| |
Shut up, Othello!
Fucking cat. I can’t stand this little bastard. And he obviously isn’t much of a fan of mine either.
They’re weird, cats.
I and the rest of my kind break every law of nature we’ve previously come to understand. We appear as we did when we died, giving the illusion of never aging, and we can remain unseen whenever we want to. Even Mother Earth is confused by us. We don’t cast reflections, we have no shadows, and our images don’t come out in photographs or on video. So why is Stefanie’s black, long-haired, pain-in-the-ass cat hissing at me?
How can he see me when no one else can?
That being said, the little ass wipe is doing his job. He knows I don’t belong here and he’s spewing out his disapproval. It’s as if his senses are telling him that I shouldn’t be walking this earth, never mind snooping around on my widowed and remarried bride.
Stefanie always liked naming her pets after English literary characters. During our days together we had a dog named Lancelot and a parrot named Romeo. The bird was my favorite. I used to get a big kick out of teaching him to curse in Spanish. Stefanie not so much; she’d blush every time he blurted out something like coño or puta in front of company.
Since he’s only a couple of years old, Othello came into Stefanie’s life long after my indecorous passing two-and-a-half decades ago, so his allegiance is to Stefanie and her husband of almost twenty years, Bill Rippey.
I don’t know what I’m looking for when I come to Scarsdale to peek in on their quiet suburban life. Admittedly, there is some degree of comfort in seeing that a sense of order has been restored to the life of the woman I left behind. But it also comes with the price of realization that the only love I ever had has now been married to another man longer than she had been to me. Everything I’d worked for, every dream I ever had of sharing with Stefanie is now a part of Rippey’s life, not mine.
It should be me curled up on that couch with her watching Downton Abbey, even though it would have bored the shit out of me. But for her I would have done it; even if I never understood how a Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx could like that crap.
Cozy as they are, she looks a little under the weather. She’s got a cup of hot cocoa in her hands and a quilt wrapped around her (along with Rippey’s arms). It looks like he enjoys this PBS bullshit too, a category where I fell short.
I knew this prick would win her hand the second she met him. The first six years after my disappearance for Stefanie there was nothing but despondency and mourning until she realized that she was still young and had a whole life ahead of her. And let’s face it, as horrible as the circumstances of my death were, I didn’t exactly leave this world very nobly, thanks to the newspapers that kindly emphasized that I died in another woman’s bed. I mean, hey, they could have characterized me as the victim of a bloody crime. But nah, not the New York Post. They preferred to highlight the fact that there were traces of my semen on the bed sheets. Thank you for painting that picture for my wife and children, fuckers.
Stefanie was in her mid-forties when they met and she still had a smooth, soft complexion with only her eyes showing wear from years of crying alone in what was once our bedroom. Her hair was thick, wavy and still dark, showing little grey despite all she’d been through. She also still looked great in a dress, with those same shapely legs I fell in love with back at Hunter College. It made me seethe with jealousy whenever my unseen presence tagged along during her dates. Of her first suitors, the majority couldn’t get past her attractiveness and they focused only on trying to get her into the bedroom.
Not Rippey. A calculus professor at Fordham University where Stephanie worked as a supervising librarian, appearance-wise, Rippey wasn’t terribly impressive. He was about six feet tall with a thin build and wild, scraggly grey hair that matched his grungy beard, which looked like it smelled. He reminded me of a stoner that woke up from a thirty-year high at Woodstock.
As much as I wanted to dislike him, I couldn’t. He treated Stefanie with total class. He was thoughtful, patient and completely understanding of everything she’d been through. His support was a key element in her working her way towards being her old self again.
Often, they just sat together on the couch, like they’re doing tonight; watching movies with her leaning her head on his shoulder, the way she once did with me. Right in front of my eyes, I could see their bond intensifying as he gently stroked her hair, driving me nuts with envy. They ended up marrying two years later.
Othello continues to scowl and hiss while keeping a cautious distance away from me. You gotta admire his protective stance, although he’s probably ready to shit himself. He doesn’t know what the fuck I am but he knows I’m not human. I almost feel bad wildly, flailing my arms above my head to shoo him away.
My exaggerated ooga-booga gesture successfully freaks the cat out and his yowl draws attention from inside the house. Rippey rises from the couch and approaches the window.
