Dead Things

DEAD THINGS

         He kept his wife's body in a yellow suitcase. He'd picked it up at a garage sale. It was huge and made of vinyl. He liked to scrape his hands over the rough surface until he felt chill bumps gather on his white flesh. His wife's decaying bones rattled around in the old thing and though he had cleaned the bones and even bleached them white, there was still a smell around it. It was almost a dark purple smell. He swore he could see clouds of it sometimes. Small children and dogs tended to avoid his company when he held that suitcase.
         His smile was as white as those bones. He made it a point to apply whitening strips at least once a week. His mother always said first impressions were the most important.
         “You gotta make a good first impression son. Girls don't like nasty boys.”
         She was right. Girls didn't like it when he was nasty. Most of them. His mother's advice worked best with his job though. A salesman had to make an impression on people if he wanted to make a living. The impermanence of the job pleased him too. Every day he got to travel and be someone else for a little while.
         He found he enjoyed that impermanence. Except for his wife, he never kept anything more than a month. One day he'd look at a jacket or a toothbrush and just know he'd kept it too long. He preferred to burn those things but often settled for dumping them off somewhere deserted. If he didn't want it, then no one should have it.
         It was in one of those nameless towns that he'd come to now. Selling insurance for some big company. Info com or something. They'd been taken over or changed names so often he didn't even know the actual name of the company anymore. All that mattered was he kept selling and they kept sending him checks. Checks he almost had no use for. Money couldn't buy what he wanted anyway. It kept him in new toothbrushes though. He had hundreds of them stored in one of his suitcases.
         He unpacked his toiletries and set them up in a neat little line on the edge of the motel room sink. First impressions, he thought again. He wanted her to think he was tidy. He shaved his gaunt face, only nicking his chin once. He watched the blood bloom on the top of his chin. He looked back at the bathtub. It was almost too small for his needs. These cheap motels never had a bathtub big enough. The drains tended to clog too easily as well so he'd brought some Draino just in case.
         He combed his dark blond hair. It still felt oily to his fingers. He applied some hair powder, hoping it would even out the oily texture. Gentleman did not have oily hair.
         He needed someone desperate. Someone who wouldn't ask too many questions. Bars were great places for that. If you put enough drinks in someone, that little voice inside their head telling them to be careful just went away.
         He found a bar close to his hotel. The windows were dark and caked with eons of filth. Perfect. He sat in a booth close to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Neat. He didn't particularly want to drink but he liked the novelty of asking for something neat. He idly picked at the peanuts left on his table. They were disgusting really. He only liked eating cold fresh vegetables when he ate. His back was to the wall so he could see who came and went.
         He smiled a little as he watched the patrons in the bar. Little mice, scurrying for a tiny sliver of cheese. Will he be the one? She looks nice. Maybe she won't cheat on me with my best friend.
         "Honey, you look like you could use more than a drink."
         Smoky, he thought. She sounded like she smoked a pack a day. She coughed. A dry, hacking noise. Sounded like a car backfiring. Two packs, he thought. Maybe she'd need some life insurance. He looked up from his drink at the owner of that smoky voice.
         Yeah, she definitely looked like she may need some life insurance. Her broad, leathery face was the color of plum wine. She had wide round eyes that were a muddy green and seemed to sink into her face. Perhaps to take the attention off her face, she wore a very low cut red blouse that showed off her impressive cleavage. He noticed her breasts were almost the same color as her face, but a little darker.
         "Sugar? You all right?"
         He nodded and tried to speak. His throat was dry and he coughed a little.
         "Umm.. Yes. Hello."
         "That's better. So you want some company? Or am I intrudin'?" She smiled as she spoke and he noticed her teeth were stained. He shuddered at the dark yellow color. He stared at her stringy pink lips as she spoke, mesmerized by the flashes of yellow amongst the pink flesh.
         "No. Company is fine. Perfectly fine." He coughed again, swirling the ice in his glass.
         She sat down next to him and nodded pointedly at his drink.
         "Oh. I'm sorry, it's been so long since I've been out. My wife passed away you see and I'm a bit out of practice. Can I buy you a drink?" He laughed nervously.
         She smiled again. That flash of yellow. "It's okay sugar, I know how it is. Why my Ernest passed away some time ago and I still miss him." She pointed at the barkeep. "Harry! I want a whiskey sour. This nice fellow's buying."
         “So when did you lose your wife?” She stirred her drink as she spoke, taking long sips of the alcohol.
         He closed his eyes. “Six years, four months, and twelve days ago.”
         Her eyes rounded as she whistled. “Wow. You musta loved her a lot.”
         “I could give you the hours. The seconds, if you wanted.”
         She touched his arm and leaned into his personal space. He smelled menthol and orange juice. “What was her name?”
         He didn't want to talk about Patricia. Not to her. Not now.
