Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (23 page)

“If by ‘guys’ you mean those two ladies down at the end, well, no, I’ve never seen them before.”

“You don’t see a vampire sitting here next to me?”

“
A vampire?
No.”

“How about any other guys dressed in weird get-ups?”

“Well, it
is
Halloween.” He gave me an odd look, surely assuming I was off my rocker. “But from where I stand, I’d say you’re drinking alone. I don’t see any bloody fangs or Dracula wannabes.”

I shot another glance around the bar. I saw some men and women dressed in modern clothes, verifying that I was here in the present, in New York City. I had not traveled back again. This was my real world.  My thoughts were interrupted by the vampire at my shoulder.

“Good evening, Ariel,” he said. “You’re looking beautiful tonight.”

I turned, and when our eyes locked, I broke into a cold sweat.

“I told you one day I’d come to America,” Vlad Dracul said, smiling with bared fangs.

Yikes! That was it.

I leaped up. I had to get out of there.

Making a beeline for the restroom, I seemed to move in slow motion. It was like having a bad dream in which you try to run with feet that are heavy as lead. To reach my destination, I had to go the entire length of the bar. One by one, each of the seven dead men I’d loved turned to watch me walk past. Any moment, I swear, I expected to hear the well-known theme music of
The Twilight Zone.

“Ariel,” Beethoven said, rising to bow. “I hope you got my letter and the Canary diamond ring I left for you.”

I kept walking.

“Did you receive the painting I sent you?” asked Van Gogh, brushing my arm.

I kept going.

“Let me buy you a daiquiri, Ariel,” Ernest Hemingway offered. “How’s your book coming along?”

Do not stop, I told myself.

“Yes,” Clark chimed in. “You going to let me read that new one you’re writing?”

Just a few more steps.

“Look what I found,” Lindbergh said, grinning as he dangled in front of me the iron swastika cross that I’d tossed over the railing of the ship.

I was almost to the restroom.

“Ariel, I’m back from Buenos Aires. Whaddya say we take in a show?” asked Butch Cassidy.

I shoved through the door of the ladies’ room and splashed ice-cold water in my face, hoping to break whatever spell I was under. Were my eyes and ears deceiving me? Was this another one of my crazy journeys, only with a different twist? I was breathing hard, shaking like a leaf. I pinched my arm to see if I was dreaming.

Nope. No such luck.

“Okay,” I said aloud, gazing into the mirror. “It’s Halloween. Those are just guys in costumes. When I leave here, everything will be back to normal.”

My reflection stared back at me, lighted by an annoying fluorescent bulb—the type that makes any woman over thirty-five want to commit hari-kari. The quartz crystal heart glistened at my throat, and I touched the necklace. Why had I not shit-canned the thing earlier? Here it was, still causing a fiasco.

Serenity’s words rang again in my ears: “
You have had not had good luck finding a man. You don’t believe that today’s man has anything to offer you, right? Take this. It has very special powers. It will bring you luck. You will have all the romance and adventure and interesting men you could ever dream of, for as long as you wear it.”

 Damn straight. I’d certainly had plenty of romance and adventure. But now I just wanted to get rid of the damn heart and its cockamamie curse over me.
It was some gift alright.

I took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive off the high board, and eased open the restroom door. Elaine’s, to my surprise, had emptied itself of everyone except the seven at the bar. “These Dreams,” by Heart, was playing over the sound system …

“These dreams go on when I close my eyes … Every second of the night, I live another life …”

All seven men turned simultaneously as I walked back into view.

Ernest was the first to speak. “You have brought us all here, Ariel. We’ve come from the past because of that necklace of yours. This time, it has drawn us to
you
. You’ve loved each one of us, and we’re
all
in love with you.”

Geez. Not long ago, this many men clamoring for my affection would have been as surprising as finding myself waking up in the morning with my ear sewn to the carpet.

“We’ve even crossed oceans to be with you,” Vlad agreed.

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not possible. It’s Halloween, and you’re just men in costumes. You’re not real.
Not any of you.
What do you want with me?”

“We
are
real. I’m as real as that falling snow,” Vlad said, pointing at the window with a claw-like, crooked finger.

