Being Dead (17 page)

Sure enough, it's DeMarco's apartment. There he is, sitting at the kitchen table, counting out the money I collected.

Apparently DeMarco doesn't live alone—he has a dog: It's big and it's ugly, and it immediately jumps to its feet, its claws skittering on the yellowed linoleum. It lunges at me, barking like crazy.

I take an instinctive step backward, which brings me through the closed door and back out onto the landing, and I hear a thud and a startled
yip
as the dog tries to follow.

"What is it, boy?" DeMarco says. The legs of his chair scrape against the floor. "Who's out there?" he yells through the door.

Not me—not
out there—I've
remembered that I no longer need to worry about minor inconveniences like being ripped apart by vicious dogs, and I've stepped back into the room.

The dog goes crazy, barking again, and he lunges again. This time I stand my ground. Same result, though: After the dog passes through me, once more he crashes into the door. Just so as not to confuse DeMarco, to let him know that there isn't anyone lurking on the landing, I step away from the door and into the room.

The dog attacks again—and smacks into the back of the couch.

"Aw, you stupid mutt," I tell him, "you're just the kind of stupid mutt that gets run over," 'cause I figure if the thing can see me, then it must be about to die.

But the Voice comes out of nowhere (I swear, I think the Voice enjoys sneaking up on me to see me jump) and says, "Actually, some of the living are more sensitive to the dead than others—most animals, certain very young children, and a few adults can sense you."

"No kidding?" I say, not—to be honest—especially relieved to hear the dog's lifespan is not in jeopardy.

But maybe the dog isn't as stupid as it looks, because it gives up on trying to sink its teeth into me and just jumps up and down in front of me. I keep moving, and DeMarco, of course, has no idea what's going on.

"What're you doing, you dumb dog?" he demands. He opens the apartment door, just to make sure there's no one out there, and meanwhile I race the dog around the kitchen table. The mutt goes skidding on the floor and crashing into the chairs. This dog's a
long
way from its graceful wolf ancestors, and—in the tight circle we're making around the little table—his back half has trouble going in the same direction as his front half. So I make things easier for him: I jump onto the table itself. The dog follows, then goes sliding right off the far end, taking with it the money DeMarco was counting and the bowl of soup he'd had cooling. Minestrone, and by the smell of it, not half bad.

The dog is yapping, DeMarco is yelling at the dog, and whoever lives downstairs is banging a broom handle on the ceiling and hollering at both of them.

DeMarco grabs hold of the dog's collar, and he smacks it on the snout with a rolled-up magazine.

I stop egging the dog on, 'cause I don't want it to get beaten on my behalf—even if it is dumb and ugly and eager to get a taste of me.

The dog sits down sulkily, then decides to make the best of things and begins lapping up that spilled minestrone soup. It keeps an eye on me, though, and occasionally gives a throaty growl.

"All right, all right," DeMarco yells down at the neighbor who's still banging away on the ceiling. "Give it a rest already."

I notice that he picks up the money before he goes after the bowl and spoon. He doesn't wipe up the spill, leaving that to the dog. He just ladles a bit more soup from the pot into the bowl. Then he sits down to resume counting the money.

I concentrate on the bulb hanging over the table.

It explodes, showering tiny slivers of glass onto DeMarco, who jumps to his feet yelling, "What the hell?"

The dog, of course, guesses I'm responsible, and—since the soup is mostly gone, anyway—it takes to barking its fool head off at me.

"Shaddup!" DeMarco commands the dog. He looks up at what's left of the bulb in its socket He brushes off his shoulders, tells himself, "Humph!" pushes his bowl of soup out of the way—to remind himself not to eat it since ifs probably got glass in it—and turns once again to the money.

I think about that soup in that bowl getting hot. Getting really, really hot.

With a burst of smell of beef stock and the Parmesan he's sprinkled on top, the soup boils over the sides of the bowl.

