A Scrying Shame (2 page)

“It’s nice that you take, um, pride in your work.” An errant, sweat-dampened tendril of brown hair flopped over one of Arie’s eyes.

“What d’you expect? It’s a business.” Gallo squinted at her. “That’s what you gotta keep telling yourself. A business. Keep the emotions out of it. And what you gotta ask yourself is: Can you do it? Can you handle it?”

Arie cleared her throat.
Could she?

“Don’t forget,” he added. “If you work up to full time, after a year, you get three sick days and a week’s vacation. Also health insurance. It’s crappy, and the premiums are killing me, but still.”

Thank goodness. Death had benefits.

“I don’t understand. Did you say ‘BioClean’?”

Arie could see the war waging beneath the facade of her mother’s near-perfect control of her facial expressions. Despite the barest Mona Lisa smile that a lifetime of cloaking her emotions automatically carved out of her mother’s lips, disgust showed in the infinitesimal tightening of her eye muscles and in a shadow curling at the corner of Evelyn’s mouth.

“What exactly is this BioClean, sweetheart?” Dad asked.

“It’s a crime scene cleanup company. I interviewed last week, and the owner called this morning to offer me the job.” Arie almost overdosed on the toxic levels of perkiness her own automatic response produced.

“But, why on earth . . .?” Her mother’s voice trailed off. It did that a lot. Her long, pale fingers touched the amber beads around her neck that coordinated perfectly with the rich earth tones she favored.
The perfect pastor’s wife.

Exhausted, Arie dropped into her usual spot at her parents’ kitchen table—only four long strides from the back door or seven to get through the door leading to the living room. She’d known the measurements since she was fourteen.

Arie sighed. She’d never acquired the stamina to sustain social falseness the way her mother had. “I need the job. I haven’t worked in over six months.”

She decided not to bother with the obvious. Her parents were well aware of the circumstances that ended her last job. After all, working late nights at the bar had killed her. It wasn’t her fault it didn’t take. And her parents didn’t know that her rent was already three months past due, and she’d started hiding her car in back alleys to avoid the repo dude—when she could rally herself enough to get off the couch, that is. The eviction notice had finally penetrated the haze of depression she’d been living with since being squashed back into her body shell against her will. Some wills were bigger than others.

At any rate, Arie needed a job. Any job.

Her mother lifted her fingers to her temples, rubbing at the tension that details of her daughter’s life inevitably brought her. She threw in a grand display of in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth breaths designed to illustrate her control and dropped her hands to her teensy waist. “What about the job at the bank? I gave you the application, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but it’s only part time, and it only pays minimum wage.
And
no benefits.”

The latter fact scored a direct hit, what with the hospital bills that kept piling up after “the incident,” as Evelyn insisted on calling it.

Sitting quietly at the kitchen table, her dad nodded slightly at the point Arie made, but his wife slid a quelling glance in his direction.

“Besides . . .” Arie eyed the back door.
Just four strides.
“It’s temporary. Just while I figure things out. You don’t understand what it’s like to have been—”

“You’re right; I don’t understand. I’ve never understood what you’re doing with your life.” Evelyn reverted to her usual back-up weapons: a main course of disillusionment with a topping of guilt. “Regardless of what you think happened during that incident, you still have to make your way in the real world with
real
people doing real things. You can’t keep living in this fantasy world that you’ve decided . . .” Evelyn pressed her fingers to her temples. When she finally spoke again, her voice was I-am-calm, I-am-peace saintly. “You have such potential. All of your teachers said so. Didn’t they, Edward?”

Permission granted, her father nodded.

“Ma—”

“Don’t call me Ma. You’re not a sheep. And you know I’m right. If you would just apply yourself, you could do anything. What about college? You only have a year left. Don’t you want to matriculate? I don’t know how you can just leave your education dangling. Of course, you need to rethink that silly degree you insisted on. I mean, really? English Lit? Is that going to help you get ahead in this economy? You should have taken something in computers or business, like your brother. He’s doing so well—”

“Mother, stop.”  Arie’s shoulder muscles scrunched so tight they almost twanged.
Not again.
“I’m not Brant.”

“And we don’t want you to be.” Arie’s father stepped in on cue. “You just need to buckle down, that’s all.”