He looks right through me, into the still night.
A couple of yards away out on the lawn, he spots his shaken kitty.
Because of my, okay I’ll say it, supernatural condition, my appearance to everyone when I am visible is the same as it was when I went belly up twenty-seven years ago. The same can’t be said for Rippey, whose long white hair now makes him resemble the professor in “Back to the Future”.
Othello, at my feet again, meows at Rippey as if saying, “Hey, you blind bastard, can’t you see what’s in front of you?” For a quick laugh I could pick up Othello by the nape of his neck and dangle him in front of the window. Probably a bad idea; the sight of the floating cat would probably give the old guy a heart attack and make Stefanie a widow yet again.
“Bring him inside,” she says as Rippey heads towards the front door.
Othello is drawn to the front door as he hears Rippey unlocking it and stepping out.
“Hey buddy, you want to come inside?” asks Rippey, who watches his cat scoot in with the obvious answer.
Looking out into the cool night, Rippey sees no sign of what might have stirred up his kitty as the answer to that question also slithers in past him.
Stefanie’s looking thinner these days than I like to see her. It makes her face show her age more, even if her eyes still have the same sparkle that caught my attention in college almost fifty years ago. I can see the lines around them becoming more pronounced as she laughs at some line Maggie Smith spouts out on the TV. It’s probably something that only Stefanie and the English would find funny.
Rippey picks up Othello and hands him over to Stefanie, who places him on her lap. “What’s the matter, baby” she coos. Othello spots me. The anomaly from outside is now hovering in their living room. It’s more than the little guy can handle; he frantically leaps from Stefanie’s lap with a maniacal yelp, and dashes for the kitchen. “Oh my God,” gasps Stefanie.
“What the hell?” says Rippey, following the cat, who wedges himself between the toaster and the cookie jar on the granite kitchen counter. “Come on, buddy. Get down from there,” says Rippey.
Othello protests with an unearthly meow that even creeps me out. And I’m a dead guy.
Figuring the kitty’s safe indoors, Rippey shrugs it off and rejoins Stefanie on the couch.
Here comes that knife in the gut again as he puts his arm around her and she customarily leans her head against his shoulder. Later they will climb into bed and she will sleep with her head again on his shoulder, just as she did with me during the seventeen years of our marriage.
During the early years of my disappearance I watched Stefanie sleep alone in the bedroom that I once shared with her, knowing that I couldn’t join her and lie together in the spoon position the way we did for so many years. Instead I’d come up close and study her face, trying to read what was on her mind. Darkness had settled in under her eyes. Wrinkles had formed. They came from the strain of raising two children whose father not only died, but died in the bed of another woman. Not able to sense my non-breathing presence, as far as Stefanie was concerned, she was alone. Both of us were. Alone in the same room but in two separate worlds.
I should head back. It’s getting late and I gotta make a stop before calling it a night.
#
It looks like the University Medical Center’s O+ blood supply is a little lower than usual. Must be a lot of activity of late—even by Newark’s standards.
Working here as a uniformed night shift security guard gives me the convenience of tapping into the blood supply on occasions like tonight where I need to compensate for Vernon’s leukemia-tainted feeding. By sticking to the more common blood types, I feel a little less shitty about what I’m doing, a nagging, moral compass that most of my kind don’t have to deal with. They wouldn’t even think twice about guzzling down some AB-. But then again they wouldn’t be skirting from feeding off live humans by going into the blood bank either.
It’s my night off so rather than get caught up in any unnecessary chit-chat I roamed the halls unseen, though that can be draining when lacking a good feeding. As a security guard, I have the keys that allow me access to go where I please. Letting myself into the blood bank, I leave the lights off even if I’m cloaked from human eyesight. No sense in taking any chances.
Normally I’d pocket a few pints and take them home to enjoy during ESPN Sportscenter. Tonight, though, I’m thinking I need to take in a whole ten pints. The problem is that I’m pretty sure ten packets of plasma floating in the hospital corridors might get a little bit of attention.
If I were home right now, I’d be in the kitchen reaching for a can of Dos Equis in the fridge. Instead I’m pulling a packet of O+ from the hospital blood supply. That cancerous blood that I have in my system is playing games with my head. Rather than waiting ‘til I get home, I’ll puncture a hole in the edge with the pointed end of one my pearly’s.