DeMarco grabs the money out of the way of the soup that's still bubbling, even as it spreads across the table, and he hurriedly stands before it reaches the end of the table and begins dripping onto the floor.

The dog gives a sharp bark at DeMarco's sudden movement, but it's not interested in any more soup.

DeMarco goes "Humphl" again, though this time he sounds less ticked off and more worried.

Apparently deciding the kitchen is out to get him, DeMarco goes into the living room and sits on the couch, where he piles the money on the cushion to count out.

I concentrate on the faded throw pillow next to him.

It fells to the floor.

The dog barks because it can't figure how I moved the pillow without touching it. DeMarco figures the dog has knocked it down with its sniffing, so he ignores it.

So I cause it to blow up.

Feathers shoot into the air, then settle, like a major incident at a chicken coop. The dog goes chasing after feathers, baying like a bloodhound on the trail of something good.

DeMarco backs away from the couch
and
the money.

He goes into the bathroom, and I figure if he's going to do anything disgusting, I'm outta there, but all he wants is to wash his face.

I can see myself in the mirror over the sink, but I don't think anything of that, since all along I've been able to see my own arms and legs—not to mention Stewart and Maria. But then DeMarco, straightening, reaching for a towel, looks into the mirror, too.

"Holy—" he sputters. "Johnny! You
are
alive!" He tries to sound pleased. "I was sure—" But then he turns around and, of course, there's no sign of me. He turns back to the mirror.

I wave at him.

He spins to see if he can maybe catch me ducking somewhere to hide.

I wave again, though he can't see that until he feces the minor again. I make the bathroom light explode.

DeMarco eases out of the bathroom.

There's a picture on the wall of some bridge, probably in Italy—I figure it must have come with the apartment, 'cause I can't see DeMarco spending money on art, except maybe the kind that comes on a calendar. But in any case, I tip it on the wall as he passes. Then I send a chair toppling to the floor.

"What is it?" DeMarco says. "What do you want?"

I, of course, cannot answer.

"I'm not the one who killed you," he tells me.

No kidding. Does he think being dead has damaged my brain? I cause the money I collected, bills and change, to rise up off the couch cushion.

"
What?
" DeMarco demands.

I throw a quarter at him, bouncing it off his forehead, which is better aim than I ever had when I was alive.

"Oh," he says. "The money. Sure, sure; the money. Take it. I was just going to bring it to your mother. Honest I was just trying to count it for her."

Liar. I
saw
the envelope that was going to my mother.

I throw another coin at him—a nickel this time—but he sees it coming and ducks.

"Take it!" he tells me.

The dog barks once, sharply, as though to repeat what DeMarco is saying.

DeMarco has a radio on a stand next to the couch. I make it turn on full blast, then start to rock it back and forth.

The downstairs neighbor complains with the broom handle again.

"Jeez!" DeMarco says, rushing forward to steady the radio. "Whaddya want? You want
me
to bring the money to your mother?"

I stop rocking the radio.

"All right, all right," he says. "How about if I bring it now?" He scoops my twenty-dollar bill off the couch.

With my mind I pick up the two coins I threw at him, and I bounce them off the back of his head.

"All right, already," he tells me.

The dog barks again.

"Shaddup," DeMarco tells it, "you useless mongrel."

While he's bending to turn down the volume of the radio, and while the dog is watching him, I sneak up behind die dog and yell, "Boo!"

Startled, the dog nips DeMarco on die rear end, for which I decide maybe I like the miserable mutt after all.

So that's it Naturally I don't trust DeMarco farther than I can see him, so I go with him to my mother's, even though that's the last place I want to be. But ifs worse even than I thought, because she hasn't heard yet—he's the one who has to break the news to her about what happened. I wish then that I hadn't been so efficient with haunting DeMarco, because it would have been better if someone else told her first Nobody should get news like that from a scum like DeMarco.

