Scott Nicholson - Thank You For The Flowers.pdf - Scott Nicholson - widez2

Table of Contents

Introduction

1. Haunted c 1998

2. The Vampire Shortstop c 1999

3. Skin c 1999

4. Dead Air c 1998

5. In the Heart of November

6. The Three-Dollar Corpse c 1998

7. Thirst c 1998

8. Do You Know Me Yet? c 1999

9. Homecoming c 1998

10. Kill Your Darlings c 1998

11. Metabolism c 1998

12. The Boy Who Saw Fire c 1998

13. Constitution c 1999

Afterwords c 2000

INTRODUCTION

How nice of you to come.

It would have been easy to stay away, to leave me where I lay. Yet you came, even though the moon is

low and you really should be asleep, safe in your dreams of silk. You came even though your bones rattle

with the chill.

I'm so glad you're here. Now we can have that little chat, lost in darkness with nothing between us. No

more lying. No eye games, no distractions, no dreaded tomorrows or forlorn yesterdays to hide behind.

Just you and me and words.

Trust me. Take my hand.

We're in this together, you and I, in this dance of dust and air.

We will walk in shadows, we will learn to breathe again, we will teach our hearts to beat.

Because hope should never surrender, and love should never rest in peace.

So let's go, all the way.

And then some.

Farther.

By the way, thank you for the flowers.

HAUNTED

“Do it again, Daddy.” Janie's coloring book was in her lap, forgotten.

Darrell smiled and thumbed open the top on his Zippo lighter. He struck the flint wheel and the flame

burst to life. The dancing fire reflected in each of Janie's pupils. Her mouth was open in fascination.

“It's pretty,” she said.

“And so are you. Now back to your coloring. It's almost bedtime.” Darrell flipped the silver metal lid

closed, snuffing the orange flame.

Janie put the coloring book in front of her and rolled onto her stomach. She chose a crayon. Gray.

Darrell frowned and placed the lighter by the ashtray.

Rita tensed in her chair beside him. She reached out with her thin hand and gripped his arm. “Did you

hear that?” she whispered.

Darrell listened. Janie was humming to herself. The wax of the crayon made a soft squeak across the

paper. The clock on the mantel ticked once, again, three times, more.

He tried to hear beyond those normal sounds. His hearing was shot. Too much Elvis, Rita always said.

Too much Elvis would make anybody deaf.

“From the kitchen,” she said. “Or outside.”

Janie heard the same noise that Rita was hearing. She cocked her head, the crayon poised above the

page. She stopped kicking her feet, the heels of her saddle shoes nearly touching her back.

“Mice, most likely,” he said, too loudly. He was head of the household. It was his job to put on a brave

face. The expression fit him like a glass mask.

Why didn't the damned dog bark? Dogs were supposed to be sensitive to spirits from the other side. He

put down the newspaper, paper crackling. Mayor Loeb and Martin Luther King looked out from the

front page. Black and white.

“Terribly loud mice,” Rita finally answered. Darrell shot her a glance, then rolled his eyes toward Janie.

Rita was usually careful in front of their daughter. But having those noisy things around had been stressful.

“Sounds like it's coming from the kitchen,” he said with what he hoped was nonchalance. He pulled his

cigar from his mouth. He rarely smoked, and never inside the house. But they were a comfort, with their

rich sweet smell and tangy taste and the round weight between his lips.

He laid the cigar carefully beside his lighter, propping up the damp end on the ashtray so the dust

wouldn't stick to it. The ashtray was shaped like a starfish. They'd gotten it on their honeymoon to Cuba,

back when Americans were allowed to visit. He could still see the map of the island that had been

painted on the bottom of the glass.

Darrell stood, his recliner groaning in relief. He looked down at the hollow impression in the woven seat

of the chair. Too much food. Too much food, and too much Elvis.

Can't go back. Can't get younger. Can't change things. He shook his head at nothing.

“Don't bother, honey. The mice won't hurt anything.” Rita chewed at the red end of her index finger.

“Well, we can't let them have the run of the house.” It was their secret code, worked out over the long

sleepless night. Janie didn't need to know. She was too young to understand. But the things were beyond

anybody's understanding, no matter what age a person was.

Darrell glanced at the big boxy RCA that cast a flickering shadow from one corner of the room. They

usually watched with the sound turned down. Barney Fife was saying something to Andy, his Adam's

apple twitching up and down like a turkey's.

“Get me a soda while you're up?” Rita asked. Trying to pretend everything was normal.

“Sure. Anything for you, pumpkin?”

Janie shook her head. He wished she would go back to coloring. Her eyes were wide now, waiting. He

was supposed to protect her from worries.

She put the gray crayon back in the box. Fifteen other colors, and she almost always used gray. Freud

would probably have made something of that. Darrell hoped she would select a blue, even a red,

something vibrant and found in rainbows. His heart tightened as she chose black.

He walked past her and turned up the sound on the television. Beginning to whistle, he headed across

the living room. No tune came to mind. He forced a few in-between notes and the music jumped track

somewhere in his throat. He began again, with “I See the Moon.” Janie's favorite.

Where was that dog? Always underfoot when Darrell went through the house, but now nowhere to be

found. Nothing like this ever happened back in Illinois. Only in Tennessee.

He was in the hall when he heard Aunt Bea's aria from the living room: “An-deeeee!”

They used to watch “The Outer Limits,” sometimes “The Twilight Zone.” Never again. They got too

much of that sort of thing in real life. Now it was nothing but safe, family fare.

