Death's Holiday

Celine dragged her feet as she walked into the lobby and took the elevator to 20C. The cold city in February, the grime and filth on the streets, the noise, it all sucked. Twelve hours ago she was relaxing on the beach with the incomparable Jackson, salt water swallowing up their entangled toes in the sand. It was a lifetime ago already. They had stolen one last kiss and long goodbye at the airport before getting into separate cabs, Jackson regretfully returning to his own life and his own lovely wife. And Celine had to return to Howie. Yep, this sucked.
The city air seemed especially dirty tonight, the thought of her husband repugnant. The door yawned open to invite her into a dark apartment. Zoe meowed a greeting, rubbing against Celine’s leg. She kicked it away. She never wanted a cat.
Celine kicked the door closed with her feet and turned on a light. Screw Howie. And his little cat, too. She thought about Mexico instead. Jackson pitched the idea a few weeks ago because the wife was going away on business, and Celine jumped at the chance to spend a lazy few days lounging on the beach. Hell, why not? She made up some lame story for Howie about meeting up with an old college buddy from Philadelphia. And then they were off!
It was paradise. Jackson booked a wonderful all inclusive resort in Mexico where they slept until noon and drank margaritas at two and watched the sun set with brilliant colors reflecting off the water. They told stories and laughed out loud and made love on blankets spread out on the white sand. Her smile was dreamy and faraway as she hoisted her suitcase onto the bed and unzipped her bag, prepared to rummage through damp swimsuits smelling of the sea. A quick load of laundry before bed, maybe a cup of tea, and….and then she froze. This was not her bag.
Impossible! She remembered checking the tags before leaving baggage claim (Celine was very meticulous about such things),yet the bag on her bed was proof to the contrary. She fumbled with the zipper, checking for ID tags but found nothing. Either she was going crazy or somehow the bags got switched. Celine peered inside at the contents. There was a single item folded neatly inside. It wasn’t right, she knew, she shouldn’t pick it up because it wasn’t hers. And yet….
It was a black hooded cape and a folded piece of heavy, ivory paper with the word “Celine” printed on it in beautiful caligraphy. She barely heard the traffic below, the radiator kick on, the sounds of the city around her as she reached for the mysterious paper and unfolded it with trembling hands.
“Choose wisely.”
What could that mean? Zoe jumped on the bed, meowing urgently for attention or food or maybe in warning, but Celine didn’t notice as she dreamily picked up the cape. The material was plush velvet, the attached hood giving it a macabre grim reaper look. The note dropped and fluttered toward the floor like a wounded butterfly. It was beautiful in its own way, this cape, although not something she’d ever pick out. It could pass for a wonderfully made winter coat, solid and well made. She could almost see herself wearing it.
The phone rang, shrill and intrusive. It was probably Howie, equally shrill and intrusive, calling to say he was still at work. The liar. It was 11:30 already. Celine carried the cape, mesmerized by the thick and heavy texture. It smelled of mothballs.
“Hullo?”
“Do you like it?” a voice breathed, sultry and slow, thick with an unidentifiable accent.
She liked this voice, but even so felt a shiver course through her body, like cold fingers caressing her spine. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Who is this?”
“Do you like the cape? Put it on.”
Celine did. She slipped into the cape as if it were home. It was warm and luxurious, dissolving the shiver that had coursed through her body a few seconds ago. She felt wonderfully transformed, powerful in a way she’d never known. It was immediate and intoxicating.
“How does it feel?” the voice prompted.
“Marvelous.”
“I thought so.”
“What does it do?”
“The cape? It’s a powerful thing, sweetheart, but you know that already. Can’t you feel it? You are transformed by wearing it. You are the reaper, my dear. You have the power to kill by wish alone. Whoever you want.”
Celine laughed. “That’s stupid. Tell me who you are and I’ll return the cape. I want my own suitcase back, too.”
“Patience, patience,” the voice scolded. “All in good time. Test it first. Start with something small, like a cat. I believe you hate cats?”
“Yes,” Celine said, looking at Zoe curled up inside the mysterious bag. “I do.”
“Go on. Start with that.”
