SEVEN

Dead Body State

[Outside Time]

“I don’t understand…” I would’ve said that much aloud, albeit, at least, in a quiet voice, so that no one else need notice, no one need look at me and wonder what my personal problem was. Of course, as I would soon come to understand, no one who was really there would’ve anyhow – no one but Finch, who like me was not really there, because we both were in a ghostly state. “I don’t understand…?” I said it again, a little louder this time, a little more certain of it. But what exactly was it I didn’t understand? The days or the nights, or how they pass, away, along, I might’ve said. Because time was wrong, clearly it was wrong; it was so deeply irregular. At least it was not right. The daylight, for instance, may simply pass in a moment, leaving night to linger on interminably. Or the night might come and go in an eyelid’s blink, leaving a long and lingering day, or better, the half-daylight, as we found here, seeping in through the window in the front office of Inn House Manor. There was simply no order to any of it. But that wasn’t really my problem.

My problem was the kid who sat at the desk, the guy with the beard all tied into little braids, with beads and significant bits of fabric woven into it. I recognized him from before. His name was Jim. I didn’t like Jim. How Jim felt about me was irrelevant, because he didn’t at the moment seem to feel much of anything. He sat at the desk – that is, he sat propped up at the desk – staring, blank-eyed, straight ahead like a fish who’s been caught, pulled up from the water, and clubbed to death. I waved my hands in front of his open and unblinking eyes, and when that brought no response, tried snapping my fingers – all the normal tricks the newly-dead will use to try and get those still living to recognize them.

“What is it you don’t understand?” Finch asked, standing at my side. “It’s clear enough, isn’t it? He can’t see you.”

“Well, yeah, I get that. But what’s wrong with him? Shouldn’t he at least blink sometime?” I tried clapping my hands loudly, directly in front of his face. The small wind displaced by my palms being smacked together blew a wisp of stringy hair slightly aside, but the face didn’t respond otherwise. Not at all. “Is he asleep?”

“Let me try something,” Finch offered, looking around the room. Noticing the standing lamp nearby, a little to the side of the desk and behind it. He put his hand to its false brass stem, up near the switch at top, just beneath the stained, creamy yellow shade. Pressing gently, he managed to tip it, a little at first, then a little more… then more… none of which gradual movement caught the bearded Jim’s eye (nor could anything, it seemed). Finally, at the terminal point, where its base could no longer support it, it gathered force on its own and swung to hit the table, making a terrible clatter – mostly as the part-conical shade fell off and bounced, jittering maniacally about, impacting papers, sending a stack of folders to spill over and onto the floor in a slow cascade. That got Jim’s attention, startling him back to his frightened senses with a jolt. He jumped. He looked around in surprise and incomprehension and sleepy fear. When he finally put it together, what had happened, the look of utter perplexity on his face – as to how – was priceless.

“I guess I understand,” I said. “I’ve spent enough of the long nights in this room. Time will stand completely still. Every moment that passes is torture; it won’t ever end. The morning, you know it, will never come. Then sometimes, you realize that an hour, two hours, maybe three, have just vanished and you’ve no idea what has happened with them.”

Jim had lumbered around the other side of the desk to retrieve the several folders from the floor, while Finch stood behind him, staring down in bemusement. “The moments,” he said, “don’t amount to very much.”

“No, they don’t,” I agreed. “Still. You often feel as if you’ve been somewhere. You can’t begin to say where, though.”

•

Outside on the front porch, where moths battered themselves against the overhead light shade, Finch and I observed the near-still-life of the residents’ attendant. Mary was perched on her customary third step from the top of the stoop, her back to us, engulfed in a cloud of smoke in near-darkness. On the bench sat Henry, alone, looking out into the night while his ancient tape deck sputtered milky gospel songs, songs with none of the vivacious call-and-response that might redeem it musically, but a pallid, sentimental sort of religious gumminess that thinned and depleted the blood of oxygen. It was all he ever listened to. Notably lacking was Willy, who would normally be turning in his small circles over the width of the rest of the porch, which seemed especially empty now without him. I hadn’t expected to find him there, but still it was, in its subtle way, distressing, like a death. Except that I knew it wasn’t that. What it was, I couldn’t tell anyone, but it wasn’t that. As we stepped around Mary, swirling through the fog at her head, Finch turned and looked back at her. Her pale lips were moving, her face drawn long in its familiar expression of gaping, gray horror. He brought his ear close to her mouth to listen, leaning mere inches from her face. To my surprise her eyes turned, if just slightly – they turned in his direction, causing Finch to smile with satisfaction. It was not entirely clear that she actually saw him, but she was definitely speaking to him.