         She seemed to sense that he was getting uncomfortable. She leaned back and made a little half hiccup, half laugh sound.
         “I'm sorry. I don't want to bring you down. Let's talk about nice things now. Like you. You just get in town? You look like a travelin' man.”
         She stuck out her hand.  “I'm Jane. Nice to meet ya."
         "Yes, I do travel a good deal. I'm a salesman. I make my living traveling.” Ask her about the life insurance. Ask her!
         “Er. And what do you do?"
         "Me?" She laughed, throwing her head back as far as it could go. The vee in her blouse deepened into a cavern. He thought he might get lost in there.
         "Why I just mostly hang around this bar. Looking for company. My Ernest left me a good amount of money what with his life insurance and pension. I figure life's too short not to enjoy what I have left. I get to meet so many interesting people here. It makes me miss My Ernie a little less."
         They talked about trivial things. Movies and books they liked. He continued to buy her drinks, while nursing his original drink. She seemed to have an inexhaustible thirst for liquor. She slammed, sipped, gulped, and never seemed to be satisfied. Finally, he got up the nerve to ask her.
         "Say, it's rather loud in this bar. Would you like to continue this conversation and have a nightcap up in my hotel room? I have enjoyed your company. I promise to be a complete gentleman." He blushed slightly at this. Maybe it was too forward of him? His fingers drummed impatiently on the counter.
         She squinted at him, her muddy eyes examining him from his head to his feet. She was a little woozy from the alcohol but still looked sharp. She finally nodded.
         "I think that'd be just fine. You seem like a nice fellow and it is awfully loud in here." She smiled again. Yellow. Pink. Yellow pink.
         His hotel wasn't far so they walked there, talking about movie stars and how horrible the music of today was. He told her a funny story about a dog he had when he was a boy. She leaned on his arm for most of the walk, pausing now and again to brace herself against a wall. Halfway to the hotel she grabbed his hand. He was afraid it might be too cold or clammy or something but she didn't seem to mind. She flashed her yellow teeth at him and he felt like a teenage beau.
         His hand shook a little as he put the key into his hotel door. He wished he had a better room to bring her to. This was just another one of those cheap hotels that always seemed to sprout around major highways. It smelled of old cigarettes and stale sex. The suitcase sat near the bed, angled on the side. The wallpaper was a vaguely green color and was peeling. The maid had turned down his bed so he could see the clean cotton sheets underneath the orange comforter. It made him think of smashed pumpkins. Of carving them as a boy. Touching the slimy pulp inside.
         "I'm sorry it's so unclean. I didn't know I'd have company or anything." He stood near the bed, his hands by his sides. He opened and closed them.
         "That's okay! I've been in worse places." She giggled, the sound scraping on his nerves. She bounced on the bed, her arms outstretched. Like an angel. The suitcase jiggled a little as she bounced. He couldn't take his eyes off of it.
         He smiled and reached for the bottle of liquor under the bed.
         "Another drink my dear?" He was already pouring it into one of the hotel glasses.
         "Sure sugar! You do know the way to a gal's heart." She giggled again, batting her lumpy eyelashes at him. He filled her glass to the top and watched her drink it while pretending to sip his own. She poured it down her throat in an impossibly short length of time. His father would have loved this woman. Hard living. Hard drinking. Unapologetic. He almost admired her for that. She lived every second as though it were her last.
         “I'm just going to freshen up for a minute. Please enjoy your drink.”
         He closed the bathroom door after he entered. His tools were still out. They gleamed and he paused for a minute to admire the reflection, tempted to start already. He poured the chemical in the bathtub. It bubbled and was still. A pale, murky, reflection. Preparation was key here. His hands felt dirty, unclean. He washed and washed but they never got clean. He heard the radio start up in the next room. She must have gotten bored with waiting. The song was familiar. He could hear violins and a sobbing tenor. Beautiful.
         “Don't let that boy listen to that! Are you trying to turn him into a little faggot?!”
         The big man threw the radio onto the ground, splintering it into pieces. The little boy flinched as one of the metal pieces hit his cheek.
         “But Gabriel! I heard that it's good for kids. Makes 'em smarter.” His mother stood next to him in her soft pink dress. She wore a kind, but long suffering expression.
         “Look at him! Fucking sissy. What kind of man gets all A's?! He's too damn smart, that's his problem. I swear Alma, if I catch the little bastard kissing some guy I'll split his head open.”
         He looked down at the boy with a sneer on his face. His father loomed like a giant. The boy had seen pictures of Grizzly bears in school and thought that his father had eyes just like that bear. Angry and indifferent.
         “How'd you like that huh?! Rotting with maggots eating at your flesh? Sound good? Answer me!”
         The boy tried to speak. “Nuh nu nuh nuh nu.”