Celine looked at Zoe, not quite believing in the mysterious request, but nonetheless putting all of her energy into wishing the cat dead. She saw it happen in her mind, and then the cat gave out a little mew and stood up, wobbling unsteadily as if trying to escape something painful and unpleasant. Zoe looked around, kitty eyes wild and panicked before collapsing back into the bag in an awkward position, her entire body splayed out in a position that didn’t look natural. Celine walked over and flicked Zoe’s ear, yanked at her tail. Nothing. The cat was dead.
“It works!”
“Indeed. It’s an amazing cape, as I have said. Keep it for awhile.”
“No. I want my own bag back.”
“I’m afraid I must insist. You’ll get your other bag soon, but the cape will stay in your possession until tomorrow at this time. Do with it what you will, but choose at least one human in this 24 hour period. Choose wisely, as the note said, but choose a person you wish dead in the next 24 hours and make it happen. And don’t make me intervene, Celine, if you cannot get the job done. If that happens, I always choose the gutless wonder that couldn’t carry out such a simple request. That is always so unfortunate. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Celine understood. She heard the elevator opening, Howie rattling his keys. Howie, who smelled of another woman’s perfume, who chewed with his mouth open. And snored. This would be easy.
She hung up the phone, fastening the cloak around her. She understood perfectly what this meant for her, for Jackson, for Howie. Poor Howie. Cheating Howie, who would meet his maker tonight, so Celine could hail a cab and meet her lover.

*************************
Howie raised his arm in the “hail cab” salute of every New Yorker, then ran like the dickens on short, chunky legs. No one was going to steal Howie’s cab from under his nose at this late hour, no way. He was starting a new chapter in his life, yes indeedy, starting with this here cab. He got in and slammed the door.
“82nd and Riverside.”
The driver, Mohib by his ID, flipped a U in the middle of the street. The air was thick with body odor and the smoky perfumes of other passengers, and Howie wiggled around in the backseat, adjusting his fly and checking his shirt collar for lipstick. Perfect! He looked up to find Mohib watching from the rearview mirror. Was he smirking? How rude! Howie decided to tip poorly. The new Howie was not a doormat.
It was a good night for him, a wonderful and decisive night. He, Howie Logan, was going to leave his wife of four years. Why, you ask? Don’t think it’s because he was a shallow man, trading up. That didn’t describe the new Howie at all. The truth was quite opposite. He was leaving Celine because he found someone who appreciated him for the complex and sophisticated man he was. Margie brought out the best in Howie, made him feel strong and powerful and attractive, like he deserved to feel (according to his therapist). Of course, she wasn’t a looker like Celine, but that just proved how down to earth and authentic Howie was now. He was morphing, if you will, beyond the mere superficial and looking for someone to complete him.
Yep, time for this old cowboy to ride off into the sunset. He smiled and stretched out a bit more, interlacing hands behind his head in a grandiose gesture of superiority, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips and fogging up the windows. His mind drifted to pleasant things, like his dear Margie left behind only minutes ago in a rundown studio; her sweet last whisper and the smell of her perfume clinging to his bare chest. The way she pawed at him, grabbing his collar so desperately in the doorway as if she would simply cease to be once he walked out the door, pulling him so close he could feel her heat, breathe her lavender scent. “You gotta leave her Howie. You know you do.”
He knew. And he probably would. There was just the one teensy problem, though. He didn’t really want to leave Celine. As a sharply intuitive man, he sensed envy from men who would kill to be in this particular, delicious situation. Here was poor, dumpy Howie with a beautiful trophy wife and a mistress! Never mind how Celine treated him. That was his business.
“You look familiar.” Mohib said. “I know you from somewhere?”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you,” he persisted.
What was with this guy? Howie cracked his knuckles and counted. To. Ten. Mohib needed to focus on the road instead of talking to passengers, that’s what he needed to do. Was it not clear Howie wanted to be left alone? Just his luck; trying to grab ten minutes of quiet turns into a social assault by some nut who couldn’t take a hint.
He needed to get out of the city, away from all these crazies. Margie and him were talking about going away next weekend, destination unknown to “get away from it all”. If he didn’t leave Celine by then (and he almost certainly would) he’d have to line up an alibi. It was a lingering courtesy, an attempt to keep up appearances in Celine’s tight circle of self-absorbed couples who air kissed at parties and discussed reality TV. Celine fabricated her own ridiculous stories too, like going to Mexico with an “old college roommate” he’d never heard of, supposedly from Philadelphia. Howie hoped to beat her home tonight, pack a bag or two while she was gone.