“What’s she saying, Finch?” I asked.

“She’s telling me it’s a floor-brain. What’s a floor-brain?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought it was me, but I guess maybe I was wrong.” Nothing was different, nothing here had changed, except for the lack of Willy, and for the air, which had grown colder. It seemed the nights were no longer balmy – far from it – or maybe the hour was such that, for that moment, a chill had managed to creep through. When the sun rose again, it might yet manage to chase the cold away, we’d see. Or perhaps the summer really had ended and I had missed the time of its passing. That seemed more likely the case, as the trees whose branches overhung the yard at Inn House Manor were mostly leafless and the air felt damp and dank. A short ways beyond the porch, tall Davis, who last I’d seen was sucking on bacon, now stood turning windmill spins as his arms flapped out at his sides then fell, then flapped and fell with each twist at his center, from the waist. I stood in front of him and watched. Davis didn’t see me. That is, he didn’t acknowledge me. But then, when he did this, he never seemed to notice anyone.

Behind him, the disordered shape of the residence glowed wanly at its windows, piercings through a blocky shadow that framed Finch’s silhouette as he caught up to me with his gangly and unhurried step. “Where to now?” he asked, stopping to ruffle at Davis’s spiky hair. I didn’t have a chance to warn him about the likelihood of lice, but then it maybe wasn’t a danger to him, and I was more than a little surprised to see Davis react to this, slapping frantically at his own head with his palms, as if fighting off a swarm of insects.

“I want to go home,” I said. “I’m tired.” The fact was, I just hurt. I felt like I’d been kicked, and hard, several times. It was more or less the same feeling I always got at the end of an all-night shift, only worse. This went deeper. It was the sort of ache of deep exhaustion I wasn’t at all sure a little or even a lot of sleep could touch, but I definitely needed to pull myself up into a little ball and be alone for a while. “I guess, at least, I don’t need to worry about showing up for work later.”

He skipped along beside me as I walked, “What will you do? Will you get a new job?”

“Do I need one?”

“Do you need to pay rent?”

I looked up at the sky, which was maybe not entirely black. It certainly showed no stars through it, however. A mantle of cloud, if ever there was one. “Let me just get home first, then I’ll worry about all this other stuff.”

Finch was buoyant, however, despite the moodiness that had overcome me. He skipped forward and lagged behind, then skipped forward again, like a puppy on a leash, as we reached the thoroughfare of Madison and turned right to head down it. “I got him pretty good, huh? That guy with the beard. I’ll call him Beardy! I got Beardy really good!”

This fooling around would soon get wearisome, I saw. And it was such a turnaround from his earlier gravity. This was more like the Finch I’d known – at least what I could remember about him, which altogether wasn’t that much. It was a little sad, when I thought of it, that so little impression of what he’d really been like remained after his death. Only that he’d always wanted something. “What was the matter with him?” I asked as Finch zoomed past me again. I really wished that he’d stop doing that and just walk alongside me, like a regular person. “It was like he’d seen the darkness. Stepped into the void and never quite got back.”

“Who knows?” said Finch, walking backwards to catch up with me. “Who cares? You’re probably right though. I’ll bet that’s what happened.”

There was not much traffic on Madison yet. It was still too early for anything but the occasional bread truck, taxicab or police cruiser. One car did catch my eye, though – a peculiarly old sort of thing. Like a Dodge Packard, all swooping curves and rounded metal in gray and tan, 1930s vintage or thereabout – not that I knew cars, the name of the thing just sprang to mind – but clearly a relic, and something well-loved for most of its life. It was looking a little sorry now, scuffed and unwashed, as it rolled past us down the hill toward downtown, leaving a misty trail of smoke behind it. But somebody had kept it going for this long.

“I wish you’d tell me, though,” I said after the car had left us behind it, “since it’s been on my mind all this while. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but… did you mean to kill yourself? I don’t remember hearing about any note. In fact, I’m pretty sure there wasn’t one. But it would make a kind of sense if you had.”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, chipper as a bird.

