Jake's Wake (4 page)

“I don’t believe that—”

“They are getting ready to take away my house.”
Esther’s eyes flared as she said it. “Take away the house that I grew up in, and take everything I own, because of debts that Jake incurred. And what I need to know is, how much was he making? And where did all that money go?”

The fireplace popped—loud as a gunshot—and the wind swelled outside, as everyone jumped. Eddie returned to check the fire.

In the fireplace, the logs were already burned through, and reduced to embers, yet the fire burned as if fed by a gas line. Eddie pulled the screen back, quizzical. Added a few more logs, which ignited instantly, singing the hair on his hand and forearm to wispy curls of ash.

“All the money went straight back into the Church of Eternal Life,” Emmy insisted.

“I only wish that were true.”

“Emmy…” Mathias tried to intervene.

“Don’t you believe in Jesus Christ?” Emmy demanded.

“Well, of course I do!”

“Then where is your faith in the Gospel, and in your own husband?”

Esther rolled her eyes.

“Your own husband,”
Emmy continued, “who devoted his life to his ministry? Do you have any idea how many lost, desperate souls depended on Jake for their faith?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out!”

“That’s because you
only care about the money!
” Now their voices were notching up in pitch as well as volume, each one’s high points climbing to top the other. “You couldn’t even be bothered to show up for the services today…”

“I think,” Esther cut in tersely, “that I made my reasons clear enough…”

“Couldn’t share in the grief and mourning…”

“I said my good-byes in private…”

“Couldn’t bear to face his loving congregation…”

“Oh, please.” Now Esther’s voice took on a bitter condescension. “How many women were at the viewing today?”

Emmy blushed. “I don’t see…”

“How many panties got stuffed in that coffin, in the course of the viewing?” Esther trembled as she spoke. “How many tearful ladies, dressed to the nines, came up to pay their respects, knelt down and dribbled tears? Dribbled tears”—she swigged on her drink—“as you say, on my husband?”

“I—”

“With all due respect to your feelings,” Esther continued, “and the feelings of his ‘congregation,’ I think I’ve suffered enough. If any further explanations are due, then they are owed to me, and not the other way around.”

The half-reborn spirits huddled in the chill darkness and observed, with great glee, the banked and blossoming human flames. The more brightly they blazed, the more profoundly they might flare up when extinguished. And thereby feed the deeper dark.

What fools! What food! And they hardly had to hide…

Between the wailing wind, the unheeded alarm of the fire, and the clamor of their own voices, the living would never hear the others coming.

The spirits laughed, also unheard, except by each other.

As they reveled in the gathering Change.

The weathered wooden gate to Jake’s shithole hacienda was propped open, so Jasper Ellis gratefully drove on through. It wouldn’t be good to have his tricked-out extended-cab pickup truck parked on the street, where the cops might see it, and start to draw all the wrong conclusions.

The whole idea was to get in and get out, as quickly as possible.

And let their scarlet Mystery Woman have her say, if that was what she really wanted.

But it wasn’t exactly like they were trying to sneak in. The music was cranked, just the way he liked it, and as usual, Christian’s mix disk had cued up something uncannily appropriate: a superdramatic hair-metal version of the military burial anthem, “Taps.”

“Bah-bah-BAH!” Christian howled from the passenger seat, singing along with the melody while frenetic fifth-generation Van Halen clones noodled bombastically in the gap. Christian sang with an eerie Bruce Dickinson/Iron Maiden falsetto that—at another time, in another world—might have made him a star.

Jasper laughed, took one hand off the wheel, and vigorously air-guitared like a guy who actually knew where
the notes might land. “Bah-bah-BAH! Wah-wah-wah!” he warbled atonally, while Christian joined in, exhaling pot smoke like a musical chimney.

“JESUS CHRIST!” yelled a womanly voice from the back.

But it was too late—almost time for the crescendo—and at this point, there was no way they weren’t going for broke.

So Jasper took the joint from Christian, toked hard as they rolled by the black metal backyard gate, the garage, and then the house itself, exhaling hugely as they rounded the corner to a bleak playground, where two other cars were already parked.

