing. People of his age seemed infinitely older to people of her age.

"You here for dinner?" she asked, shouting.

"No. Johnna."

Her eyes opened, surprised, and she nodded with a look of understanding. What she thought she understood he didn't know. She tapped the counter and whirled on her heels, pushing through the doorway to the kitchen. He saw her in flashes as the swinging door settled back into its resting place. After a moment, Johnna appeared, and the apprehension painted on her face changed into her warmest smile, which Gerry found sexy.

"Evening," he shouted.

Johnna waved, beckoning him to follow and glanced at the band, shuddering. He finished the drag from his cigarette and stamped it out, grabbing the beer and hurrying behind her. When the door swung shut, the sound diminished to a drone of bass and drums, softened by the wall that separated them. He took note of her outfit, the T-shirt and jeans combination again.

"Better," he said.

"Watch your step, greasy back here. Nice suit, by the way," she said, continuing on through the kitchen.

They entered into another area. It was even quieter inside her sprawling office. The room was decorated with more class than the rest of the building, and more than the hotel beyond. A large oak desk and leather chair backed up to a bookshelf. Two other leather chairs sat facing her desk, and another stuffed recliner was behind them, near the entry door. Paintings hung on the walls, plants lived in the corners. On his left was a bathroom, the door propped open, and inside he noticed a shower stall in addition to the sink and toilet. A suit bag hung on the door.

"Nice," he said.

She scanned the room, as if she hadn't thought of it before and nodded.

"I spend a lot of time here. Manage all three businesses from this room, so I guess I wanted to be comfortable."

"Going somewhere?" he asked, eyeing the suit bag.

"No. Like I said, I spend a lot of time here. Even sleep on occasion. All the comforts of home."

"Quiet in here," Gerry said.

"Well, we have the walk-ins between us and the stage. It can be peaceful. Hey, are you ever gonna speak to me in a complete sentence?"

Gerry laughed as he took the seat across from her desk. He looked to her for approval before setting his beer down. She placed a stone coaster for him and he used it.

"Thanks," he said.

She laughed at him. "Guess not, huh?"

Gerry worked out the joke he'd just played on himself and pointed at her, slightly embarrassed.

"I was going to ask if you'd like to accompany me to bed?" he said.

She leaned back in her chair, hand on her chest.

"Well, now, that is a complete sentence."

Gerry smiled. Something about her interested him beyond his normal, primal need, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was the prospect of a tougher woman, more experienced, and maybe even financially successful. No, there was something more.

"What about dinner first?" she asked.

There was a small coffee mug on her desk. She picked it up and tipped it back. He was certain there was no coffee in it. Whiskey perhaps. Her eyes were slightly lowered, and her words were slow and calculated.

"Can I have one of those cigarettes?" she asked.

He tapped one out of the pack and she grabbed it, lighting it from the plastic lighter in his extended hand. She sat back. He watched as the curls of smoke encircled her face.

"Dinner?" he repeated.

She peered at him, blew smoke out of her lungs, and leaned forward, one elbow on her desk. He sipped his beer. His proposition hadn't startled her, hadn't thrown her in the slightest.

"Yes. I think you might want to pace yourself. Not give up all your tricks so soon."

He had no response.

She snubbed the cigarette into her coffee mug and watched him, not straight on, but with her peripheral vision. It was catlike, and it gave him the impression she was considering his offer. Johnna stood up, confusing him. He followed her as she moved to the door and opened it, holding it so he could exit.

"Make yourself comfortable. Have Paula fix you another drink. I'll be out in a bit, ready to go."

"Go?" he asked.

"Yes. To dinner. Give me a few minutes to change."

He nodded, disappointed, but willing to play along. He walked back through the kitchen as her door was closing. Several items were frying, soaking in the brown, bubbling oil, and the chef with the dirty smock looked at him with distaste. No one else was in the kitchen. With a quick glance back, he saw Johnna watching him. She smiled when he did and closed her door completely.

Back in the dining room, the band was on break, all sitting at the bar with various types of drinks. Either they were all deaf, or they'd had several such breaks as their conversation was loud and silly. The oldest appeared to be in his early twenties. The others were questionable to even be in the lounge. They kept the young bartender, Paula he gathered, quite busy, but she eventually worked her way back to him.

"Something else?"

"Same," he replied.

"You weren't back there long," she said and winked.

"Business," he said with a hint of anger.

Her smile faded. "I'll get your drink."

He turned away from the rest of the bar, facing the plate glass window and the parking lot. Only the red truck was visible and the highway beyond it. The buildings across the street were dark. He wondered what Johnna was doing. Changing clothes? Maybe she was taking a shower. Maybe he could join her, get his hands on her curves, his lips on that sexy, smiling mouth of hers. If he surprised her, he thought she might play along. She had an adventurous way. But if he was wrong, he'd be out of a hotel room.

"What have I got to lose?" he said.

"Huh?" Paula asked, setting down his beer.

"Nothing. Talking to myself," he said.

When she went back around the corner to tend to the band, he took a gulp from his beer and walked behind the counter, through the kitchen, ignoring the chef and pushed open the door to her office. It was empty, but the bathroom door was pulled to, not closed, and the water inside was running. He ventured a look.

Inside, Johnna sat on the toilet, fully clothed. Her head was back, eyes closed. On the counter was a syringe and a bit of rubber tubing. He grabbed her by the face, laughing at her.

"I knew there was something I liked about you," he said.

She laughed at him through the fog of a quick hit.

"Hi, Gerry," she slurred.

"Few minutes, my ass," he said.

He searched through her kit, looking for more, but it wasn't there. Where was it hidden? He considered taking advantage of her state, then decided he wanted more from the evening and quietly left her sitting there, giving her space for the time being. He left the office again, pulling the door shut and walking through the kitchen. When he got the same dirty look from the chef, he stopped.

"You," he said.

The young man furrowed his brow, cocking his head.

"What?" he said, a venomous word in his mouth.

"You deal? You keep the boss in her candy?"

"What?" His tone changed, a little nervous.

"I want some," Gerry said.

"I got nothing," the chef said, gruffly.

"Oh no? You mean nothing at all, or nothing but your own personal stash?"

"Nothing."

"So, if I were to call my cop buddies for a party and take you along, you'd be clean, right?"

The chef screwed his face up, sweat beading on his forehead. His food was burning on the griddle. More food burned in the deep fryers. Gerry pulled the baskets out and hung them on the hooks before they started smoking.

"You ain't got no cop buddies."

"No?"

He picked up a wide-bladed spatula from the surface of the grill and touched it to the chef's hand. The chef jerked away in pain and started to back away, but Gerry was on top of him. He had the boy in a headlock, one arm pinned behind his back and pressing him toward the grill's surface. Sweat dripped from the boy's brow, sizzling and steaming off the hot metal.

"Now. Before your boss needs a new cook and a new supplier."

"Okay!" he cried. "Okay."

Gerry stood him back up.

"Good man," he said. "Where?"

The chef nodded toward the back and Gerry steered him in that direction, picking up a large, thick knife on the way. He held its point up to the chef's neck. There was a row of lockers, similar to those found in a public gym. The young man opened one and fished into a duffel bag. Gerry pushed the point of the knife into his neck, a spot of blood forming around it.

"You pull anything out of there other than what I want and I'll cut that ugly lump off of your neck."

The chef nodded. He slowly removed his hand, a sock hanging from it. He handed Gerry the sock, which had something tucked inside. He unrolled it, dumping its contents on a small stainless countertop. A pair of baggies fell out, each holding small amounts of white powder, which he shoved in his pocket, all the while keeping the point of the knife in place.