“I see a lot of people – look just like you,” Mohib continued.
“That’s great. Listen, just pull over here.”
The cab swerved over, lurching to a sudden stop and pitching Howie forward. Howie cursed as he picked himself up off the floor, cursing more when the preprogrammed tip options lit up the screen. 20% was thievery! He would need that money when he filed for divorce!
He stole a glance while getting out, his feet finding pavement again underneath the packed snow. Mohib’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. He didn’t look at Howie when he spoke.
“I know guys like you. Think you better. What you call it? Your number? You never know when your number is up. Be careful out there. Be nice.” Mohib turned around now, smirking again as he looked right at Howie’s protruding belly. “Enjoy every meatball, that’s what Mohib always say.”
Howie slammed the door. The nerve! He really should get the license plate, that’s what he oughtta do. He spun around, searching for the plates but the cab was gone. As if it had never been. Howie stood, shivering in the chill air and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. He’d been insulted, but had he just been threatened? Or warned by some looney who thought he could see the future? He shivered, not from the cold but from something else he couldn’t quite name. It was ridiculous, really, that a dirty cabbie from Queens could give Howie the creeps like this. Howie tried to shake it off, but the feeling persisted he had been…violated somehow, like Mohib had seen something filthy and hidden inside Howie, hidden even from himself.
And the disappearing cab? No way. Cabs don’t just disappear. He somehow just missed it, with everything on his mind and all. Howie started walking, bracing himself against the wind. And he counted. To. Ten.
The city was unusually quiet, the sound of Howie’s footsteps punctuating the silence with stucatto precision against the steady low rumble of Broadway traffic one block over. The moon settled into a cloudless sky, its yellow eye watching and casting moonshadows onto Howie as he walked and counted. To. Ten. He quickened his pace.
He greeted the doorman and took the elevator up to 20C, grateful to have the elevator to himself. Howie was seeing shapes in the shadows, jumping at little noises. And now the stupid keys! They weren’t exactly fitting in the lock, forcing Howie to jangle them, maneuver them, take them out and turn them this way and that. He was so focused on the keys he didn’t hear Celine gliding across the apartment to open the door for him.
He stood in the doorway, looking like something the cat dragged in. She looked beautiful, this lovely bride from four long years ago, her blonde hair fanned out over her shoulders and eyes the color of an Arctic sea; deep and icy blue. If eyes are truly windows to the soul, then Celine’s soul was a dark and dangerous place. She looked at him with detached curiosity, as if he were a stranger on the street or weird insect she just found in the shower, and Howie suddenly realized he couldn’t get the keys to fit because his hands were shaking. Or she’d changed the lock.
“Howie,” was all she said.
“Hello, darling. How was your trip?”
“It was lovely, Howie. Not like this shithole. I came back to tell you it’s over. We’re over.”
What the hell? Irritation bubbled inside of him. How dare she! He wasn’t even in the apartment yet and she was dumping him? Those were his words. He’d rehearsed them in his head until everything was perfect, the fantasy keeping him awake at night and smiling at the ceiling while Celine curled as far away from him as possible at 2 am. And now look at her face! She knew exactly what she’d done! The bitch!
She was tan from her trip, beautiful and smug as hell right now. Howie wanted to slap that self- righteous smugness right off her face. That’s when he felt it. His heart beating too fast, his chest tightening. At first he thought it was anger, so he counted. To. Ten. But it didn’t help. This was different. He reached for her, he grabbed at the air, he grabbed at his chest, and Celine looked at him. He collapsed to the ground, and Celine gazed at him, intently, studying him with emotionless eyes. He felt as if someone was squeezing a belt around his chest, tighter and tighter until he couldn’t breathe, and Celine’s beautiful, full mouth curved upwards into a faint smile. And when he closed his eyes, Celine tightened her sash around her coat, stepping over her husband as she walked out the door. His last thought as he lay dying was that maybe Mohib was right. Maybe his number was indeed up.
Howie heard nothing as she closed the door gently behind him. She might have even told him goodbye, her voice soft and gentle and just a little bit dreamy. Howie heard nothing as she took the elevator down to the lobby and hailed a cab, a cab that lurched to a sudden stop for the beautiful woman in a dark cloak. She got into the cab to meet her own lover, and she noticed the driver’s name was Mohib.