Butch folded his arms across his chest, taking everything in. Beethoven and Van Gogh raised their wine glasses in a toast, nodding in my direction.

“What we all want,” Lindbergh said, “is
you
, Ariel. You know, I’m mad for you. I believe we are meant to be together.”

“I’m the best one for her,” Beethoven dissented. “She and I are the most alike.”

Van Gogh set down his glass. “Now wait just a minute there, maestro. She inspired one of my finest paintings. She is
my
muse, and
I
need her the most.”

“What was that?” Beethoven cupped his hand to his ear, staring at the painter. “Did you say something about a noose? Speak louder.”

“I said
muse
, not
noose
, you idiot.”

Great. One man with a missing ear, the other one deaf. And I, apparently unable to utter a single word, now qualified as a
mute.

Hemingway spoke up. “Come on, let’s all be reasonable here. None of you arsty-fartsy types is man enough for a woman like Ariel. You do know that, right? Her option is clear, and I’m—”

“You wait just one damn minute there,” Butch Cassidy interrupted.

“That’s right,” Van Gogh hissed, and brandished his razor. “Come over here and say that again. I’ll show you who the real man is here, when I cut off your head.”

Hemingway smirked. “Like I said, Ariel needs a real man like me.”

“Yeah, you’re a real picture of masculinity, aren’t you, Ernie? I hear you’re a pansy,” Lindbergh quipped, causing Hemingway’s face to redden. “A little light in the loafers, eh? I’m the only one of you here who can take her to heights she’s never known before.”

“The only place you’d be taking her is to
hell
, you Kraut-loving creep”

Before I knew it, Hemingway and Lindbergh were in a fistfight—over me, of all things. Clark decided to get in on the action too. He took a swing at Ernest, who took a swing back, causing Clark’s false teeth to clatter to the floor. If the surreal aspect of all this was not already underlined by my own fantasies, a gunshot rang out.

“All right,” Butch said, forcing himself and his weapon between the combatants. “C’mon, fellas, let’s break it up now.”

The gun demanded respect, and everyone stepped back.

“I think these are yours, Mr. Gable?” Butch said, picking up the fallen teeth.

Clark slipped them back into place, his dignity injured.

Butch looked my way while addressing the other six men. “I think there’s only one way for us to settle this, fellas.
She
has to be the one to choose. Only right, after all. It’s
her
decision.”

I froze like a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to do. What could I say? How could I choose?

As everyone looked on, Hemingway walked over and took my hand. “I have something here that I didn’t get a chance to give you earlier. Darling, I’ll never forget our time together in Key West,” he slurred.

Me neither, I was thinking.

He stepped closer, extending a strawberry daiquiri in his free hand, but after having had one too many himself, he proceeded to spill it all over me. Without even offering an apology, he got down on one knee. He opened a small black-velvet box and revealed a beautiful Canary diamond ring.

I could almost forgive him for being such a klutz.

“Please marry me,” he pleaded. “I want to take you to Spain for our honeymoon.” Was he even divorced now? I was sensing shades of Mr. Sociopath.

Without warning, Ludwig Von Beethoven, Clark Gable, Charles Lindbergh, Butch Cassidy, and Vlad Dracul, and an earless Vincent Van Gogh followed suit, all in a line, each dropping down on one knee and holding out black-velvet boxes with Canary diamond rings inside. My head was spinning, desperately trying to comprehend all of this. It was the ring I’d always dreamed a man would give me someday, and here were
seven
of them offering up their love.

But every one of them was dead!

Not
quite
the dream I’d had.

“Choose me,” said Vincent. “We can return to our happiest days in the south of France.”

Happy? Sure. And we’d have plenty of money, as long as we were willing to live like Mahatma Gandhi.

“Let’s go back to Vienna,” Beethoven said. “You’re the only woman for me.”

Vienna. Such a beautiful place. If only there were hearing aids back then, I might consider it.

“Be
my
bride,” Vlad Dracul urged.

Bride of Dracula? Compelling. But happily-ever-after in Transylvania wasn’t
quite
what I had in mind on the rare occasion I thought about being a housewife.

“I bought us a ranch down in Buenos Aires,” Butch said. “No more robbing banks or trains. I’ve gone legit this time.”