“BAH-BAH-BAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” they howled in unison, with painful sustain, until even the Mystery Woman laughed…

“BAH! BAH! BAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

There was a great flurry of tom-toms and dope smoke, to go with the how-fast-can-you-riff arpeggiations and the warbling screeches of the clowns in the front seat.

Then an awesome silence fell, as Jasper slipped it into park, right behind the white sedan.

And they all sang, softly, “Bah-bah-baaaaah.”

Jasper cut the engine.

From the backseat, the very soft sound of applause, and the voice, now sultry and cool.

“Thank you, boys, for cheering me up.”

“Not a problem,” said Jasper. Christian toked intently, but nodded his head.

“And I’m sure everyone within ten square miles is feeling much better now, too.”

Jasper laughed, took the joint from Christian, hit it like Louis Armstrong’s trumpet. Christian blew self-congratulatory smoke rings out the window.

“Hard to believe,” she continued, “you guys are only, what, thirty-five years old?”

“So sad but oh so true,” said Christian, grinning.

And it was, at least, oh so true. Despite his shaved head and close-cropped beard, his street-beaten boxer/hard-case look and just-got-out-of-prison suit, Jasper not only had the soul of a twelve-year-old, but could turn anyone who locked eyes with him into a twelve-year-old as well.

In that respect, he and Christian had a lot in common. It helped explain why they were still friends—since second grade—while so many others had drifted off into more predictable, less hilarious adulthoods.

Christian had the same unkempt scraggle of dark, shoulder-length hair that he’d decided on in junior high. He was by far the least fashion-obedient gay man Jasper had ever met, though his rakish goatee was always meticulously trimmed.

“You know what?” Jasper said, exhaling medical-grade Humboldt plumage. “Fuck sad. I’m proud to be socially retarded.”

“I’ve already fucked sad,” said the voice from the backseat. “Maybe now I can fuck happy for a change.”

He couldn’t see her face, as he turned around. If there were tears, the moonlight did not glint upon them. All he could see was her silhouette, the reddish tangle of luxuriant tresses that let her hide in plain sight.

But her voice sounded strong, and that was important. If she were weak, he would just back right out and sail. As it stood, the whole thing was her call.

Last call.

Either out, or in.

“Look,” he said, “all we’re sayin’ is, fuck that guy. And fuck these people.”

“I still don’t see what you think you’re gonna get from all this,” Christian piped in.

“I guess you never heard of ‘closure.’”

“Didn’t Oprah invent that word?” Christian guessed.

Jasper laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I think it’s a TV word for ‘bullshit.’”

“She invited me here,” said the voice from the backseat, “because she wants to know. I think she deserves that much.”

“You don’t owe her dick.”

“Would you just let me out, please?”

Jasper hit the power locks so their passenger could open the heavy door and slide out.

And that was their cue, as well. Sighing, resigned, Jasper and Christian threw their doors open, and stepped out into the night.

The whole point of this exercise was to back her up, as they had been doing since the moment they met her. Stepping up, when no one else would, for a woman who deserved so much better than she’d gotten.

Walking her to the stained glass door.

And what ever lay beyond.

When Esther’s father died, the house had filled up for almost a week with old students and friends from the free school, and the activist days before that.

Mom had been rudderless and devastated, but every caller came to the door with wine or pot brownies or a casserole, and a story about Dad that she’d forgotten or never heard.

Many were misfits, hermits and drifters who hitchhiked from as far as Alaska. But one owned a software company, one was a nationally prominent gay rights activist, and another lived on an island in Micronesia, and had founded a free school there; and one of
her
students was the closest thing the tiny nation had to a president.

The wake had brought the best of Dad back to Mom, who had been worn half to death caring for him in his last days. It let her say good-bye, and prepare to face the future—until, of course, her body revealed its own plans, and she dropped dead of an aneurysm, six months later.

Now Jake was gone, and Esther had only just begun to come to terms with her own version of widowhood. But instead of nourishing her soul, every caller to this wake seemed to take a little more of it away.

