“Why can't I die again?”
It's a simple question. I'd manage to die once quite easily, with no effort on my part, so you'd think I'd be able to do it again. Another crushing wave of agony just hit me. Put your hand on a hot stove, leave it there. Ten seconds with your hand on the grill is an eternity. Try that for a minute, and now spread that sensation throughout your entire body. Ten seconds, ten minutes, ten hours, how could I tell? Time soon becomes lost in a relentless crescendo of pain.
Los fuegos me están quemando. “The flames are burning me.” When I was alive my memory was fuzzy, no better nor any worse than anyone else's recall, but now I remember everything. There isn't any more compelling evidence for the fact that I am suffering in purgatory than the fact that I remember every single moment of Mrs. De la Pena's Spanish 1 class. I remember every word of the poem Entierro en el Este, or “Burial in the East,” where the poet watches corpses on fire drifting down the Ganges River. At the time I had no idea that poem would ever be relevant to me.
“Arrrgh!”
I told myself I wasn't going to shout. For all the flames in this place, wherever it is, it's awfully dark, gloomy, and dusty.
It can't be hell, or purgatory for that matter, if you don't remember every wrong you've done, every moral failure large or small. It's not that I broke arbitrary rules, like going 27 miles an hour in a school zone at ten o'clock at night. I hurt people. People suffered because of my weakness, my pettiness, insecurity and fear. I hurt people with my own damn vanity.
Hah, damn vanity. For everybody who uses the word without thought, “damn” means “condemned to hell.” So, yes, it was my damn vanity.
* * *
“Daddy, where are you going?” His eyes are big, and like every four-year-old, his head is unnaturally large for his body. Couple that with a shock of curly hair, and you have the cutest kid in the world.
“I've got a meeting at work.” I slap on aftershave and let out a breath and a small whoop. Why am I lying to him? Look at those eyes, and tell him you're cheating on his mother.
“Does that hurt?” He asks as he runs a Hot Wheels car over the tiles on the bathroom counter.
It hurts now. It really hurts. “No, it stings a little 'cause I just shaved.”
“Can I go with you?” He jumps the car from the tiles up onto my forearm.
“Nah, it's just work stuff, employees only.” Go ahead, tell him, tell him why he can't go, 'cause he'd see you betraying his mother.
* * *
Right now I want the heat turned up even higher. I can't complain about my suffering, because I deserve it. I want to embrace the flames and force them into my heart, if I still have one. The Greeks got it right, with the dead drinking from the river Lethe so they could forget. The fire wouldn't hurt as much if I could just forget.
“Weeping and gnashing of teeth” is the Biblical phrase, and I'm crying because I remember. As for gnashing, think of grinding your teeth, trying to cope with a pain that you can't bear.
* * *
In an instant I am on the street corner. It's sundown, and this intersection is frozen in time. My car is mangled, with the front end shoved into the front passenger compartment, sitting in the middle of the intersection blocking traffic. The radiator is hissing, and fluids leak out of the car to splatter the blacktop. I'm lying with my head sagging on the seat rest, only my skull is split open. My left arm dangles out of the car as the fire fighter wields the jaws of life, which sounds dramatic, but is really just a big can opener. Nobody is trying to save me, it's too late for that, but they can't leave a corpse sitting in the car as it's hauled off to the junkyard. I paid a lot of money for that car. Paid a pretty penny for that watch hanging on my limp arm, too, only now it's blood-stained and the radial saw is throwing sparks all over the gold-plated finish.
I'm emotionally detached from it all at this point. I was on my way to meet Keisha, but never made it. They should have put a light in that intersection, but it serves me right. I died too quickly; I should have burned alive in the wreck, just to give myself a little foretaste.
I still remember Ms. Berenstein's English 12 class, every time she said “wateh” or “cah.” As a Jewish New Yorker in California's central valley, she was a one-of-a-kind. And I remember Hamlet, where the ghost of Hamlet's father burns in fire during the day, but returns at night to roam the earth.
I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
And for the day confined to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purged away.
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!
Funny, at that time in my senior year I couldn't be bothered to give a crap about Hamlet, but now I know every single word. None of it seemed relevant, and never would I have imagined in a million years that I would become a ghost, nor that I would be like Hamlet's ghost, burning alive during the day in unspeakable pain, then returning to wander the earth at sundown.
In an instant I am at 3829 N. Worthington. I have no body, so I am not constrained by how fast I can walk or run. I could be any place in the world right now: the Grand Canyon, the Seychelles, Kyoto, or even deep in Antarctic waters among penguins, seals, and killer whales—I can't feel cold and I don't need air.