         His head snapped back as the man slapped him. He hit the floor and he tried to be still. Very still. His teacher told him that if you were really really still when a bear attacked you, the bear might go away. There was blood in his eye. He could see his mother on the other side of the room, wringing her hands. That's all she ever did. His eyes closed as he squeezed the tears back. Nothing made his father angrier than tears.

“Honey? You about done yet? I'm getting lonely?”
His eyes were squeezed shut and his hands gripped the sink. He opened them and saw his hands had dark red imprints on them. He breathed. Again.
“Coming!”
         She patted the spot next to her on the bed. "Don't be shy. Come and sit right her. Right next to me. I promise I'll be as gentle as a little lamb. You can be the wolf." She laughed at her own joke.
         He gingerly sat on the bed, wincing as the motion rocked the suitcase again. He knew he should be paying attention to the woman on the bed but he couldn't stop looking at it.
         He felt something on his thigh and panicked, jumping back. Patricia? No. No, not her. She was still right there. Where he left her. It was the other one. The other girl. Her hand rested on his thigh as she pursed her lips in what she probably assumed was a seductive invitation.
         He kissed her, tasting sour liquor and old cigarettes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tightly.
         She started to cry. Her head rested on his chest. She did not cry prettily. Her tears came out in fat drops, ruining her makeup until her eyes were almost obscured completely. She jerked back from him.
         “You remind me of him you know.”
         “Who?”
         “Ernest. My Ernest.” She lay against the bed, grabbing the comforter in her hand. Rubbing it on her face to soak up her tears. Black streaks appeared on the orange surface. He'd have to leave something extra for the cleaning crew.
         “I loved that man. It's just that I lived with him so long and I . . . well I forgot a little is all. I'd wake up day after day with the same man. The same face. I started to hate that face. The way he ate. The way he tasted. I got to the point where I wouldn't even kiss him anymore. We made love in the dark, under the covers. He thought I was modest. Or embarrassed. I put on a couple of pounds once we were married. He never said anything about it.” She brought her hands up to her lips.
         “He used to misquote that Shakespeare man. I didn't know much when we first married and he'd say something like; You are the sun! And Juliet is the meat!” Her arms were outstretched. Angel again. She opened her hands.
         She laughed, a wet hiccup. “He was so stupid when he was drunk. He'd get to quoting stuff he'd read and he'd get it all wrong. I started reading that Billy Shakespeare just so I could tell him what was what. He'd just laugh when I told him the real line. I always knew he was smarter than he pretended. He just wanted to give me something.”
         She rubbed her hands over the comforter hard, until the bottoms blushed.
         “You killed him, didn't you?” He said.
         She chewed on the nails of her finger and stared down at her other hand. They were both shaking. She hid them behind her back.
         “I loved him. I did. I just forgot. How could I forget? I just woke up one day and it was like it was all gone. He was like some sort of a stranger. He had the bluest eyes. Baby blue. I used to call him my baby.” Her eyes were dry and red rimmed as she stared up at him. She'd cried it all out. She looked at him with hope in her eyes as if he were a priest and she'd just made her confession. He felt this odd urge to give her absolution.
         Patricia was calling him again. Her voice was loud in his head. She was screaming at him. He knew what she wanted. What she always wanted. She never let him rest. She was so jealous of every scrap of time he spent with them. She wanted the main event.
         He saw the drug take hold of the woman and she froze. Her eyes rolled back and forth in her skull then opened wide. He tapped her cheek and watched as the panic set into her face. She was awake. Aware.
         He positioned her on the bed, making sure she was comfortable. He put the pillows under her back and head. He positioned her arms far apart, the red surface of her hands facing the ceiling. He washed her face, wiping any trace of that horrible makeup away. He gently stroked her broad face.
         "Would you like to meet my wife? She's shy but I think she'll want to see you."
         The suitcase. It hummed to him. He opened it with care, slowly sliding the lock open. It seemed lighter somehow though the smell was stronger now that it was open. It was always strong when she was jealous. He stroked the cracked leather and opened the clasp.
         "Meet Patricia. Patricia, Mrs. Jane. She killed her husband. Not as bad as what you did, but still very naughty." Her eyes opened wide. He could see her scream. A dark echo coming from her gaping mouth. No sound escaped. "It's okay Patricia. Don't mind her. It's just you and me now.”
         His hand traveled through the old bones. He closed his eyes and listened to them clacking together. He felt connected to his wife. He owned her. He carried her soul around with him in that suitcase. It was heavy most days.
         The woman's eyes were bulging, red streaks beginning to appear in the whites. He set about his work. Not much time left now.
         The next morning he checked out of the hotel with the same old suitcase and a newer one. They were both very heavy and dragged on the ground as he walked. They scraped on the pavement.
         The new case would be thrown away very soon. It was dark blue, some garage sale junk find he'd picked up in town. The corner of it was rubbed raw and underneath the cracked plastic you could see the cold metal.