Unwelcome Bodies (14 page)

He squats down next to her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, then gazing down at the flagstones, his hands folded in front of him. He has a very pleasant face. She finds herself thinking that he looks like a cross between a couple of people she used to know. Or maybe they were people she used to watch on television. She really can’t remember.

He looks up at her again and smiles, and she smiles back. “You’re new here,” he says.

“I just got here.”

“Waiting for the bus?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I’m trying to place your accent.”

She smiles, hoping it comes off as coy. She doesn’t want this conversation to end too quickly. “It’s nothing special.”

His smile widens. She thinks it’s sweet. “It is special. But it’s not important.”

“No, not really. Not here, I don’t think.”

“No, not here,” he says. “You’re right.” He points down at her boots and says, “They look worn. You’ve been traveling a long time?”

She opens her mouth to speak, then exhales, trying to pull her thoughts together and failing. Finally, she says, “I suppose I must have been.” She looks at him, his expression open and warm, and untucks her legs and stretches them out in front of her, knees demurely pressed together. “Who are you?” she asks.

“Me?” He looks behind him at the washer and dryer, then turns back to face her. “I live here. I thought I’d keep you company while you waited.”

“That’s nice of you. I hope I’m not trespassing.”

“No, this is the bus stop.” He points to the faded sticker.

She turns and looks at it, running a finger across its papery surface. “It’s an odd place for it. But at least it’s nice here.” She finds herself wishing he’d touch her, and smiles at the thought. It’s been a while since she’s been touched. That she remembers.

He sits down cross-legged on the flagstones and fixes her with a long stare. She doesn’t find it uncomfortable. “I’m not supposed to be helping you out like this,” he says.

She raises her eyebrows, a feeling a bemused grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re helping me?”

He smiles back, tilting his head to the side. “I’m actually supposed to be discouraging you. It’s just that it’s been so long since anyone else came through here.”

“To the bus stop?”

“To the bus stop, yes. This bus doesn’t run very often anymore.”

“That’s too bad.” She suddenly realizes she’s wearing a backpack, and wonders what’s in it. She’ll have to check once she gets on the bus.

He rests his hands behind him on the brick walkway and leans back. “Do you remember how you got here?”

She has to think about it. Some memories flicker to the surface, but they’re fading fast. If she doesn’t try to think too hard, some of them come easily to her, but if she grabs for them, they dissipate under scrutiny. She takes a deep breath, her eyes focused on the empty space between herself and the far wall, and says, “If I’m remembering correctly, the last bus I took came through a nice neighborhood, with trees, shops, and houses. But it ended up somewhere really creepy.” She pauses, fishing for an accurate description of the surreal memory. “It was like… It was all industrial and decayed and…” She looks at him sheepishly and lowers her voice to a near-whisper. “This is going to sound crazy, but when I got off the bus, there were evil clowns.”

“The neighbors,” he says simply.

She looks at him, flabbergasted. “But this is such a nice neighborhood.” She starts to lean forward to look down the driveway at the street.

“They’re gone,” he says. “No point in looking for them.”

She decides to believe him—she can’t think of any reason not to—and settles back against the peach wall, against her backpack. It feels empty. She wonders, briefly, why.

“So, you saw them as clowns,” he says. “Interesting. They look different to everybody. The last person saw them as SS officers. Like I said, it’s been a while since we’ve had a visitor. Tell me how you managed to get by them.”

“I disguised myself as one of them. I wore a mask, and made sure I was in bulky enough burlap that I didn’t look like a woman, and…” She raises her hands and shrugs. “I just walked right past them until I got here.”

He nods and leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “A very clever solution. And where did you get this costume?”

She squints, lost in a kaleidoscope of fractured thoughts, then exhales until her lungs feel flat. “I don’t know. I just remember thinking I’d be better off disguised, and then I was. I must have taken it off somewhere around here. Maybe in my backpack—” She pulls it off and reaches for the zipper.

“Don’t look for the costume. It’s not here anymore.”