Gerry removed the knife, letting it drop to the floor, and shoved the chef back toward the kitchen. He dipped his pinky finger into one of the bags, picking a small pile up on the nail and snorted it, tasting the residue.

"Back to work," he said.

He went back in the office and into the bathroom, dangling the baggies from his thumb and forefinger. Johnna blinked, her eyes worthless at first. Then those eyes grew large, excited. Her lips puckered, impressed, and she reached for them.

"Nope. You come with me, and we'll play," he said.

She nodded, staggering to a stand. He caught her as she toppled, feeling her warmth, smelling the combination of cigarette smoke and perfume. It turned him on. She kissed him, sloppy and wet, on his mouth.

"I knew I liked you," she said. "I'll be ready in a minute."

"Yeah. Right."

He helped her out of the office and plopped her into her chair, grabbed her purse, digging for her keys, and searched for any other drugs she might be willing to share. There was nothing else there. He found her jacket on the stuffed recliner and pulled it on her, and grabbed her keys. They exited, arm in arm, looking like two drunks, and found her truck. He helped her get in and started the motor, driving toward his new home.

Chapter 23

Headlights in the driveway startled Bill. He tried to get outside, but found the solid wall, even the window, confusing and frightening. Passing through an object was something awkward, and even though he could see through the glass, he was terrified as to what might happen to him if he did. Scared that he might not be able to get back in, or worse, out there might not exist at all.

He moved to his chair, watching the vehicle in the driveway as the engine turned off and the headlights went dark.

"What is it?" Margo asked.

"It's him."

"Gerry?"

"Yes."

"What if he sees us?"

"What's he going to do if he does?"

"I don't know. I'm just nervous, I guess. You've been exposed to...to the living. I haven't," Margo said.

They stared as he exited the truck, stopping to take a drink from one of his whiskey bottles. It was almost empty by that point, and they watched as Johnna spilled out of the passenger side door. There was a moment's silence before Bill spoke.

"You wanted to see me after I'd died, right?"

"Yes, Bill. More than anything."

"And you couldn't unless I showed myself."

She thought, his words calming her vestigial nerves. "So I have nothing to worry about?"

"No. I think dead is about as bad as it can get."

There were footsteps on the porch. Heavy footsteps, as Gerry had to prop Johnna up. She had sobered slightly, but was giggly as the lock tripped and the pair stumbled into the house. Margo and Bill watched, keeping silent just in case, while Gerry dropped the woman on the couch. Her body flopped into the cushions like a wet sack of laundry. She raised one hand, reaching for Gerry as he walked to the kitchen, her lips curled into a goofy smile.

"She's trashed," Margo said.

The terminology caught Bill by surprise.

"Trashed?" he asked.

"Well, that's what the kids call it."

"Do they?" Bill asked.

The spirit couple followed their son to the kitchen where he was standing at the sink. He pulled a pint bottle from one pocket and opened it. The last slug of whiskey rolled down his throat. Fishing the two baggies of heroin from his pocket, Gerry set them on the counter. He snorted another small sample and frowned. A tiny bit of blood trickled from his nose which he wiped on the sleeve of his father's suit jacket.

"Not quick enough," he said, scanning the room.

Gerry tore through the cabinets and drawers looking for some way to administer the stuff. He grabbed spoons, and a bowl, then found a roll of aluminum foil.

"Do you have a syringe?" he shouted.

Johnna didn't answer. She just lay there.

"Johnna?"

When Gerry moved into the living room, she was staring at the pattern on the couch fabric. The honeymoon was over. He waved her off, agitated.

"Dah!" he grunted. "The purse."

Gerry popped open the front door, leaving it open, and trotted back out to the truck. Bill and Margo watched him, not daring to cross that threshold. He grabbed the purse from the front seat and her kit fell, the tiny hypodermic needle breaking on the concrete driveway.

"Damn it! Fucking damn it," Gerry said, diving back into the truck and opening the glove box.

"Was that cocaine?" Margo said.

"I don't think so. Not if he wants a syringe."

"Well, what do we do?"

Bill moved back to the kitchen. Margo followed, two dim swirls of phosphorescence dancing about each other. He concentrated on the two small baggies.

"I have an idea. And you could use a little practice," he said.

The bags started to float, hovering just over the counter's surface before moving toward the right side of the double sink.

"Turn the water on," Bill said.

"But, how?"

"Think about it. Picture yourself doing it. You've done it a million times."

Margo did as she was told. She focused her mind on the handle of the faucet, and slowly it rocked on its base, a stream of water pouring from the spigot.

"That's it!" Bill said.

The zip enclosures of the first baggie opened, and the bag upended, dumping the fine powder into the sink. It made pasty, wet lumps on the stainless steel surface, which dissolved and disappeared down the drain. Bill dropped the plastic bag into the sink, and popped open the second one. Margo giggled.

"I feel positively filthy," she said.

Gerry stomped back up the steps and into the living room.

"I broke one, but you sick, sick bitch...you had another in your truck. God, we're gonna be great together," he said, entering the kitchen.

The water was still running. Gerry looked around, shrugging to himself. He turned the water off and saw the empty bags where his drugs used to be.

"What the..."

He spun around and stuck his head through the door, looking at Johnna. She hadn't moved. He looked around the kitchen, and then poked his head into the empty garage.

"Who is in here?" he shouted.

He stormed through the house, checking each room. The ghosts followed him.

"Forgot to turn off the water," Margo said.

"It's alright. This is getting good," Bill replied.

When Gerry entered his old bedroom, he slowed, moving with caution. He found the second bottle of whiskey and broke the seal, taking a gulp. Bubbles rose in the brown liquid as he held it upright. All the stacked boxes and the closed closet door were hiding places. He pushed one of the stacks of plastic storage bins, letting them rock. They made a creaking noise. Gerry waited, listening for breathing, or movement.

"Who is in here?" he said through clenched teeth.

Margo giggled and Bill shushed her.

"You said he couldn't hear," she argued.

"Can't be too careful."

"He looks awful," she said. "You always looked sharp in your suit."

"He's drunk, and Lord knows what else," Bill said, ignoring the compliment.

Gerry heard them, or heard something, and he spun on his feet, grabbing at the wall for stability.

"Who's there?" he said.

He moved to the closet door, pulling it open and shoving the stored, hanging clothes aside in a swoop. Nothing living moved. He moved slowly from item to item, nudging the boxes with his foot. Satisfied no one was there, he closed the door behind him and went back to the living room, where the front door was still open.

"Shit," he said. "Probably kids. You see anything?"

Johnna was a lump. Her eyes were open, but she was a zombie, entranced by the floral pattern of the couch, her obvious favorite part of the unfamiliar surroundings. Her state infuriated Gerry and he slammed the front door and leapt to the couch, grabbing her by the face, squeezing her cheeks together. The act made her lips pucker out like a fish.

"Who was it? Some fucking kids throw that shit out? What did you see?"

Her eyes stared blankly at him, a trail of drool running from her lower lip. He shoved her back and stood up, stumbling a bit. Gerry grabbed the recliner, and turned it back around so it faced her on the couch. He pulled up her shirt and unsnapped the clasp between the cups of her bra, exposing her breasts. Then he unbuttoned her jeans, sliding his hand inside to feel the warmth. He kissed Johnna's neck and dragged his tongue down to her chest. She lay still, staring and unresponsive.

"I can't watch this," Margo said.

"Me neither," Bill agreed.

He swirled across the fireplace mantel and knocked a picture over, a photograph of Margo. A second photo, a picture of a Springer Spaniel named Albert they had owned years before, rocked gently then settled back into its place. Gerry jumped, turning toward the mantel.