“Edward.” Evelyn reclaimed the conversational helm. “You can’t tell me that you think this disgusting cleaning job is a good idea?”

He cleared his throat. Loudly. “I can’t say I like the idea—”

“There. You see?”

“But if this is what Arie wants—”

“And that’s another thing, this ridiculous refusal to answer to her own name.”

The screen door banged against the frame on Arie’s way out, the same bang as when she was fifteen and forbidden to go to Leanna Schwarz’s birthday party because Leanna’s mom worked as an “entertainment specialist” at the Boys Only Club. It had happened again at seventeen, when nobody had believed her story about burglars taking the minivan on a joyride up to Madison and, in an amazing coincidence, left it outside Abercrombie & Fitch, Arie’s favorite store at West Towne Mall.

After all, criminals had a right to dress well. Besides, there had been a sale on summer dresses.

As usual, after a fight with her mother, Arie ended up at her best friend’s place.

“I seriously don’t get what the big deal is. You’d think your mom would be all Kübler-Ross about dying, right? I mean, she’s a minister’s wife. And what’s wrong with being dead? It’s not like you
stayed
that way.” Chandra’s voice came out squished as she pretzeled around her knee, daintily polishing her toenails purple-black. Chandra was heavy into body art, although thus far, she had managed to limit piercings to her left eyebrow, her nose, and a tiny angel kiss above her upper lip. The rest of her body was her palate, although she hadn’t started on tattoos. Yet.

Arie sat on the faded floor pillows that were her best friend’s only furniture. She sighed, pulling her feet out from the cramped, crossed-leg position that had stopped being comfortable when she was twelve. Her right foot tingled one notch below falling asleep. Arie wiggled it.

“You need a couch,” she said irritably.

Chandra looked up. “You need a nap.”

“Which I could take if you had a couch. And I’m not crabby.”

Arie considered snagging the bag of Doritos that she knew Chandra would have stashed in the kitchen. Her mouth salivated. But no. She tamped down the craving. She’d promised herself she’d stop using chips and ice cream as antidepressants.

Chandra snorted, turning back to dabbing the inky liquid onto a stubby pinky toe.

“You smeared,” Arie pointed out, earning a glinting, green-eyed glare. Sighing, she thunked her head back against the wall.

Of course Chandra didn’t get it. She’d been born and raised in Southern California and had moved to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, just before middle school. She was used to being thought of as weird—reveled in it, in fact. Arie, on the other hand, came from a long line of proper, beige-y Midwestern ancestors. She had never fit in with them, but they’d never lowered their expectations.

“So let me get this straight,” Chandra said. “You don’t want to discuss the fact that you were bumped off, died, and had a layover in heaven, but you got a job cleaning up dead people anyway?” She finally untangled her long legs, straightening them across the floor.

Arie knew ignoring her wouldn’t work. Chandra would just keep vulture-circling the subject until Arie gave in.

“I don’t mind talking about the death part. I just don’t want to talk about the attack.”

Again.

Dying had been . . . beautiful. But getting mugged—
killed
—for the measly few tips she’d earned bartending was decidedly not. The police had grilled her over and over again about the little she could remember about leaving the bar and walking to her car and for what? They hadn’t caught the guy.

Fortunately, Chandra had a fascination with the Other Side—in all things weird and paranormal, actually. From the moment Arie had gotten out of the hospital, the NDE had been all Chandra wanted to talk about. Or maybe she’d simply been more sensitive than Arie gave her credit for.

“Obviously, I’m not afraid of death anymore,” Arie finally said. “It doesn’t bother me, so why not make money off it? I could sure use it.”

Chandra squinted at her best friend. “I think it’s an awesome job. The fact that it tweaks your mom’s butt is just an added benefit. When do you start?”

“I already did. I went in for training yesterday.”

“And you’re just now telling me?” Chandra looked stunned.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to go through with it. Besides, it’s like being on call. I have to wait until someone dies. And I won’t be on the first team called out either, unless it’s a big job. I had to go in for a bunch of hep-B shots, though, and the training is, like, three days. I guess I’m still not sure how I feel about the whole thing.”

“It’s kind of weird hoping that someone dies, huh?”