“Legit,” a thin reedy voice said behind me. “Would ya listen to him?”

This didn’t sound like any of my beaus, past or present, dead or alive, and yet the man’s sardonic tone sounded way too familiar. Where had I heard that voice before? At this point, it was a bit scary. Did I even want to know? Despite my reservations, I turned and saw Woody Allen standing near my barstool.

“
Woody Allen?”
I gasped.

“That’s my public name, yes. Less Jewishy-sounding than Allan Konigsberg, don’t you think?”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Why are you surprised? This is Elaine’s. What’re these
other
schmucks doing here? That’s what I want to know. I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t help listening in on your conversation from my table over there. I’m not impressed. Except for maybe Butch Cassidy … Now that might be your best offer yet, with that ranch he bought in Buenos Ares. Who knows? You might have a whole new future raising chickens.”

Lindbergh gave Woody a disapproving glare, then turned back to me. “I don’t who this skinny joker is, but I beg of you, Ariel … Come fly away with me. Be my wife. We can forget all that nasty little business on the ship.”

“Uh, that’s right, Ariel,” Woody said. “If being called a Jew-bitch is a glimpse of married life with Charles, I can see that being the new Mrs. Lindbergh is going to be a real barrel of laughs.”

Clark Gable gave me a wink. “Ariel, you already have jewels inside. But allow me to slip one on your finger.”

I still had no words. I clutched the crystal heart around my neck, hoping it would give me the answer I sought. This was crazy. I could still hardly believe this gathering was even real. Surely, they were a fantasy and nothing more. As if to prove me wrong, Clark strode over. Looking straight into my eyes, he wrapped me in his arms, pressed his hard body close to mine, ran his hands down my sides, and kissed me deeply. I trembled, feeling my cheeks flush, and I heard his hoarse whisper in my ear.

“Frankly, my dear, tell me
that
wasn’t real.”

“Well, uh … yep, that did feel pretty damn real. I do believe I have a case of the vapors.” I fanned myself, thinking perhaps my decision had been made.

And then my dead lovers made their final pitches.

“Please listen,
meine Liebling
. I’ve written my most beautiful composition ever, just for you. You must hear it,” Beethoven said.

It was a nice gesture. I studied him closely—maybe for the very first time. What was it I was seeing? I’d noticed an abundance of men I’d dated in the present who had poor hygiene, but it couldn’t have prepared me for the mass of hair I saw growing in his ears. Gross. Again, ghosts of present dates
, past.
It may not have been the
reason
he was deaf, but it certainly added nothing to his appeal.

“It’s your heart that beckoned us to you,” Butch reminded me. “This is the way it was all supposed to end, you know. Yes, ma’am, you’ll have to decide which one of us you want.”

What if I did not want any of them?

It was a startling possibility, but now that I glanced from one to the other, I had to wonder if it was the best choice. Perhaps my desire for love had blinded me all along.

Clark
… He had big ears, like a Studebaker with the doors left open. He was a philanderer. He was also fist-happy. Why hadn’t I noticed that at the premiere in Atlanta?

Beethoven
… He had bad hygiene. Shouldn’t I have noticed that while in Vienna?

Van Gogh
… With his unkempt beard and mussed-up hair, he looked like a madman in dire need of Prozac. He was a cock-eyed genius, and he had a violent temper to match. Not sexy in the least.

Lindbergh
… He sounded like a cornball, with all that “fly away with me” crap.

Hemingway
… He was a control-freak. And a bisexual, bumbling alcoholic. How could I have overlooked all of that in Key West?

Vlad Dracul
… He’d seemed so dashing and mysterious, but now his pale, pasty visage was marred by an ugly expression. And I didn’t care for the fangs.

Butch .
. . Covered in trail dust, wearing that grubby beard, he could not hide his body odor. Shadows of my dates with Mr. Stinky? I did not remember him stinking in the past, but there was no denying it now. And I did not believe him on that bit about going legit.

Woody Allen spoke up one last time before disappearing into the night. “It looks like your history of dating nutcases and undesirables in the present has followed you into the past. Now I don’t mean to be didactic in any way, but it doesn’t look like dead men are any easier to love than living ones. Your call, but that’s just my opinion.”