He stared at the dog as if waiting for it to move. Then it did. Albert barked and wagged his tail. Gerry squinted his eyes, wondering if he had seen what he thought he had seen. Then Albert, the dog in the photograph, barked again. Gerry shrieked first, then chuckled and shook his head.

He watched as another picture dropped, and approached the mantel with wild eyes. Reaching his hand out, he picked up the last photo that had fallen. It was a high school photo, back from a time when his conscience was clear, but his acne was not. He was smiling in it. The goofy smile of a teenage boy who still thought the world would be kind to him. That everything was going to work out.

Behind him, Margo was pulling Johnna's shirt back down over her exposed chest. Bill stayed with his son. Gerry's hand, holding the photo, dropped to his side as he looked at the other toppled frames, but he didn't touch them. He raised the image back up to view it, but instead of his face, there was something else there, a dark-eyed thing with a gaping, toothy mouth. It appeared to move, rolling, like the sea was underneath its skin. Gerry dropped it and gasped, stumbling backward and landing in the recliner. The glass made a sharp sound as it hit the hearth, shattering and dropping shiny shards into the carpet.

"Bill, what did you do?" Margo said.

"I showed him his true self," he said. "Well, my interpretation."

"Well, how'd you do it?"

"I just concentrated. Like I said before."

Gerry sat in the recliner, staring at the mantel and at the shattered glass from the picture on the hearth and the carpet. His hand dug in his coat pocket for the last bottle of whiskey. Spinning the cap off, he guzzled a mouthful...then another...and another. In minutes, it was gone and he was calming down, succumbing to the alcohol and seemingly unaware of Johnna's presence.

Bill and Margo watched.

"What now?" she asked.

"We wait, I suppose."

"I think he's passed out," she said.

They looked at Johnna.

"I know she is," Bill said.

"Should we clean up?" Margo said. "Maybe we shouldn't leave any evidence."

"Good idea. Make him think he's crazy."

"He is crazy," Margo said, staring at her adult son, passed out in their recliner, empty whiskey bottle in his hand, and a stupefied whore lying in an oblivious lump on the couch.

"This is his chosen life?" she asked.

"No," Bill said. "He would've chosen the drugs. And maybe rape, right here in our living room."

Chapter 24

Sun filled the front room. Johnna had been awake for a few minutes, working out where she was and how she'd gotten there. She'd gone to the bathroom and washed her face before lighting a cigarette and sitting, rigid, on the edge of the couch and watching Gerry. After a minute, she kicked him.

"Get up, asshole."

He grumbled, rolling his head to the other shoulder. She took another drag and kicked him again, knocking the elbow he'd propped himself with off the arm of the chair.

"I said, get up, asshole."

Gerry blinked, trying to make his eyes focus. He straightened up in the chair and glared at her.

"What?"

"Where am I?"

"My place."

She looked around, then at the floor and back at him. That pretty smile was packed away and anger sat comfortably in its place. Deep lines creased her forehead, between her sculpted eyebrows.

"How the hell did I get here?" she continued.

The prior evening flashed through Gerry's mind. He remembered the heroin, how it had magically poured itself down the sink. How things had moved. He recalled the demon face in the photograph.

"Why didn't you tell me you were an addict?" he snapped back.

"It's none of your goddamned business," she said in a harsh whisper.

She stood up and approached him.

"You rape me, too? You enjoy undressing me and playing around?"

"No."

"No what?" she shouted, losing control.

"No, I didn't rape you," he growled.

Gerry stood up, towering over her. "But I considered it."

"Fuck you," she said.

"I want you to get out," he said.

His hands were trembling. He didn't know if it was from anger or fear.

"Yeah, not half as much as I do, but you've got my keys."

He reached in his pocket and tossed them at her.

"Get your filthy shit out of my hotel and don't come back," she said.

He laughed. "This from a junkie. I've got filthy shit."

Johnna struck out, punching him in the chest. He caught her and forced her down on the couch.

"Don't...do that," he said.

His face was so close to hers, his lips brushed hers when he spoke. She struggled, but he sat on her thighs, holding her hands to her chest. Her eyes were wide, but still angry. She was breathing through her teeth.

"Some weird things went down here last night. I don't know if it was that tainted shit your chef hooks you up with or what...I just don't know."

Her eyes showed some concern in the anger. He didn't know if it was meant for his safety or for hers. He let up his grip just a little.

"You're crazy," she said, pulling away from him.

He let go of her hands and sat back, still on her legs.

"You want me to feel sorry for you?" she asked. "After I wake up with my clothes half off? In some strange house?"

"I don't care how you feel," he said. "I just want you out of here."

He stood up, letting her go. She gathered her car keys, and walked through the front door, slamming it behind her. The red truck roared to life, shaking the whole house before it rumbled out of the driveway and disappeared beyond what he could see through the front window.

"Bitch," Gerry said.

Something cold moved across his neck and he jumped quickly from the couch.

"The fuck?" he whispered.

He stood still, watching the room around him through shifting eyes.

"I need a drink," he said.

Gerry called a cab and waited outside in the chilly morning air for one to show up. He had the driver drop him at the King Lodge so he could gather his things and pick up the car. In reality, there was nothing much to gather.

He drove slowly by the lounge building as he left, not surprised the parking lot was empty. He didn't want to go back to the house just yet.

Taking a left out of the parking lot, he drove down to 9th street and made a right. When he passed the diner where Jill and Steve worked, he took a moment to chuckle to himself. The door had a CLOSED sign on it, and there was a police cruiser parked on the side of the building.

"Excellent."

He found a McDonald's and ordered a large coffee. Sitting in the corner, between two large plate-glass windows, he watched the other patrons. He wondered how they got through the day-to-day without cracking. He wondered if they knew about him. If anyone looked back, it sent lightning bolts of panic through his being and he couldn't meet their eyes. After a few minutes, it was too much and he left, leaving his coffee on the table.

After driving aimlessly for hours, circling through some of the same streets over a dozen times, he saw what he was looking for, a man standing on the corner for no apparent reason. Gerry stopped and rolled down his window. The two talked a moment, then shook hands. The exchange looked flawless. All of Gerry's cash disappeared into the strangers hand, and a small package of folded brown paper landed on the seat. Inside was enough coke for the night. He just needed someone to share it with.

Gerry pulled into a gas station to fill up. Inside the attached convenience store, he grabbed a case of beer and two fifth bottles of cheap liquor. He paid for all of it on his mother's card and used her bank card and PIN to withdraw the maximum allowed from that freestanding ATM. He hadn't contacted any of her creditors yet to let them know she'd passed.

He drove to the river and sat in the car, drinking several beers and watching the water roll under the cold gray sky. He smoked half a pack of cigarettes while he sat there. At dusk, the street lights flickered on, one by one along the banks, and as the darkness covered him, there was a knock on the fogged-up driver's window. It startled him and he spilled his beer.

Gerry rubbed a clear spot in the glass, expecting to see a policeman, or perhaps a bum asking for money. Instead, there was a young girl. She had dirty blond hair and wore too much eye makeup. She was wrapped in a thick, puffy coat, but it was open down to her waist and the shirt underneath was cut low enough that he could see the pink outlines that were the tops of her nipples. She knocked again.

"Come on, Mister. It's freezin' out here."

He twisted the car key to start the motor and rolled the window down a few inches. Her breath blew steam into the opening. He smiled at her. The gash on his nose had healed considerably and looked more like a scratch than what it had been. His bruising was mostly gone, soaking in and looking more like a light greenish stain than the purple mess it had been. She smiled back.