I could be exploring Papua, New Guinea, watching birds of paradise hop on tree limbs, but I am at 3829 N. Worthington, where I am every night. Haunted houses always sounded hokey to me, but now I get it. I have to come back to this house; it's a compulsion that I can't break.
I am through the door, passing as easily as light through a window, and present in the living room. (It makes no sense to say I am standing, something you can't do without a body.)
“Look what I got you, Max.” He hands a Tonka truck to my son. It's a big, yellow truck, built solidly, and they cost a good chunk of cash.
“Wow!” His eyes light up and he jumps, causing his curly hair to bounce. “I always wanted one of these.”
I could have bought him one of those, but I had a nice car and a watch to show everyone else how I'd made it. It's great how I impressed all those people who despised my arrogant ass.
“Oh, Kyle, you shouldn't have.” Juvelyn leans her head on his arm and rests her hand on his shoulder. Max has her tan skin and black wavy hair.
Yes, he should have, because I %#*'ed up and didn't get him the truck he wanted.
He watches Max rip open the packaging, and leans over to help him. Kyle is thin, with receding hair, and I see the way Juvelyn looks at him, the way she looked at me, if only because she didn't know what I had planned.
“Let's watch Toy Story. How's that sound?” Juvelyn gets up and slips a CD into the player. “And I'll make popcorn.”
“Yes!” Max shouts.
Max and Kyle sit on the couch while Juvelyn pops popcorn in the kitchen microwave. The movie comes on, and Max rolls the big yellow truck over his legs, over the couch, over Kyle's arms and legs. Juvelyn comes back with a bowl of popcorn.
I wish I could smell, especially popcorn, or the shampoo in Juvelyn's hair. I watch them as they enjoy the movie while eating popcorn. I really want to hate Kyle, but I can't. I had my chance, but it's over, and all I can do is watch like Casper the Ghost. I'd like to sit down on the couch in my own house, the house that I bought, eating popcorn with with Max and Juvelyn, feeling her nestling at my side, but...Let it go, Vic. It's over.
“Well, that's it. Bed time for you.” Juvelyn gets up and sets the popcorn bowl on the counter.
“Ah Mom, c'mon,” Max protests.
“You've got preschool tomorrow.” Juvelyn runs her tan hand through his curly hair.
Max hugs Kyle's leg. “Good night.”
“Good night, buddy.” Kyle hoists up my son and hugs him.
“What do you say, Max?” Juvelyn asks. “Kyle got you a truck.”
“Thank you.” Max throws his arms around Kyle's neck, who looks at Juvelyn and smiles.
“Sure.” Kyle sets Max down, who trundles off to his room while making vrroom truck noises.
Dammit. I've been dreading this scenario. The movie is over and Max is in bed. Kyle follows Juvelyn to our bedroom, or I guess it's her bedroom now, they disrobe...Do I watch, or stay here? I have to watch, I have no choice. This is as much a part of my punishment as the dark flames.
“I've got a big day tomorrow, too, Juvelyn.” Kyle leans over and kisses her briefly. “It was great seeing you again.”
“Me too.” Juvelyn watches as he turns to the door.
I was prepared for them to sleep together in our bed, but he shows her respect, the respect that I lacked when I planned on...mustn't think about it. Oh, damn it all! If I had hands I'd tear the house apart.
“Oops, the lights went out.” Juvelyn looks around her.
“Must have flipped a circuit breaker. I'll get it as I go.” Kyle lays a reassuring hand on her arm, then leaves.
I am in Max's room, and he's falling asleep. I go to run my hand through his curly hair, but I am like Odysseus trying to embrace his mother in the underworld. I am smoke, only more intangible. Could I embrace him just one more time? Just feel his hair slip through my fingers?
Just as quickly I am in Juvelyn's room. Her black wavy hair is splayed against the white pillow, and a sheer nightgown drapes her slim body. Was there ever a more beautiful woman? Our pictures are still on the wall, and because I don't have eyes, I have no trouble seeing in the dark. There we are on our wedding day, Juvelyn and I posing with our fishing poles at Bass Lake, the two of us with Max at Chuck E. Cheese.
In time she falls asleep. I watch her—there's no place else for me to go. What happens when she removes the pictures of us from the wall?
“Vic!” she mutters in her sleep as she tosses.
What happens to me when she no longer says my name in her sleep? How will I deal with that? What will I do when someone is lying in bed with her?
Long hours pass, and it's nearly daylight; I can sense it.
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself
I still remember every word of Hamlet, and I'm ready to return to the fire.