She looks up at him. “Like the neighbors?”

His expression is matter-of-fact. “Like the neighbors.”

She puts the backpack on the ground at her feet, unopened, and wonders why she would bother carrying it around empty.

“That was a very ingenious solution,” he says. “Most people run, or fight, and it takes them forever to get to this stop, if they even make it at all. No wonder you’ve made it this far. Do you remember how you got to the previous bus stop?”

“I…” Her face goes blank, save for a faint scowl around her eyes. “I think I remember water. It’s all so…” She fades into silence.

He nods. “You’ll remember it when you get there. You’ll remember everything. Like your name.”

Reflexively, she says, “I know my name.”

“What is it?”

She pauses, then shrugs, oddly unconcerned. “It’s not important.”

“No, it’s not.”

She leans back against the peach wall, resting her head against the cool surface, breathing in the warm scent of freshly-cut grass. “I feel like there should be a breeze blowing.”

“There used to be one,” he says. “Before the house.”

“Where was the sticker then?”

Now it’s his turn to think. “You know, I forget. I’ve been here an awfully long time. It all starts blurring together. I think there might have been an actual egg here before, but we built the house over it. The washer and dryer are where the stream once was.”

“So that’s why they’re outdoors.”

“Well, there is a roof over them.”

“It wasn’t always a bus either, was it?”

He smiles. “No, of course not.” The smile fades. “But at this rate, we may not need to replace the bus when it becomes an anachronism.”

“I’m sorry.”

He rests his hands behind him again and gazes down the driveway with a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

She reaches a hand out, but draws back before she can touch him. “Maybe…maybe you could come with me on the bus.”

He looks back, and the smile that crosses his face is grateful and tired. “That’s very sweet of you, but it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t say.”

“But you do know.”

He slowly shakes his head. “I wish I could tell you.”

She looks at him for a quiet moment, then says, “I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I know.” The dryer buzzes, and she looks back toward the house.

“She’ll come out to get it after you leave,” he says.

“Ah.” She closes her eyes, and can almost feel the breeze that once was here.

“You’re on a quest, you know,” he says.

“I’m at a bus stop.”

“That too.”

“A quest,” she murmurs. “I don’t feel like I’m on a quest. Quests are things you read about in mythology.”

“I never said it was an epic quest.” She can hear the laughter in his voice.

She grins. “Still.”

“Well, why are you here?”

She opens her eyes again and stares at him, trying to grab hold of the murky jumble of thoughts lying tantalizingly out of reach. “I have this feeling that…that I got somewhere, and it wasn’t the right place. It wasn’t home. So I started heading for home.”

“It’s been a long and difficult trip.”

“Has it?” She shrugs and looks over his head at the washer and dryer, at the empty basket sitting atop them. “I can’t remember.”

“Probably for the best.”

She looks back at him. “But you said I will remember.”

“When you get there, yes.”

“I don’t know where ‘there’ is.”

She looks at him expectantly, and he sighs and looks down at his feet. “I can’t tell you that either,” he says.

She looks away. “I didn’t think so.”

“But I think you know.”

“It’s…impossible.”

“And a bus stopping in this tiny hallway is possible?”

She looks back at him, and he’s staring at her, his eyes imploring her to accept the truth, and she finds herself wondering how she knows his thoughts so clearly. Finally, she says, “I didn’t think I was dead.”

He nods. “Not everyone sees it coming. In a way, you’re lucky.”

“Oh.” She plucks at her jeans, feeling like she should be upset somehow. “What was it?”

He looks around, then leans forward and whispers, “Brain embolism in your sleep.”

She leans her head back against the peach wall and traces the outline of the little faded egg sticker over and over with her fingertip as if it were a miniature prayer wheel. “I was only thirty-four. There’s so much I didn’t do.”

“Don’t feel so bad. Most people feel that way, no matter how old they are.”

“It’s no one’s fault but my own, I suppose.”

“I couldn’t say.”