"Can I get a ride?" she said. "My feet are frozen. I can't walk anymore."

It wasn't that cold out, he thought.

"Zip up your coat. Might help with the cold."

She smirked and adjusted the coat a little, but not much. He knew what she was up to, and even with all he'd been through, found he wanted some of it. Still, he couldn't help toying with her for a while. In his head, he'd already pictured her naked, mounted on top of him. He'd pictured her face buried in between the split zipper of his suit pants.

"Come on," she said. "Can I at least get in for a minute? You got heat in there, right?"

Gerry peered down at the lock button, then back at the pink ridge of her areola in the street lamp. She noticed what he was looking at, and moved the jacket to give him a better view. When he looked back at her face, she was smiling. He flipped the button to unlock the door, and set the case of beer, except for two cans that he'd dropped on the seat, in the back. She hurried around the car and he saw through the windshield, she was wearing a tiny skirt made from three layers of pink fabric. Nothing covered her legs. When she slid into the seat, she exhaled, shivering.

"Maybe it is that cold out there."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this," she said.

He knew how much she was going to appreciate it. He offered her a beer.

"I'm too cold. How about a smoke?" she said, her eyes firmly planted on the pack that sat on the dashboard.

He handed her one, and pulled the bottle of whiskey from its brown paper sack. She suck-started the cigarette with a small, pink, plastic lighter and it made him jealous. Her thick lips curled around it sensually, a practiced move, and she watched him while she puffed. She exhaled, taking the smoke back in through her nostrils.

"Man, that tastes good," she said. "Been a couple days."

She crossed her legs, thin, like the rest of her, and cracked the window open on her side to tap her ashes. He offered her the bottle of whiskey and she laughed.

"Too kind, but I'm not sure it's a good idea," she said.

"Come on, just a sip. To warm you," Gerry said.

She shrugged, removed the top off to take a little drink, and then coughed.

"I'm more of a wine girl," she said.

"I'm sure of it," Gerry said. "Where were you headed?"

She took another drag from the cigarette while she screwed the top back on the bottle.

"Anywhere, really." She laughed, nervously. "I don't really have a place of my own."

"Oh? How do you make a living?" he asked.

He was staring at her like a snake watches a small mouse. He knew full well what bought her groceries, although she looked like she hadn't eaten. Their relationship was still in the game stages. He put the car in reverse and started to back up. Her eyes rounded and she put her hand on his, the cigarette squeezed between her first and middle fingers.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "I didn't say we could go anywhere."

"But you asked me for a ride. You said you had no place to go. I assumed you weren't picky."

She looked out the window as if watching for someone. Her mouth tensed and her eyes grew serious. She pulled on the cigarette again.

"Don't worry about him. I know all too well how this works," Gerry said.

She smiled and cocked her head. "How what works?"

"I will compensate you for all of your time. And until I bring you back to this spot, I will keep you warm. Now, what are you going to do for me?"

He pulled his wallet out and flashed the money at her. In all, it was less than four hundred dollars, but it caught her eye. He peeled five twenties from the stack and handed it to her. She looked him in the eye, then stuffed the cash into her tiny purse and took another drink from the bottle of whiskey.

"Drive," she said.

Gerry reached his hand across and gripped her thigh, giving it a squeeze. She uncrossed her legs, putting her right foot up on the dash and revealing the lacy white panties beneath, allowing him more play room. He gripped her gently and she smiled, letting him know it was okay.

At least as long as the money kept coming, he thought.

"Can I get another smoke?" she said.

"The pack is yours."

Driving back to the house, Gerry had forgotten all about Johnna, and about losing the drugs to an unseen visitor. He forgot about the pictures falling or the reflected face that wasn't his. He and his new friend, named Lisa, sipped whiskey and she slid over next to him. She smelled like candy and cookies. He'd stopped fondling her and unzipped his fly, letting her work on that first hundred bucks. She used her hands, starting slow. It took a while to get him fully erect, but by the time they entered his driveway, ten minutes later, he was close to ejaculating. He pushed her hand away.

"Not yet," he said. "I want this to last all night."

"If you can do that," she said. "I might pay you."

He pushed the button and opened the garage door, parking the car inside. Lisa waited for him to open her door. She wore an odd expression.

"Something wrong?"

"No," she said. "Normally, I don't get taken...home."

"Well, there's no one here but me, so relax."

She followed him in the house with wary footsteps. He led her through the kitchen into the living room and motioned for her to have a seat on the couch. He set the whiskey bottle on the table along with a couple of the beers, which had warmed. Darting back in the kitchen, he grabbed a bowl and two glasses.

"Ash into this," he said.

She lit another cigarette and he poured each of the glasses half full.

"Easy, killer," she said. "I'd like that thing to work when you get around to using it."

He pulled the brown paper package from his pocket and dropped it on the table. She watched it fall, and looked at him with large brown eyes. They had a sparkle, like she might know what it was. She leaned over and lifted the top, seeing the present inside, and smiled.

"I'll be fine," Gerry said.

"Oh, now it's a party."

She giggled and picked up the bag, digging a fingernail inside and snorting it. She pinched her nostrils and blinked a few times. He watched, waiting for her to finish, then took some for himself. He poured some on the glass-top coffee table and cut it into two lines with the edge of his mother's ATM card, then rolled up a twenty dollar bill and partook. She finished the second one. He took her cigarette and dropped it into the bowl, spread her knees apart and kissed her. Lisa wrapped her thin legs around him and kissed back.

Her tongue licked along his top lip, then inside his mouth and she grabbed at his back, and squeezed his ass, grinding herself into him. Gerry pulled her top down, revealing one almost non-existent breast and sucked on the pink nipple that stood erect. She laughed, a tinkling sound like tiny bells.

"That tickles sooo bad," she said.

He bit down on her and she yelped, grabbing his head and holding it tight to her chest. Lisa shoved him away and pulled her top off completely. She tugged at the back of her head, letting thick hair spill over her shoulders and then hiked the pink skirt up to the top of her gaunt hips. Gerry took a swallow from his glass and moved back in, tasting her neck...her shoulder...her belly.

Chapter 25

"This is disgusting," Bill said.

"I don't know," Margo protested. "We used to do it like that."

"With cocaine?"

"Well, no. However, it was exciting. I think we were prettier than they are though. At least we were in our prime. Why do I want popcorn?"

Bill chuckled.

"Watch this," he said.

While Gerry and Lisa squirmed on the sofa, the fifth bottle slid quietly off the table and floated into the kitchen. Margo giggled, keeping one eye on her son. She secretly hoped he would see the thing floating in the air, but he didn't. Not even as the top came off and the remaining three-fourths disappeared down the kitchen sink. Instead of returning it to the table, he laid it on its side, and dropped the cap in the sink. Tink, tink, tink.

"What was that?" Gerry said, pulling his face away from Lisa.

She had his pants undone and was working his underwear down with her toes.

"Nothing," she said, pulling his face back to hers. "Don't interrupt me."

She pulled her lace panties aside, and assisted his aim with one hand as he slipped inside her, sighing.

"I can't watch this. Is this what we have to live with?" Bill said, back in the room with them.

"She seems willing, Bill. Can't really fault him for it."

"She's too willing. Whore's my bet," Bill said.

"Bill, you don't think?"

"Yep. Whore."

"Dear God, what did we raise?" she said.

Lisa moaned, clutching Gerry's lower back with each thrust. He pulled on the frame of the couch, violently pumping.

"Christ," Bill said. "We've got to do something."

"We could just leave," Margo suggested.

"And go where? The neighbors can hear her racket."

Lisa squealed, "Deeper, Daddy. Deeper!"