Darrell eased past the closet. His golf clubs were in there, the three-wood chipped where he'd used it to

drive a nail into the kitchen drawer that was always coming apart. Cobwebs probably were stretched

between the irons. Par for the course, these days.

He stopped outside the kitchen. A bright rectangle of light spilled into the hallway. Mice were supposed

to be scared of house lights. Well, maybe mice were, but those things weren't. Then why did they only

come at night?

There was a smudge of fingerprints on the doorway casing. Purple. Small. Grape jelly.

He tried to yawn, but his breath hitched. He checked the thermostat, even though it was early autumn

and the temperature was fairly constant. He looked around for another excuse for delay, but found none.

The kitchen floor was off-white linoleum, in a Pollock sort of pattern that disguised scuffs and stains.

Mice would find nothing on this floor.

The Formica counters were clean, too. Three soiled plates were stacked in the sink. He didn't blame

Rita for avoiding the chore. No one wanted to be alone in the kitchen, especially after dinner when the

sun had gone down.

A broom leaned against the little door that hid the folding-out ironing board. He wrapped his hands

around the smooth wood. Maybe he could sweep them away, as if they were dust balls.

Darrell crossed the kitchen slowly, the broom held across his chest. As he crouched, he felt the bulge of

his belly lapping over his belt. Both he and his crosstown hero were packing on the weight in these later

years.

Where was that dog? A few black-and-white clumps of hair stuck to the welcome mat at the back door.

That dog shed so much, Darrell wouldn't be surprised if it was invisible by now. But the mess was

forgivable, if only the mutt would show up. A good bark would scare those things away.

He parted the curtain on the back door. The grass in the yard had gotten tall and was a little ragged.

George next door would be tut-tutting to his wife. But George was retired, he had nothing on his mind

but lawn fertilizer. There was a joke in there somewhere, but Darrell wasn't in the mood to dig it up.

A little bit of wind played in the laurel hedge, strong enough to make the seat of Janie's swing set ease

back and forth. Of course it was the wind. What would those things want with a swing set? The set's

metal poles were flecked with rust. He didn't remember that happening. Gradual changes weren't as

noticeable, he supposed.

In the dim light, the world looked colorless. Nothing else stirred. If they were out there, they were

hiding. He almost expected to hear some corny organ music like they played on the “Inner Sanctum”

radio program.

He was about to drop the curtain and get Rita's soda, and maybe a beer for himself, when he saw

movement. Two shapes, wispy and pale in the faded wash of the backyard. Trick of the moonlight.

Yeah. Had to be. They didn't exist, did they?

He looked forward to the beer bubbling in his throat. The bitter sweetness wasn't as crisp as it used to

be back when he was young. Maybe everything got flatter and less vivid as a person got older. Senses

dulled by time and timelessness.

The big General Electric was nearly empty. The celery had wilted. Something on the middle wire shelf

had separated into layers. He didn't dare open the Tupperware container to see what was inside. A

half-dozen eggs roosted in their scooped-out places. One had a hairline crack, and a clear jewel of fluid

glistened under the fluorescent light.

He fished out the drinks and closed the door. There was a hiss as the motor kicked in and sucked the

seals tight. A fluff of lint shot from the grill at the base of the appliance.

The drinks chilled his palms. Sensation. He pressed a can to his forehead. Great way to cure a

headache. Too bad he didn't have one.

He went back to the living room. Janie was still coloring, the tip of her tongue pressed just so against the

corner of her mouth. Her eyes were half-closed, the curl of her lashes making Darrell's heart ache. He sat

down.

Darrell gave Rita the soda, then pulled the tab on his beer. The can opened with a weak, wet sigh. He

took a sip. Flat.

“See any mice?” Rita asked, trying to smile.

“Not a single Mickey Mouse in the place. Saw a Donald Duck, though.”

Janie giggled, her shoulders shaking a little. Her ponytail had fallen against one cheek. Darrell hated lying.

But it wasn't really a lie, was it? The lie was so white, it was practically see-through.

He settled back in his chair. The newspaper had slipped to the floor and opened to page seven, where

the real news was located. More stuff on Johnson's mess in Viet Nam. Right now, he had no interest in

the world beyond. He looked at the television.

Gomer was doing something stupid, and his proud idiot grin threatened to split his head in half. Barney

was waving his arms in gangly hysterics. Andy stood there with his hands in his pockets.

Television was black-and-white, just like life. But in television, you had “problem,” then “problem

solved.” Sprinkle in some canned laughter along the way. In life, there were no solutions and not much

laughter.

He took another sip of beer. “You want to visit your folks again this weekend?”

Rita had gulped half her soda in her nervousness. “Can we afford it?”

Could they afford not to? Every minute away from the house was a good minute. He wished they could

move. He had thought about putting the house up for sale, but the market was glutted. The racial tension

had even touched the midtown area, and middle-class whites didn't want to bring their families to the

South. Besides, who would want to buy a haunted house?

And if they did manage to sell the house, where would they go? Shoe store managers weren't exactly in

high demand. And he didn't want Rita to work until Janie started school. So they'd just have to ride it out

for another year or so. Seemed like they'd been riding it out forever.

He put down the beer and jabbed the cigar in his mouth. “Maybe your folks are getting tired of us,” he

said around the rolled leaf. “How about a trip to the mountains? We can get a little cabin, maybe out next

to a lake.” He thought of his fishing rod, leaning against his golf bag somewhere in the lost black of the

Scott Nicholson - Thank You For The Flowers.pdf

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