I sighed. I just didn’t have the energy left for this. But at the same time I understood that it was important somehow that I get him to acknowledge that he was dead. He could not go on pretending to be unaware of his own ghostly condition. Or was it possible, I wondered, that he sincerely did not know? By now we’d reached the intersection where we could cross. I pressed the button at the signal and waited for the light to change, though there wasn’t any traffic coming in any direction. If I were alone, I’d simply jog across the street. But with Finch here with me, it seemed somehow appropriate to wait, as if I expected the next car to appear at the crest of the street would likely be the police. Finch looked up and down, back and forth, then again, all around us. I waited, staunchly, in annoyance. When at last the signal did change, it made a beeping noise, and we stepped onto the street’s zebra pattern. There were still no cars anywhere. When at the other side, I thought to look up, and saw that the cloud cover above us had already lightened somewhat, so that details and shadings emerged, roundings at the underside of the overcast. Dawn, of a sort, must be approaching. Or perhaps it had come already, and this cover had absorbed most of it. But in that case –

•

I was amazed at the suddenness of automotive density by the time we’d reached the other side of the street. Cars were lined impatiently to east and west, their engines thrumming with anticipation for the light to change. Where they’d all come from was a mystery. But then, the daylight, suppressed as it was, had already brightened to fullness. The morning had wasted no time in breaching the stillness of the city – and in fact the city was no longer still. Far from it. We stepped up the opposite curb, and I gave a hasty glimpse back. I saw there not one but two more old cars in the lineup, waiting amongst the many contemporary models (or at least more contemporary, as there was quite a variety, new and less new), now setting forward as the light again changed in their favor. Odd. It must be some convention of collectors meeting in town, with these Studebakers or ancient Ford Model-Ts or whatever they were. But it was of slight interest to me. I just needed to get some rest.

The transition from busy street to tree-lined neighborhood was as abrupt, though more in keeping to logic, as that of pre-dawn to full day. We walked underneath the overhang of leafless deciduous branches, thickly clustered in between the small homes that lined 14th. I wished that Finch would find something other to do than follow me, but was reluctant to say as much. My hope was that by the time we’d reached my apartment, he would take the hint and move on. Though where he would move on to, I could scarcely guess. I just wanted to be alone, and having this grinning bat beside me was exhausting.

The streets here were a grid of quadrants, and I zigzagged my way through them, heading toward the arterial of 12th by as direct a means as was possible, moving by equal amounts southward, skirting from one block that was fairly affluent to another where weeds and broken windows evinced a certain desolateness, where cars whose drivers were either unlucky or stupid enough to park along the curb were as likely to get broken into as not. We passed a Baptist congregation, where choral singing inside was as exuberant as what I’d wished that Henry could’ve brought his religious tastes to put on his sorry deck. But these people were live, not some played-out tape, and the worn wooden siding on the building near-to-shook with the intensity of it. I realized then that I had no idea what day it was, but if this were any measure, it must be Sunday.

“Those niggers sure can sing, huh?”

I scowled sideways at Finch. Okay, granted, the guy had been dead since 1980-something, but that was no excuse for being a racist asshole. Still, the guy had a point. The sound coming from that church was amazing. “Uh huh,” was all I said, but as I looked at his pasty face, comparing it to my own, I wondered what sort of reception the two of us would get if we should go inside to listen more closely, especially with comments like that. Then I realized, no one would see or hear us. Some comfort in that, I thought, laughing softly as I shook my head.

“What?”

“Finch,” I said, “Why are you following me? Haven’t you got someplace to go?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand? I’m going home. I’m tired. I want to be alone now.”

Sharp perplexity crossed his face that I took to be hurt. Was he really, possibly so obtuse? I almost felt sorry for the guy. But the panic that now started to show told me more – that he really did have no place else to go. And then I did feel sorry for him. But after a moment, pity took a backseat to a sickening worry: where had he been for all these dead years? Not with me…

Had he?

Oh, God. This really was a problem.

“Okay,” I said hastily, “don’t worry about it.” Jesus, what was I agreeing to? “Just… I need sleep. I need to lie down. I need…” The panic was leaving him, I could see, but the fear was still there. “Whatever,” I finally settled on. It was the best I could manage. We crossed the avenue toward my apartment.