"Good Lord. Daddy?" Margo said with a chuckle.

Bill swirled around in a circle. Margo followed him.

"I don't know what to do, Bill. What can I do?"

The thrusting increased, as did Lisa's volume. Gerry started grunting, joining her and the couch frame squeaked, holding together with nothing more than good, old-fashioned, American craftsmanship.

"Stop it!" Bill bellowed.

Gerry stumbled back, bumping the table which slid under his weight, and landing on his sweaty ass. His erection stood up like a flag pole. Lisa laughed at him, her thin skin sliding over visible ribs as she bounced.

"What happened?" Lisa asked.

"You didn't hear it?" Gerry said, eyes round as the moon.

"Hear what?"

Bill and Margo sighed.

"Well I'll be. It worked," Margo said.

"I'm not sure this is any better," Bill said. "Between his penis and that cavern she's sitting on..."

"Bill," Margo interrupted.

Gerry was standing at that point, looking around for the source of the voice. Lisa giggled and grabbed for his flopping member. He swatted her hand away.

"Well, give me some more of that coke," she said.

"We used it all."

"Then give me some whiskey," she said, touching herself playfully. "I'm not done yet."

"Get it yourself, it's on the table."

Gerry sat on the other end of the couch with his head in his hands, while Lisa pushed his thigh with her toe. She pushed her lips out.

"Come on, baby. Get me a drinky," she said.

"It's right there," he snarled, gesturing without looking.

"No it isn't," she said, baby talk gone.

Gerry looked up, irritated. He sat up straight. It wasn't there.

"This is going to be good," Margo said.

Gerry stood again, his erection gone, but his heart still pounding from the cocaine. He pulled his pants back on and looked all around the room, then glanced into the kitchen. He found it hard to see into the dark room and had to squint to make out the bottle laying on the edge of the sink, empty and without its cap.

"How the hell did that happen?" he asked.

"What, baby?" Lisa said, still rubbing herself.

He wandered into the kitchen, grabbed the whiskey bottle and brought it back in to her, holding it upside down.

"It's fucking empty," he said.

"We can get more," she said, playfully.

"No. This was almost full. It was right there."

He pointed at the table. His face was bright red and he was starting to shake.

"And you didn't see anything?" he asked.

"No."

"And you didn't hear anything?"

She shook her head.

"It's working," Bill said. "I think it's working."

Lisa stood up from the couch and slid her panties and skirt to the floor. She stepped over to Gerry and pressed her body up against his and kissed his neck.

"I know how to calm you down," she said. "Don't you have beer?"

He nodded, closing his eyes while she ran her fingers across his chest and down his paunchy abdomen. She let him go and walked to the kitchen, grabbing two beers from the fridge and returning. Popping one open, she drank some before handing it to him and shoving him back on the couch. Lisa knelt in front of him, running her hands up his thighs.

"I'm definitely not going to watch this," Margo said.

Her electric presence moved into the kitchen, popping the refrigerator door open. Back in the living room, Gerry put his hands on Lisa's shoulders, holding her away. When he didn't hear anything else for a moment, he settled back, releasing her. Lisa smiled slyly and moved a little closer, licking her lips. She fumbled with the button of his trousers, separating them quickly, and reached inside.

In the kitchen, Margo was apprehensive, struggling with something that used to be simple.

"Bill, I can't do this," Margo said.

There was a can of beer on the counter, another one sliding out of the case. It stopped on the white wire shelf. Bill could feel her tension, her effort.

"What? What are you doing?" he said.

"Trying to throw these cans at her. She's disgusting."

Bill chuckled. Then one of the cans floated up out of the cardboard case with ease. Margo watched in amazement.

"I've got a better idea," Bill said.

"What's that?"

"Do you remember what I said about the face in the picture frame?" he asked.

She looked into the living room at the mantel. Slurping sounds and moans emanated from the couch.

"Gah!" Margo said. "Yes, I remember."

"Use it on her."

"You mean scare her?"

"No, Margo. Be her."

Margo looked in the living room, shuddered and looked back at Bill.

"Not while she's doing that."

"Then make her stop."

More moans emanated from the adjacent room, and more gagging noises.

"Ugh. I wish I could, Bill," Margo said, disgusted.

"Focus on it. Not doing the action. Focus on it like it's already happening."

She did as he said, imagining the beer hovering, following her as if it was an obedient puppy. It moved over the counter to her delighted surprise. It was sloppy, but it worked. She imagined the top popping open and it did. The crack and subsequent hiss were barely audible. Gerry's head was back, eyes closed and mouth open. He hadn't noticed. Lisa's head bobbed up and down like one of those magic drinking plastic birds full of red dichloromethane you got as a kid.

"Now, go...interrupt them," he said.

Margo hesitated. She felt something that resembled nausea at the thought of what Bill was suggesting—what she was considering. It wasn't nausea, because she had no stomach to empty, but the feeling was the same.

She concentrated, picturing herself in the living room, and her light orb followed. She saw herself on her knees in front of her son, peering up at him. It was vile being there, seeing her son's chest glistening with sweat. The pair stunk like liquor and candy scented cologne and sex and armpits and cigarettes.

Margo chanced a look back at Bill who was cheering her on, albeit with some concern in his ghostly features. She sighed and turned back to her son, careful not to look down at what the whore was doing, and trying not to hear the sounds of her slurping on her son.

The beer can floated two feet above his head. Margo held it there. She had thought about carrying it and holding it there, and it had worked. She was so excited, that she hadn't realized he was looking down, eyes closed, and making overly dramatic faces of satisfaction. Faces that said, "Yeah baby. That's right. Keep doin' that."

Suddenly he realized Gerry was staring at her—not Lisa, but into the eyes of his own mother. Horror spread thick across his face like peanut butter. His mouth hung open and he tried to scream. Margo smiled wide, knowing the haunt was working. Absurd and disgusting as it was, it was working.

The only thing she could think to say was, "Having fun, dear?"

To him, it must have looked like his naked, dead mother had paused while gobbling his cock, just long enough to check in. How's that orgasm coming, son? Margo let the open beer pour all over him. The shock of cold finally allowed him to release the scream he'd been holding in, and he kicked out with both feet. It sent Lisa sprawling backwards, the wind rocked from her chest.

"Shit!" he screamed. "Shit! Fucking Shit!"

Lisa coughed on the floor, writhing in agony and gasping for air. In the kitchen, the tabs from the beer cans started to pop open, and the foamy liquid sprayed in all directions. Then the cans flew from the counter into the living room, one striking Gerry in the shoulder. He leapt from the couch, frenzied. Paranoid from the drugs and lost in the situation, he turned his anger toward Lisa. Whore, he thought.

"You," he snarled.

He fell to his knees and crawled toward her, reaching and grabbing her ankle and dragging her slight frame to him. The carpet burned her buttocks and back. She was still coughing, still gasping, her eyes full of fear as he gripped her throat and picked her up, her face level with his. She clawed at him and slapped his face. She pulled at his fingers, trying to loosen his grip on her neck. The beer cans stopped flying.

"I don't know how, but this is your fault," he said, leering at Lisa.

His hands gripped tighter and her face began to change color.

"Your fault," he said again. He screamed, "Your fault!"

The hair stood on Gerry's body. The electricity was so thick in the air, he could smell it, could taste the bitterness on his tongue like he'd licked a nine volt battery. Lisa's face melted into something horrid—the face from the picture frame. A demon with the seas rolling beneath its skin looked at him, the black pits where its eyes should have been carved deep ruts into Gerry's soul. He shuddered, dropping Lisa. Even as he let go and she fell from his grip, the monster stayed, inches from his face.