Although my mother is usually pretty quick, this news seems to slow her wits. At first she asks if DeMarco is talking about my father—though there's no way DeMarco could have word of my father in Ireland. Then she insists he's mistaken: It's another boy who has been killed, or maybe it's me—but I've only been hurt.

DeMarco tries to act all somber and bighearted—is there
anything
more repulsive than a scum who tries to act respectable?—and he hands her the money without a hint of explanation of how he has come to decide to bring it to her.

My mother just stares at the envelope with the money in it.

DeMarco is obviously disappointed that she doesn't even look to see how much is in there—
I'm
disappointed that she doesn't even look to see how much is in there. I wonder whether I should do some little thing to let her know I'm there, but I doubt that blowing up her couch cushions would be a real comfort to her at this time. She just says, "Thank you for letting me know," and then she asks him to leave.

I can tell this is exactly what DeMarco has been waiting to hear. He's through that door fester than Stewart came through the window. I'm tempted to leave with him, 'cause I can tell my mother doesn't want to cry in front of him, and I know she'd never have wanted to cry in front of me, either, but I can't just abandon her like this.

She drops the money onto the kitchen table, still without looking at it. I know it won't make her feel better, but it will make things easier later. I follow her into my little sister's room. Rosie is still young enough that sometimes she needs to take a nap, especially after a hard morning of playing with her dolls. My mother stands for a moment in the doorway, then moves into the room. She leans in close to Rosie, and suddenly I realize what she's doing.

I remember when Rosie was a baby and my father was still with us. He used to tease my mother because of how she worried about everything, how she would look in on Rosie when she was sleeping, to make sure that Rosie was all right, that she was still breathing. "She used to poke you, too," he told me, "if you were sleeping too quietly." We'd all laugh—my mother, too—at how she was willing to risk waking us for the assurance that all was right with us. My mother laughed, but she continued to check Rosie's breathing.

Now my mother crouches beside Rosie's bed, but she doesn't need to poke her: Rosie's little chest is moving up and down. All is right with one of my mother's children.

Without a sound, my mother begins rocking back and forth on her heels.

I remember what the Voice said about very young children being able to see me, and I wonder if Rosie would be able to see me—if she could pass a message on to my mother for me. But I don't want to wait for Rosie to wake up. I want to comfort my mother
now,
and I don't know how. All I know how to do is throw things and make things explode. I know that no matter how loudly I shout, she won't be able to hear me.

But then I remember the old woman, Maria, and how she caressed her daughter's cheek, and for a moment the daughter almost knew she was there.

Instead of shouting, I whisper.

What I whisper is this: "Don't be sad."

My mother stops rocking. Although she doesn't look up, I believe she's listening.

I have nothing to say and I have everything to say. I whisper, "Don't be sad." And because I've been thinking about my father who abandoned us, I add, "Don't be angry. I'm sorry I had to leave, but everything will be all right." I
think
everything will be all right. Everything being all right is a path I can sense, like daisies on a hot summer day. I finish, "Meanwhile, it's time to let go, and to move on."

Can
she hear me? I can't be sure. But she puts her hand to her lips and she blows a kiss, not at the still-sleeping Rosie, but up into the air.

Letting go and moving on strikes me as good advice. It's such good advice that I decide to take it myself.

Without a backward glance, I call out to the Voice, "I'm ready."

Vivian Vande Velde
is the author of many books, ranging from picture books for the very young to fantasy novels for adults. Her novels for younger readers include the medieval mystery comedy
Never Trust a Dead Man,
which was named a
School Library Journal
Best Book of the Year, won an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America, and was an ALA Best Book for Young Adults;
Magic Can Be Murder,
an IRA Children's Choice;
There's a Dead Person Following My Sister Around
and
Tales from the Brothers Grimm and the Sisters Weird,
both IRA Young Adults' Choices; as well as
Companions of the Night, Dragon's Bait,
and
User Unfriendly,
all available in Harcourt editions. A native of New York state, Ms. Vande Velde lives with her family in Rochester.