If I had a straw, I’d probably look like these kids today that suck from those packets they’ve been selling in the supermarket for the last twenty years that are 99% sugar and 1% juice.
The blood is cold, thick. It goes down nice and smoothly like a refreshing glass of tomato juice. My reflection on the refrigerator’s glass door as it swings shut—it serves as an unfriendly reminder, one of the many cruelties of my curse that clings like a bad case of herpes. My projection to those around me is the handsome Nicky (if I may say so myself) that died twenty-seven years ago. To me that face is a memory from photographs. On the occasions when my projection is not present, like when I’m feeding or when my emotions take over, the only version I get to see of myself is that of my death face—the face that belongs six feet under. Dried, chalky grey-white flesh with cracked, darkened eyes and large black eyeballs floating in a blood-red pool where the whites should be. Not exactly the pretty face you see on those TV vampires that are always falling in love with the perky-titted cheerleader. It’s also the last face seen by someone unlucky enough to be around when one of us needs a feeding.
Shit! Our hearing is extra-sensitive. I can be at the other end of Jersey in Atlantic City and still hear a Giants fan farting in the bathroom at MetLife Stadium. How did I not hear her coming?
The piercing scream from behind almost sends the packet of O+ splattering onto the floor. It’s Juanita from the Environmental Services night crew. The poor cleaning woman was just exposed to something too unimaginable to process—unless she’s accustomed to seeing cadaverous night-walkers raiding the hospital blood supply.
“Juanita, calm down.” I gotta bring her down, reassure her. “It’s me, Georgie,” the name I answer to these days. As a little inside joke for my own amusement I go by Jórge Sangría. But since no one can say Jórge correctly (it’s hor-heh, not hor-gay, you dumb fucks) everyone calls me Georgie.
“Georgie?” She gasps through trembling lips.
“Yes, Juanita, it’s me.” I gotta work fast. “Listen, any second now someone’s going to come running over here wondering what happened. You’re going to tell them you thought you saw a mouse or a prowler. Whatever, I don’t care. As long as you don’t say you saw me. You are going to totally forget that I was here.”
Here comes the cavalry.
“Juanita, what’s wrong?” It’s Jimmy, one of the other third shift security guards. Sometimes he works with me, other nights we alternate.
“Oh no, I’m sorry Jimmy. I thought I saw something. I’m not sure. I don’t know. I got scared. But it’s okay. There’s nothing.” She’s so frazzled that her effort to feign calm is nowhere near convincing. Jimmy’s not even close to being fooled.
And now here comes the crowd. Fiona, the cleaning staff supervisor, Jose, the other security guard, Gladys from Admitting, and the supervising nurse, Taqualla.
Jimmy’s quick to take control. “Okay everybody, just stay out here.” He’s going to scope the room out. “What did you see in there?” he asks Juanita.
“I don’t know. I was confused.” She knows she screamed. She’s still shaking but she can’t remember why. Mind control is a beautiful thing.
Jimmy steps inside, not realizing he’s walking past the colleague he’s always inviting out for a beer to watch the Knicks. I always turn him down. I can’t stand basketball.
Jimmy flicks on the light and sees nothing out of the ordinary. Everything inside appears as it should. If I would have dropped that packet of blood, poor Juanita would have had some ‘splaining to do. As it is, Jimmy’s satisfied enough to turn off the light and step back out into the hallway shaking his head. “Juanita, you sure you didn’t see anything?” he asks her while locking the door to the blood bank.
Juanita’s now more embarrassed than spooked. “No, I’m sorry.”
“Then why’d you scream like that?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?” Stop being a pain in the ass, Jimmy. Let it go.
Juanita just wants to get her shift over and done with. “It’s okay, Jimmy. You can go back. I’ll be okay.”
The security camera in the hallway has got Jimmy’s attention. “Are you sure?” he asks Juanita. He’s probably going to check the tapes. I got some erasing to do. The hallway camera will show a floating set of keys unlocking the door to the blood bank. It will then open and close by itself. And though I never turned on the lights inside the room, there should enough coming from the fridge to show a packet of blood making its way out before disappearing into the darkness. I better get to those tapes before Jimmy. These days, shit like that can go viral.