"Don't you dare," it said.

Gerry scrambled backward, finding a corner in the room and packing himself into it, grabbing around his knees and pulling them into his chest. He shuddered like a child hiding from a nightmare. The demon thing turned its head sharply, finding him in the corner. Gerry screamed.

"No!"

It vanished.

Lisa struggled, but pulled her clothes on, keeping one eye on Gerry the whole time. He watched her, and sobbed. When she finally caught her breath, she picked up one of the beer cans from the floor and hurled it at him. He held his hand up to cover his face, but it bounced off of his shin, leaving a red welt.

"I don't know what's wrong with you," she croaked. "But fuck you."

She grabbed his pants and pulled the wallet out, unfolding it and grabbing the wad of bills inside and stuffing them into her purse. She picked up another beer and poured some in her mouth, swishing it around before spitting it on the floor.

"You need serious help," she said.

He continued to cower in the corner as she picked up the phone and called someone. Gerry shook, naked and uncaring. His eyes darted from side to side, watching for anything. Another beer can fell off the counter in the kitchen, causing him to lurch, sending him into deeper sobs.

"Hi. Good haul, but this assbag is twisted. Can you send a cab to...where the fuck am I?" Lisa said, glaring at Gerry.

He didn't move. Didn't speak, only cried. She lit a cigarette and stared at him with full contempt.

"Hang on," she said, laying the phone down.

Lisa walked out the front door and out to the sidewalk where the mailbox was, taking note of the address and the street name on the sign at the corner. While she was gone, Bill and Margo checked in on their son.

They projected their forms in front of him, wavering outlines that glowed just slightly in the living room. Gerry hid his eyes so as not to see them.

"Son, you are a mess," Bill said.

The words filled the room, a backwards sucking sound. Gerry cupped his hands over his ears and dug his fingers into the skin. Thin ribbons of flesh curled into each fingernail. The scratches slowly filled in with bright red blood.

"We wanted to help, but you're lost, Gerry. Just lost," Margo said, her voice matching Bill's.

Gerry shrieked, batting at the air, at the ghosts, his emotions amplified by the drugs. Lisa came back in the house, grabbing the phone and rolling her eyes at the whimpering lump in the corner.

"Twenty-one twenty-seven Connors Avenue. Get me a cab, a bus. Fuck, get me a moped. I can't stay in this place. I'll be outside," Lisa said.

She nodded as the person on the other end of the line spoke. Then she slammed the phone down and glared at Gerry. She went to the garage and found her puffy jacket in the car, putting it on as she walked back through the house and out the front door.

Gerry stayed in his corner.

Chapter 26

Hours later, Gerry's breathing was manageable. Nothing else had happened in the house and in his mind, either the cocaine or that slut Lisa had caused the disturbance. There was a notion in his mind that his parents were somehow at fault, but he wasn't a spiritual person, and he didn't believe in ghosts. His brain hadn't gotten that far yet.

He slowly crawled out of the corner, found his underwear in the pile of his discarded clothing and pulled them on. It gave him a small glimmer of security. He popped a cigarette into his mouth, but his hand shook so hard, he almost couldn't light it. Gerry sat on the couch and smoked.

"Not funny," he said. "None of this is fucking funny."

He took stock of the mess, of the evening. How had it gone so wrong? He was denied the heroin high with Johnna, then denied coked-up, marathon sex with Lisa. Things were moving, he had heard voices, seen faces. He felt the blood rush to his head as he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. When he exhaled, the air sputtered, shuddering like a child crying so hard, they couldn't stop.

When he closed his eyes, he saw Margaret Sheffield, gray and dead, tucked into that bed in the back room. She'd given up to be with Bill. So much death in such a short period of time. He sucked in another drag.

"It's this house," Gerry whispered, smoke pouring from his lungs, curling around his nose and burning his eyes.

He blinked madly. Saying it out loud gave him pause. He must have been thinking something was up in the house, but between his intuition and his brain, something was disconnected. It occurred to him in that moment—his parents were causing the hallucinations. Even dead, they were still shitting on him.

"I don't know how you're doing it, but I should have seen this coming," he said. "You're shitting on me. You've always been shitting on me."

His breaths steadied. His hand had stopped shaking. He glanced at the unopened beer on the glass-top table and nausea rose in his belly. He wouldn't drink it, which was fine with him. He wanted to be clear. That way he could blame the drugs. He could blame the whiskey. It was the best explanation and one he could live with.

But he couldn't live with it, not even for a moment. He could blame his parents, the heroin addict, Johnna, the whore waitress, Jill, and her psycho husband, Steve. He could blame Rex, the homeless guy and fucking Tinsley. He could fucking blame Tinsley. He could blame the house. Gerry knew one thing and one thing only: he was the victim in this circus.

Without warning, the beer can tipped over and fell to the floor. Gerry squealed, moaning in pained torment. The tab on the can popped and beer sprayed across the floor.

"Who are you?" he screamed.

Pictures from the mantel flew across the room. The lights intensified and one of the bulbs popped, spraying glass across the end table and onto the carpet. A strong breeze crossed over him, chilling him to goose-pimples. Gerry pulled his legs to his chest and dropped the cigarette, which burned a black circle in the couch's seat cushion. He slapped at it, putting it out.

"What do you want?" he shouted.

"You can't go on like this," Bill's voice said.

It ached in his head, throbbing and causing his skull to feel like it was swelling, wanting to split.

"We can't let you be this way," Margo added. "No more."

"Stop," Gerry said. "STOP!"

He fell over on the couch, pulling one of the back pillows over his head, clamping it down on his ear to muffle the noise. He shuddered, shrieking and kicking his feet, knocking over the end table and sending the lamp with the broken bulb crashing to the floor.

"A tantrum," Margo said. "Just like when he was a baby."

"Mmm," Bill groaned. "I remember."

"Maybe we should let him be for a while?" she said. "When he calms down, we can try talking to him again."

"Never worked before," Bill said.

"You're right. It never did."

"Have we done enough?" Bill asked.

"I don't know," she said.

They watched him continue to flail, complain, and wail like a young child who wasn't getting his way. Gerry's sobs turned from groaning, hoarse moans into wheezing. He slept in that position, giving in to pure exhaustion, pillow clamped over his ears.

"Tomorrow is another day, Margo."

"I'm afraid it is, Bill."

Chapter 27

Morning light glinted off the broken glass and the silver rims of the scattered beer cans. Bill and Margo paced about the room, circling like sentries guarding their prisoner. Gerry slept, looking peaceful as if he had no memory of the previous evening. The pillow had slipped from his hands and fallen to the floor.

"Do we clean up again?"

"No," Bill replied. "Let him see the mess. He needs reality."

They waited, continuing to guard their son as he snored, growing more and more impatient. The spirits wound around each other, dancing about from room to room and back to the vision of their almost forty-year-old son, lying on his side in his boxers, belly hanging, hair thinning and greasy.

"Bill, I'll never be able to rest with that living here."

"We're working on that. It will take time. It took him more than twenty years to get this way."

"I'm not sure I will ever get the image of his erection out of my mind either," she said.

"That makes two of us," Bill said.

Margo huffed and disappeared to the kitchen. Cabinet doors rattled, and the sink was on, then off before she returned, balancing a plastic cup of water in the air. She let it go over his head, water splashing in his open, snoring mouth and the cup bouncing off the bridge of his still healing nose. The scab split and blood ran freely.

"Shit!" Gerry said, grabbing at his face.