A corner of the sticker starts to come loose from the wall, and she presses it firmly back down. She doesn’t want to think what will happen if the last stop isn’t marked. “Maybe that’s why I felt like I didn’t belong there, in that first place.”

“Maybe.”

She turns back and looks at him. “You’re getting awfully quiet.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Am I? I’m sorry.”

“The bus is coming, isn’t it?”

He nods. “Soon.”

“Oh. Are you sure you can’t come along?”

“Positive.”

“That’s too bad. I’ll miss you.”

She’s rewarded with another smile. “I’ll miss you too.”

“How long have you been here?”

He pauses, then says, “Since the beginning.”

“It must get lonely.”

“Well, I have the washerwoman to keep me company. But yes. It wasn’t so bad at first, back when more people came through.”

“How is it that I’m the first person to come here in such a long time? Do most people go directly there?”

He shakes his head. “No. Most people stay where you started out. They don’t think to look for anything better.”

She considers trying to dig through her scattered memories once more, but quickly dismisses it as impractical. “I really can’t remember where I started,” she says.

“It’s not very memorable. It’s gray, quiet, boring. But every now and then, someone comes along who isn’t satisfied, and they start looking for the way out. Most don’t make it this far. Not anymore.”

“What’s changed?”

He sighs. “Imagination’s dead. People accept what’s given to them. They don’t think to question it. But you did. And you were strong enough and clever enough to make it this far. I think you’re going to like it at your final destination.” He sits forward, lacing his fingers together.

She leans forward and asks, “You’re not going to get in trouble for telling me this, are you?”

He shrugs. “I might. I don’t really care, though. If nothing else, it will break up the monotony.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

“It was a pleasure.” Now even his eyes are smiling.

She hears the sound of a motor and stands up. “It’s almost here.”

“Yes.” He’s looking at the ground.

She reaches her hand down for him, and he looks up at her, eyes wide, and accepts it. His hand is warm, his touch gentle, and when he stands, he’s only a couple of inches taller than her. The bus pulls up beside them, impossibly, and opens the door. There is a piece of paper with an egg printed on it taped to the inside of the windshield.

“You have to go now,” he says. “Don’t worry, this part of the trip is uneventful.”

“I want to give you something first.” She reaches down, picks up her backpack, unzips it, and pulls out a small wrapped box. “Here.”

He takes it, eyebrows raised. “What is it?”

She smiles. “I think I finally figured something out. Open it and we’ll see if I’m right.”

He carefully pulls the ribbon off and untapes the yellow paper, neatly removing it to reveal a white cardboard box. He opens the lid, and they both look in, seeing two painted yellow eggs nestled in cream-colored tissue paper.

He gasps. In a whisper, he asks, “How did you…?”

She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. “Like you said, I have a good imagination. The egg—it’s rebirth, isn’t it? And if I deserve it after just one lifetime, then it’s certainly long overdue for you.”

His pale skin is nearly paper white. “I—I never thought to ask.”

She smiles. “Maybe my people aren’t the only ones lacking in imagination. Are you coming?”

His smile is sweeter than any she’s ever seen. They climb onto the bus together, sit behind the driver, and watch out the window as they pull out of the small walkway between the house and the garage.

Notes on “Last Bus”

This story is lifted directly from a dream I had while napping one hot summer day. I cleaned it up, got rid of all the Mary Sue elements, and then had a devil of a time selling it. Even though it wasn’t published until 2006, it’s the earliest-written piece in this entire book. I think it’s the most positive piece I’ve ever written. Hell, it’s actually sweet.

The Last Stand of the Elephant Man

“MR. MERRICK, PLEASE WAKE UP.”

Joseph Merrick’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Was this the hospital ward? Had something new happened to him?

Good God, he was lying flat on his back.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, astounded at how effortless the action was. “What—”

The word came out clearly.

His left hand flew up to his mouth. His flat mouth. “My God,” he murmured against his fingers.

And then he saw his unblemished right arm.

“Is this Heaven?” he asked the white-swathed figure at the foot of his bed.