“I guess.”
Not really.
Death was wonderful. But Arie didn’t want to start all that up again. “It’s not only death scenes, though. It might be a meth lab or something. From what Basil Gallo said, there are a lot of those projects up north.”

“Geez, that could be dangerous.” Chandra met her gaze. “All those chemicals. What if you blow up or something?”

Then I die,
Arie said to herself.
Again.

At least the first job wasn’t a murder. Leonard Petranik died all on his own, although nothing about his death could be termed natural.

“Hoarder,” Grady said.

Short, squat, and built like a stump, Arie’s new partner spoke with the authority of his senior status. He’d been with BioClean for nearly a year and was already their third most experienced employee. This did not generate confidence in BioClean being a long-term employment option.

They stood outside a small ranch-style home in one of those working-class neighborhoods that were deserted during the day. Arie looked at the call sheet and tried to figure out where Grady got the information that their “client” was a hoarder. The only items listed were the homeowner’s name—Leonard Petranik—the address, lots of insurance information, and a small box checked Unattended Death. She followed Grady to the back of the van where he pulled out supplies.

“How do you know he’s a hoarder?”

Grady pointed at the ranch’s windows. A sun-faded Dixie flag and a dingy-looking beach towel hung in place of curtains in the large picture window. In addition to the dubious decorating choice, there was something else off about it. It took a few seconds for Arie to realize that neither flag nor towel hung free. Instead of falling in loose folds, the fabric was mashed against the panes, flattened nearly to the top of the windows where it bunched unevenly. One corner of the flag had slipped off the rod, or whatever it was attached to, exposing a triangle of jumbled colors. Arie’s brain told her that something must be holding up the bit of flag, but it looked as though it was levitating. The kaleidoscope of colors added a festive splash to the otherwise dreary exterior.

A second set of windows, smaller and lacking even a towel for privacy, were situated at the far end of the house. A bedroom, maybe? An assorted mix of boxes of varied shapes and sizes blocked the bottom six inches of the windows.

“Maybe he was moving in?”

Grady pointed again, this time to the one-car garage located at the opposite end of the house. The bifurcated door bulged askew, the left side prevented from closing by layers and layers of newspapers wedged underneath.

Grady was already pulling on a yellow Tyvek biohazard suit. He leaned against the back of the van, tugging the fitted “bunny suit” up over his tennis shoes, wiggling his way into the protective gear. Arie had tried one on during training and wasn’t looking forward to the stifling heat. She wished she had thought to wear shorts and a tank top like Grady. She was stuck in a short-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of ratty tennis shoes that she had already determined could be thrown away if needed.

Her second discovery was that yellow Tyvek did absolutely nothing for her curvy hips. Arie stared down at herself. She looked like a lumpy, ambulatory banana. She copied Grady by wrapping a strip of crime scene tape around her middle to take the suit in. Now she looked like a lumpy banana with criminal tendencies. Sighing, she watched Grady pull on a second pair of disposable booties.

He didn’t explain why they needed double wrapping, and Arie didn’t ask. She had already figured out there would be things she wouldn’t want to dwell on.

The odor assaulted her halfway up the sidewalk. Grady looked over his shoulder, and Arie waited for words of encouragement and inspiration. He was, after all, her supervisor.

“If you have to puke, make sure you get the mask off,” Grady said. “It really sucks to hurl in your mask and have it wash back up in your face. And don’t puke on the scene. We’ll just have to clean that up, too.”

Words to live by.

There were tunnels. The garbage had been piled to nearly ceiling height in most of the rooms, but Petranik had constructed a rabbit warren of burrows. The walls of trash were divided into stratified layers, separating into different eras like an archaeological dig. The eighties, which predated Arie’s birth by a decade, hit about shoulder high. In one small section, Arie spied the black edges of VHS tapes, a five-inch-thick VCR, a boxy gray dinosaur of an IBM computer, and a squashed-flat box that previously held “The Clapper.” A small, multicolored pyramid poked out of the wall. She grasped it, dislodging a small shower of Bubble Yum wrappers and Styrofoam fast-food sandwich boxes. The wall shifted ominously, and Arie held her breath. She had nearly caused a trash avalanche over a rescued Rubik’s Cube. Being smothered to death under a pile of trash was not appealing.
Unless . . .