•

Through the building’s entrance and up the central staircase, my key slotted into the third-floor apartment’s door and opened it. I was immediately struck dumb by what I saw. It was the same studio apartment, that much was clear, but everything that I’d owned – not that it had been much, but it had been mine – was now gone. In its place were odd and unfamiliar things. Where my thin futon mattress had rested on a cheap frame of unfinished pine slats there was now a tall queen-sized bed that dominated the room, its sheets and blankets thrown aside in a careless tumble amidst a scattering of pillows. Clothing spilled from out of the closet space: blouses, skirts, jeans, socks and underwear, a gray pantsuit, a glittering turquoise sequin shirt. The closet door was left slid open, and even more clothing hung inside it than was otherwise thrown about, though there were plenty of empty hangers too, and some kind of plastic drawer arrangement sat crooked inside, filled with unsorted bundles in a jumble of primary colors that I could see through its clear sides. In the kitchen to the immediate right the sink was overflowing with dishes and plastic cups, also a cheap espresso maker, caked in a film of old coffee grounds that took most of the limited the counter space. A teflon sauté pan with spots of thick, hardened grease in it and a one-quart sauce-pot covered in white film sat on two burners of the stove. Clearly, I didn’t live here now, and whoever did couldn’t be bothered to clean up after herself.

“You’ve got a secret you’ve been keeping from me,” Finch mused, standing behind me, “as I see now that you are actually a woman.”

“Right. Well…” I stepped inside, poking at a cotton tank top on the floor with the toe of my shoe. Finch trailed after. The place smelled like cooked rice and dope. “I guess I haven’t lived here for a while.” I wondered for how long.

“Bummer. Where should we go now?”

“I don’t care,” I said, seating myself on the edge of the tangled bed. I motioned for Finch to shut the door and he did. As he moved toward a papasan chair near the diagonal divide of the floor between the living room’s thin carpet and the linoleum of the kitchen, I took a cigarette from my pocket, then thought again and took another out and tossed it to Finch. I’d always smoked in my room, and wasn’t going to stop now. There was even a glass ashtray on the bedside table, though it was filled with stubbed-out roaches.

“Who do you think lives here?” asked Finch.

“Somebody,” I said, lighting up, “who does not give a fuck.”

As I lay back onto one of the pillows, Finch noticed the ashtray and went quickly toward it like a cat who’d spotted a mouse. He rummaged through the drawer and found some rolling papers, pulled one out, then began methodically deconstructing the bent and charred remains in the ashtray to assemble a new, if foul-smelling, joint for himself. When he looked over to see me watching him, he said, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” I told him, looking to the pebbled ceiling. I heard the zwick of a lighter’s flint strike flame – apparently another happy discovery – and soon enough could smell the distinct reek of cannabis as Finch exhaled.

“Want some?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I quit long ago,” I said. It didn’t occur to him to ask if I minded his lighting up. But given that my home did not seem to be my home any longer, Finch’s presence bothered me less than it otherwise might. Still, I was in no shape to entertain. I could barely muster a response any longer. As I lay back, I could feel the inrush of sleep, my hold slipping on wakefulness, and the weightless liminality of the transition encroaching, whether I wanted it or not. I reached over and crushed the smoke in the ashtray, wary of starting a fire – however ghostly a fire it may’ve amounted to.

But Finch, like a needful puppy, wasn’t content to let me drift off, not yet. I could hear his voice from somewhere on the other side of my eyelids, located within the familiar space. His tone however was rather less shifty, more self-possessed. “She left you, buddy. That’s rough,” he said. “Where do you think she went when she left?”

She, I thought, relishing the shape of the word. She. “Arizona,” I said, my voice drifting.

“Arizona? Why go to Arizona?”

In a way, I could picture myself there as well, walking the small, broken street of some little desert town. Or not the desert, no, the mountain, that was different – the sunlight on my shoulders, and there, a rather stunning blonde woman who walked beside me, who looked my way and laughed, her eyes flashing. But as quickly as the vision had come, it left again, and I said into the vacancy, “Why does anybody? For the air, I suppose.”

•

The next thing that I was aware of, a noise had roused me from what felt like a deep sleep. I felt the passage of time, though couldn’t have said how long it had been. Sitting stiffly up, I first saw that Finch was in the papasan chair. He was looking at me, his eyes wide with inquisition. It seemed as if he’d not moved for hours, though I had a hard time imagining his agitated restlessness ever allowing for it. The noise repeated: a rattling at the door. And then the door swung open and a young woman bustled in, her back to us. She fumbled to pull the key from the lock while simultaneously wrestling with a shoulder bag that seemed much too large for her small frame. When she turned around again, the key released, she made a slow, cautious scan of the room, taking it all in. I saw that she was an Asian woman, perhaps in her early- to mid-twenties, smartly dressed as if for the office, having about her an air of rushed impatience – at least until the moment she’d stepped inside. Now a wariness came over her, and though her eyes took in every detail of the apartment, she didn’t seem to notice either Finch or myself. Well why would she, I thought. We’re not really here, now, are we?