He grumbled as he sat up, his eyes blurred by the pain, his mind clouded from chemical abuse. Once he could focus, his mouth turned down in a frown. The night before came flooding back. He left the room quickly, and went to his parents' room, cranking the hot water on in the shower and stepping in with his boxers on. Margo spun the handle to cold, sending him jumping back out onto the slick tile floor. He slid and landed in a seated position.

Gerry laid back on the floor in agony. Numbness shot down one leg. He looked back at the shower stall, glaring, when the knob turned slowly, in front of his eyes, and the water shut off. His reaction was different than the night before. Instead of crying and curling into a ball, he stood, reached into the shower, and turned the water back on.

"Do it again," he said, challenging.

He stood, waiting, growing angry and rubbing his bruised backside.

"Again!" he shouted.

Margo consulted with Bill, "What do I do?"

"Dunno. Turn it back off."

She did as he said, cutting off the water as Gerry's eyes opened wide, his mouth curled into a sneer.

"So I can make you do what I want, even after you're dead," he said.

"That's what you think," Bill replied without hesitation.

Gerry jumped, not expecting the voice. His body stiffened, shaking.

"I'll light this place on fire," he said. "Are you trapped here? I hope so, so you can die again."

"You're threatening something you can't understand," Bill said out loud.

"Good one, honey. That'll get him," Margo said, just to Bill.

Gerry laughed, turning to leave the room. The door slammed in his face.

"You can't leave," Bill said.

Gerry pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom. He bent down, grabbing the mattress and tossing it across the room. The mirror over the dresser shattered. He pulled drawers from Margo's vanity and slung them, sending jewelry and scarves, brushes and lipstick tubes across the room. Then he turned back toward the bathroom, chest heaving.

"I'll leave or I'll tear this place apart."

"You aren't mad at us," Margo said.

"I'm not mad," Gerry said. "I hate you. Even dead, I hate you. I thought it would give me some peace from your bullshit, but I think this is worse."

"You're mad at yourself, Gerry."

Gerry laughed, an evil sound.

"You've never lived, and you're killing yourself. All we want, all we've ever wanted was for you to be safe and happy," Bill added.

He continued to laugh.

"You failed, didn't you?" Gerry said. "You can't stand that you died failures, and now you want to torment me, right?"

Margo stopped allowing him to hear her. She spoke to Bill.

"I think he might be right, Bill. Sick as he is, he might have that one right."

"What do you suggest?"

Gerry slammed his fist on the wall, denting the sheetrock.

"Answer me!" he screamed.

Bill spoke only to Margo. "I say we ignore him."

"Bill?"

"It's the only thing we've never tried. We've never let him take responsibility."

"Where are you now? Failures? Answer me!" Gerry shouted.

He scrambled into the living room, shouting at his tormentors, overturning furniture and tearing pictures from the walls.

"You like to knock things over? You think you scare me? You know shit."

The ghosts stayed silent. They watched with a more clinical attitude, expecting nothing, but still taking in the results with interest.

"I'm leaving. I'll sell this hole. Whoever buys it can inherit the disease that lives here."

"We'll follow you," Margo said to Gerry.

To Bill, she said, "I can't sit quietly."

Gerry, enraged, turned the recliner over. He rushed the front door, still dripping wet and wearing the boxer shorts. When he opened the door, air rushed around him, and Margo knocked him back inside, sending him toppling over his own feet and onto his back. He got to his feet and charged again, meeting the same force. The door slammed and Bill surrounded Gerry, who struggled to get to his feet and moved—much slower—toward the front door. Bill knocked him down the last time, pouncing on his son and pressing him to the floor.

"Stay down," Bill hissed.

"Get the fuck off me," Gerry said.

Bill slammed him down. "I'm done coddling you, boy."

"You're dead, Bill. You lose," Gerry said.

"I always have. With you, I've always lost."

Gerry chuckled and Bill slammed him again.

"Bill. That's not helping," Margo said.

"Kill me," Gerry said. "I'll come after you if you kill me. Why don't you just kill me?"

The thought hadn't occurred to them. Bill let him go and Gerry stood up, backing away from the feeling of presence, the electricity. Bill continued to press him, Margo at his side, unsure of what to try next.

Gerry looked around, snarling, his eyes crazy in a way that scared the two ghosts.

"That's right. I'll come after you. I'll find a way, whether you kill me, or I drink myself to death. I'll get where you are and I'll fuck with you for eternity."

He sat on the couch, arms spread along the back, and chuckled like a madman.

"Didn't expect that," Bill said.

"Me either," Margo replied.

Chapter 28

Over the next twelve hours, Gerry faded into insanity. He didn't sleep, but spent the majority of his time mumbling to himself. At dawn, he soiled the boxer shorts he hadn't removed since the whore, Lisa, left. He stayed in the urine and feces soaked shorts, dripping filth wherever he went.

He laughed spontaneously, cried spontaneously and in between, continued to tear the house apart.

His first attempt at suicide failed.

Gerry dragged a steak knife across his arm, ripping a jagged line in the skin.

"No," Margo said, ripping the blade from his hand.

He reached back to the drawer for another, but it was slammed shut with a power he couldn't match. He tried to pull it open, but it would not budge. He retreated to the couch, sitting in a familiar pose, looking like his father thinking at the window, in the recliner. His mind was not solving problems, not worrying about family issues or juggling bills. Instead, he was plotting mayhem, looking for a way to end his life. He contemplated the ludicrous: how to chase two ghosts into the afterlife in order to cause them harm.

Rushing into the kitchen, he tore the cabinet open from under the sink and removed a bottle of degreaser with the intent of drinking it. It was slapped from his hand. The bottle landed on the floor, a puddle of the purple liquid spreading on the floor. He laughed at it, pointing.

"Next," he said.

That afternoon, Gerry took to chewing his nails. He gnawed them to the quick and beyond, leaving bloody and sore tips to each finger. He lit a cigarette from the pack Lisa left behind. As he watched the lighter flame burst with each drag, he smiled.

"Burn it," he said.

Margo plucked the lighter from his hand and dumped it in the sink, grinding it in the disposal. Gerry flipped the disposal switch off and held it down. He reached in the disposal searching for it, a desperate move. After he retrieved the lighter, he frowned. The body was whole, but the steel roller was missing, somewhere within the drain opening. Even if he could find the pieces, it would never work. He approached the door again and reached for the knob, but thought better of it, fearful of the force that might knock him back again.

"There's more than one way. More than two ways."

He looked at his fingers, popping each one off his thumb as he counted. The exercise occupied the next hour of his diminishing life. Margo and Bill watched. The clinical nature of their observation grew and their memories of him faded. It wasn't that they no longer cared, but they had no more need to care. They were no longer disappointed, no longer disgusted, no longer compassionate. Bill and Margo may as well have been studying an animal with its leg caught in a trap. One that would gnaw its leg off to escape.

*****

The wind whipped outside, bringing a driving, freezing rain. The spirits, resigned to observe, no longer to participate, began to wonder what would happen next.

"We can't do this forever," Bill said.

"And if he crosses over?"

Bill sighed. "He won't stay with us. I don't know what the rules are yet, but I don't believe he'll stay just to torment us."

"What then?" Margo asked.

"Maybe it's like you said. Maybe he will have to find his own unfinished business, his own lack to resolve."

"How do you feel, Bill?"

"I don't feel any way. I feel blank...like this place. Blank like this existence."

A crash got their attention. The noise came from the spare bedroom. The pair didn't follow, but waited, wondering if the end had come for the man in their house. Gerry emerged from the room, dragging behind him a length of nylon rope, bright yellow and a quarter inch in diameter. He walked to the garage, grabbing a chair from the kitchen table as he went.

"I'm coming," he said. "You hear me?"