Emmy and her squirming boyfriend were more than
bad enough. But this
woman
, this trollop on her porch, could diminish her, eclipse her, maybe even steal her grief. Esther knew that she would be helpless not to measure herself against this interloper, and have to decide whether Jake was more than one man, or if she was just less than a whole woman.

Esther took another swig of scotch, opened the door, and put on a brittle smile.

“Hello,” she said. “You must be…”

“Evangeline,” said the Mystery Woman, and stepped into the light.

Esther’s breath sucked in, as did her tummy. Not just in surprise at her beauty—and a beauty, frayed more than flawed, she certainly was—but at what it said instantly about her.

Evangeline’s flowing hair was a deep chestnut red that cascaded down, thick and luxuriant, over her bare shoulders. Her face was angular, like Esther’s, but heart shaped. Bigger, achingly expressive eyes. Fuller lips. More pronounced cheekbones.

And wider curves: an hourglass figure in ways that made Esther feel almost boyish by comparison. She was what Jake would have called “bodacious”; and the red dress that clung to her plush breasts and generous hips made it plain that she had not come to mourn.

She was curvy in a way that men would judge a sign of ripeness, of readiness to rut and never stay for breakfast. The seedy carnality was only enhanced by the weary cunning that blazed in her emerald-amber eyes as she took Esther’s mea sure and tossed out her hand, let it be caught.

God damn you
, Esther thought.

And then said, “Thank you for coming.”

“Please,” Evangeline said. “Don’t thank me.”

Evangeline slid past her and hung her coat up in the closet with a blasé familiarity that made Esther’s face
flush. She started to shut the door, when a strapping bald stud shouldered into the gap, scoping Esther out with a wicked, disarming grin.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble, like a big cat’s purr. “Lookin’ good. I’m Jasper.”

They locked eyes for a second, shaking hands. He had caught her already flustered, and something about him crossed her wires. Wasn’t he the boxing coach, from that second-rate gym across the street from Bally Total Fitness? The one that always checked her out in the parking lot, where he seemingly lived just to smoke and flirt?

Eddie must’ve noticed from across the room; she heard a serving tray dropped too hard on a table.

Jasper picked up on it and grinned, moved on.

“Pleased to meet you…” Esther said to his back as she pushed the door shut. God, she’d let him walk away thinking he’d made her wet. She knew that type well enough. She’d fallen for it once, and was still waiting to hit bottom. Only amateur vampires had to bite their victims.

She saw him throw another sly glance over his shoulder—he moved like a fighter, a confident predator—and it pissed her off to note that, yes, he did get to her a little.

A brisk rap on the door at her back made her jump. She opened it and another stranger sidled in. Though his hair was an artfully tousled haystack and his suit was decades behind Jasper’s, something told her that if Jasper was her new pimp, this one was her hairdresser.

“Hi,” this one said. “I may be a Christian in name only, but this stained glass is gorgeous. Is it from an old church?”

“Thank you. Yes. We just had it put in…” Her voice hitched, choking on a nugget of unexpected grief.

Oh no, not again…
Esther turned away for something
to busy herself, realizing she looked lost in her own home.

Christian closed the door behind him and patted her arm with unexpected kindness. “Don’t worry. We’ll make this quick.”

Emmy and Mathias, for their part, remained cloistered on the couch, looking totally bushwacked.

“Who
are
these people?” Emmy demanded.

“Awww,” Evangeline cooed. Her sarcasm was caustic, but she seemed genuinely surprised. “You must be Jake’s little Bible girl. Wow.”

“She’s a prostitute,” Mathias muttered.

Christian rounded on him and snapped, “Oh, are you speaking from experience?”

Suddenly finding himself in a fight at the grown-up table, Mathias blanched whiter than his shirt. “I—”

It was turning into a brawl, and drinks hadn’t even been served yet. Esther crossed the room to buffer Emmy. “I’m sorry, but you need to know how bad things are.”

Behind her, Evangeline said, “And so do you.”

The fire was burning hotter than ever, the new logs already reduced to livid pink coals. Esther turned away from it, but her hands almost immediately became chilled, as if a fugitive draft sucked the heat into the shadows, sucked the fire, the life, out of the house.