“Tobacco…?” the woman said aloud, and whatever her ethnic origins, it was clear from her accent that she was likely born and raised in Seattle. She pulled the door shut behind her and turned the deadbolt.

I looked again to Finch, who looked also at me. There was a playful, salacious grin on his face, to which I simply shook my head. I knew that whatever he had in mind was a bad idea. I was already uncomfortable enough with this situation, and didn’t think I could stomach whatever invasive sort of nonsense Finch might be cooking up. He might’ve simply hoped to watch her undress, which was bad enough in itself. All I’d wanted was a moment’s rest, not some voyeuristic nonsense like he seemed to be considering, however opportunistically. The young woman dropped her bag to the floor and shrugged off her thin jacket, giving it pride of place on an actual hanger in the closet. She wore a scowl over her face, though for what, I could scarcely guess. Maybe it’d just been a hard day. I could relate to that. Then her head turned at the sound of a furious shouting that came scarcely muffled through the walls, simultaneously finding a clearer reflection from outside, through the open window onto the courtyard. This window was uncomfortably close to the next window over, that of the next-door apartment’s kitchen. This was a noise I was only too familiar with. Wherever I myself had got to, my terrible neighbor was still there, and still screaming at her luckless boyfriend. His voice I’d almost never heard, but hers was a daily occurrence, and always as intrusive – sometimes joyous, more often rageful, but never less than loud. And now this poor woman had to deal with it as well. Her tactics were a little different from my own. She simply went over to the shared wall and kicked it, yelling through, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” And then for good measure, she punched it a few times.

To my surprise, that seemed to work. The shouting, at the least for that moment, stopped. She walked back into the center of the room, kicked off her shoes, and then sat down on the bed directly beside me, leaning forward and breathing hard. I again met Finch’s eye, but it seemed he no longer had any creepy plans in mind. He just looked back at me with his own eyes slightly narrowed, the smile now gone from his face. I felt sympathy for this woman, and wished there was something I could do, but the fact was the best I could do was to get out of her apartment and leave her alone. But for some reason, I sat there, still. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. A part of me felt acutely embarrassed, just to be caught like this, but at the same time… I knew I hadn’t been caught. There was this other part of me that was getting accustomed to being invisible like this. I wouldn’t say that I was exactly comfortable with the situation, but I wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as I might’ve thought I’d be.

The young woman seemed to gather herself together again. She stood and went to the closet, where she rooted around for something behind the plastic stack of drawers, and in a moment I saw what it was: a tall waterpipe. I watched as she sniffed the contraption, then pulled her face away in disgust. It was made of a blue glass and stood about two feet tall. Nothing terribly fancy about, just a simple, functional bong. She carried it to the kitchen sink and dumped out the contents of murky, brown water, ran the tap to flush it down. Then she filled it again with fresh water, checking the level through the glass. Satisfied with the results, she carried it back to the papasan chair – Finch nimbly jumped out of the way before she could sit on him – where she took a small packet from her pants pocket and fished out a scrap of green substance, then put it into the bowl of her pipe. She didn’t seem to think anything of finding her lighter on the floor near her feet, which was where Finch had left it, not her. Perhaps in her world lighters had a way of just being where she needed them. But with it, she lit the pipe and sucked hard through the burbling water. She held it. She held it. She held it for a very long time in her lungs, and then let it escape as the muscles in her face relaxed by degrees.

As the cloud settled through the still air of the room, finding buoyancy at the level of slight currents it contained, she said, quietly, in all but a whisper, yet loud enough that we could hear, “I can’t see you.”

I gave Finch a look, and he gave me one as well.

She said it again, and more slowly this time, lingering on the pauses between words. “I. Can’t. See. You.”

How could you, I thought. Your eyes are closed.

But then she opened them and stared forward, not at me, not at Finch, her eyes fixed on nothing but the space ahead of her. “I can’t see you,” she said once more, “but I know that you’re here. I want for you to go away now.”