They watched as he climbed up on the chair and folded the rope in half. Doubled, he tossed it up and over one of the angled supports to the vaulted ceiling. Gerry pulled the bitter ends through the loop and yanked it tight, securing it to the beam. From the loose ends, he fashioned a makeshift slipknot for his hangman's noose.

"Stop me now," he said, taunting them.

"Bill, he wants us to stop him," Margo said.

"So he says," Bill replied.

"No, I mean, he's tormented. He's asking for help. He wants us to stop him," Margo said.

"It's too late."

There was silence as Gerry stood on the chair. He tugged on the rope, which stretched quite a bit. He grinned, maniacally, pleased with the result.

"Are you alright?" Bill asked her.

"Yes."

And she was. Her memories of Gerry dissolved, good and bad, like they were being erased from some cosmic chalkboard. With each swipe of its eraser, the spirits of William and Margaret Sheffield settled into their more ethereal selves. The scene that unfolded in front of them no longer mattered. It appeared in soft focus, like a daytime drama, where nothing is harshly lit, nothing fully exposed. They understood life and death in a new way.

Their release came in the form of a creature, imagined or real. Neither of them could tell. Its form was earthen, like a fairytale beast. Or perhaps, the creature was merely formed from things they understood. Moss covered stones made up its bulky, muscled shoulders and something resembling a chest. Portions of it were like trees, trunks twisted into thick forearms, branches made fingers. It had leafy wings, not unlike those of an eagle. Smaller stones on the face resembled the scales of a lizard, or a fish, and long grasses grew from the back of its head like the mane of a great horse. Instead of legs, it waded through the natural world, wearing the ground like an undulating skirt.

Moving slowly, it turned to look at them with sad, coal-black eyes, no more than hollows in its massive head. In them, Margo and Bill saw eternity...they saw peace. Neither could comprehend exactly what they were looking at. Some representation of everything. Some representation of God. Their human worries all but gone, they looked once more at their son, as he prepared his noose, as he stood upon the chair, cursing as he did.

The shambling mass of earth and animal opened a mouth made of soil and grasses, teeth of stone, and spoke. The sound was deep and powerful, vibrating their beings, but as soothing as a kindly grandfather reading a children's book at bedtime. Its words were slow.

"My one mistake was the human being."

A tear, giant in size, rolled down the stone face, leaving a wet stain. The figure smiled in spite of it.

"But every so often, I find some I am proud of. Some who understand. Come with me," it said.

The thing turned and rumbled into the distance. Bill and Margo, or what they had become, followed, absorbing into it, becoming a flock of geese, then a school of tuna, then the light itself. Their human worries, neuroses, desires, prejudices, pains, memories, selves, vanished into warm, contented oblivion. Pardoned. Relieved of their human curse.

Gerry stood on the chair and placed the noose about his neck in his parent's garage.

"I'll find you," he said to the house. "You can't hide. You can't win."

His manner wasn't depressed, nor angry. It didn't resemble any emotion associated with suicide. He chuckled, giggling like an infant watching a playful kitten, but his face held no expression. Robotic and insane.

"I'll find you," he sang.

He waited a moment, giving them one more chance to respond. Suddenly, he was unsure who he was waiting for.

Gerry kicked the chair away and the rope snapped taught. It creaked as it swayed and stretched, Gerry its pendulum. His feet dangled, but failed him, coming six to eight inches short of reaching the floor. His eyes bulged and burned. He cursed in his mind because his neck had not broken. The pain cleared him of the craziness, and a sudden instinct to survive gripped him.

He clutched at the rope, digging his nails into the flesh around his throat, peeling up curls of skin with his dirty fingernails. He tried to relieve the pressure, grabbed behind his head, tried to pull himself up. His hands were clammy and the nylon slick. They slid, finding nothing to grip.

He couldn't cough, but made a weak, wet clicking noise as he tried to move his swollen tongue out of the way of his windpipe. A gray fuzziness—not the type he preferred—started closing in on him like the iris of a camera lens, slowly reducing his view to a soft circle. Blood vessels burst in his eyes and his face, spreading thin, purple veins across his cheeks. Spots of light filled his vision momentarily.

Among the spots, something else appeared and, while the pain lingered, his vision became as clear as high definition. He embraced the end, assured it was coming. His mind eased. His need for vengeance subsided. The only thing he could think of was relief. His whole adult life had been painful, grieving for himself. And it was about to come to a welcome end.

A human-like being approached. It walked with the grace of a seasoned ballerina. Bald...in fact, he saw no hair whatsoever on its snow-white skin—pale pink in the creases. The eyelids and lips appeared bruised in faded purple and gray. Gerry became entranced, enchanted by the deep, blood-red eyes, like crimson billiard balls. A tiny speck of black, only a pinpoint, defined each pupil. The figure was nude and exhibited the traits of both a male and a female. Sinewy muscles lined its frame.

It sniffed at him like a chef testing the aroma of a magical sauce and it laughed. It was a horrible noise that cracked through Gerry like an unexpected visit from Lightning and its brother, Thunder. The creature revealed a mouth full of pointed teeth. Its hands were clawed. Thick, brilliant red nails, just like the eyes, glittered in the light. With one of them, it reached out to Gerry, lightly brushing his face. He would have cried out, if he could have spoken.

It punctured one purple cheek as Gerry gasped, still choking, and blood trickled down, dripping onto the floor below. The messenger smiled and rose up, hovering in the air on translucent, leathery wings. They made no sound as they flapped, at least none which Gerry could hear. It mocked Gerry's predicament with its own body, cocking its head in a morbid joke, but only for a moment. Then it sneered, almost touching its drawn-back lips to Gerry's face, its cold breath like rose petals and rot. It reached out its hands and grabbed Gerry by his armpits, raising him up until his head bumped the beam he hung from. Gerry inhaled. The pressure temporarily relieved on his neck, he had the overwhelming urge to thank the strange being.

The creature smiled, grinning wide with its reptilian mouth, and said, "Welcome back."

With a nasty chuckle, it dropped him into darkness, snapping the rope at its end. In that case, the second time was a charm.

*****

For Gerry, hell was not a fiery place inside the earth, not some subterranean cavern full of red-skinned demons that tortured souls. His hell was already in progress, an everlasting trip through the same life, each time with less help. His hell was getting worse.

Dim light, like the red-orange seen through closed eyelids on a sunny day, woke Gerry from the black. He blinked, taking in his surroundings, and found himself in the booth seat of a familiar bar, coming to after a drunken nap. He walked to the counter, staggering only once before sitting down on a padded stool. On the surface of that counter were a few spilled peanuts, which he flicked onto the floor. He was wearing dirty jeans, a plaid button-down shirt, and a wicked smile. A loud blues band was playing. A sour-faced waitress, thirty-something, in tight jeans and a low cut T-shirt, was ignoring him. He leaned over, calling to the tattooed bartender.

"Get me another?"

END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I'm just a dude who writes to center himself. I have a family that loves me, including my fantastic wife, Stephanie, and two young ladies who put up with my immaturity amazingly well. My wife navigates as we adventure about this rock with a dog, a bird, a lizard, and some fish. The children provide the adventure. All is right with the world.

Writing, playing music, drawing, animating...any art form really gets me deep down and if it tells a story, I'm there. I hope you'll read some of my work and if you do, I hope it scares you. Or at least, I hope you get a laugh.

Thanks for reading!

Always keep it creepy,

Dan Dillard

Come find me...

demonauthor@gmail.com

http://www.demonauthor.com

http://twitter.com/demonauthor

http://gplus.to/dandillard

http://www.facebook.com/thedemonauthor

http://penofthedamned.com

