THE INTERVIEW

by Kevin Anderson

" Your son appears to be quite exceptional, Mrs. Warren," Dr. Ethridge said, looking up through wire-framed glasses from the test results on his desk. "He has the gift."

Mrs. Warren leaned forward in her seat on the other side of the desk. "Ain't my son." She glanced to the side where seven- year-old Anthony sat on a leather couch, entranced by his Gameboy. "My sister's kid, God rest her soul."
Ethridge watched her make the sign of the cross, thin withered fingers moving over her chest. Her face was drawn, eyes sunken. Looked as if she hadn't slept in days.

"Perhaps your husband should join us," Ethridge said, gesturing toward the door leading to the waiting room outside his office. "I think you'll both want to hear what this institute has to offer."

She glanced back at the door. "Naw. I think he's happier out there. Got eyes for your secretary, he has."

"I can assure you, Mrs. Warren..." Ethridge cleared his throat, "...that my personal assistant, Mrs. Anderson, is a professional and -- well." He took a deep breath. "Perhaps when we have concluded our discussion regarding young Andrew, you might allow me to recommend a colleague of mine that specialize in marital difficulties."

"Can I have some ice cream?" Andrew said, without looking up, his blonde hair hanging over one eye.

"When we're done, Andy," Mrs. Warren said. She turned her tired looking eyes back to Ethridge, grimacing. "We don't need therapy, Doctor. Just get on with it, please."

Ethridge pushed his glasses up, feeling he had treaded into painful waters. "Yes of course." He leaned forward, glancing down at the test results. "His scores are the highest I've seen. On all levels. Telekinesis, Remote Viewing-"

Mrs. Warren snickered. "Pardon my French, Doc, but your test are bullshit. Findin' cards with stars and squiggly lines, bending spoons. He can do that crap in his sleep."

There was a crash outside in the waiting room. Sounded like Mrs. Anderson had knocked her file organizer off the desk again. Second time this week. Ethridge shook his head.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Warren, you were saying."

"I've seen him lift a tractor trailer off the ground and hurl it into the barn."

"Can I get chocolate Ice Cream?" Andrew said.

"In a few minutes," Mrs. Warren said.

"As large as a tractor?" Ethridge sat forward in his seat.

"Not just big stuff." She leaned forward, placing a hand on the desk. "He can move folk's insides. Blood, organs, bone."

Ethridge removed his glasses. "What?"

"Didn't that secretary of yours tell you nothing?" She lowered her voice. "It's how he lost his parents."

"Can I get hot fudge on my ice-cream?" Andrew said.

"Yes, in a minute," Mrs. Warren said, bringing her voice back up in volume. "The doctor that works on the dead folk, the..."

"Coroner?"

"Yeah, that's him," she said. "He couldn't understand why his mom and dad's hearts were turned completely round, as if spun like a top in theys chest."

Ethridge narrowed his eyes, not able to believe what he was hearing.

"We didn't think nothing of it until Andy brought me a chicken from the barn for supper. Thought my husband had snapped its neck, but when I opened it up, it was like its gizzards had been put in a blender and purée."

Ethridge took a deep breath, sitting back in his chair. He had seen this kind of irrational fear manifested before. The guardians of these children were often torn between loving them and fearing them. He brought his hands up behind his head. "This is exactly the kind of thing that we enable our students to deal with here at the institute. Society's misunderstanding of their gifts can cause all kinds of developmental problems."

He sat forward, peering into her exhausted eyes. "I can give Andrew a better life here. A meaningful life. One that-"

"I don't give a horse's ass 'bout what you can do for him," Mrs. Warren said through clinched teeth, lips reseeding revealing discolored gums.

Ethridge was caught off guard. "If it's a matter of mon-"

She slapped her hand on his desk. "We didn't come here so you could help him. We're here so you can help us."

"Help you?" Ethridge said. "Mrs. Warren, you have me at-"

She narrowed her eyes. "My husband and I died two days ago and the boy won't let us leave."

"What?"

"He's holding our souls inside these rotting husks and its painful. Painful as hell."

"Now, Mrs. Warren, please-"

"Go on," she said, laying her arm out on the desk, palm up. "You is some kind of a doctor. Find a pulse."

Better just humor her for a few minutes until he figured out what to do, he thought. Ethridge sighed and reached for the woman's wrist. His fingers instinctively recoiled as he touched her skin.

Cold.

Ethridge shrugged it off, letting his logic guide his actions. He felt around again for a few seconds looking for the rhythmic sensation of flowing blood.

"You know the dead can't sleep, Doctor," she said. "I'm so goddamn tired. Never been so tired."

Ethridge wasn't getting anything. He got up, moved around the desk and placed his hand on her neck. With his thumb he pressed on her jugular.

Nothing.

Still refusing to believe, he leaned over, pressed the intercom button on the phone. "Mrs. Anderson, will you go down to the ward and get me a stethoscope?" He released the button and waited for a reply.

None came.

"Mrs. Anderson, I need you-" The sensation of a dog sniffing at his crotch caught his attention. He looked down and saw Mrs. Warren drawing back, her nose still sniffing the air. "Mrs. Warren."

"You won't believe what being dead makes you hunger for, Doctor."

Ethridge stepped back. Disgusting. The sooner he got this boy away from them the better. He turned and moved toward the office door. He grasped the handle and swung it open. "Mrs. Anderson, I've been call-" His mouth dropped open, his eyes bulged.

His assistant was sprawled on her desk, dead eyes staring back at him. Mr. Warren was using his hands like rib spreaders while his face sunk into her exposed cavity. Ethridge could hear the sounds of chewing.

"I'll make you a deal, Doctor."

Ethridge spun around and found Mrs. Warren standing, her dead hungry eyes boring into him.

"You get Andy to let us move on," she said, "and I won't eat you."

Paralyzed by horror Ethridge watched her walk toward him. His heart was pounding and he thought it would burst from his chest. Mrs. Warren reached out for him and he tried to raise his hands but they remained useless at his side.

She clutched his arms in her dead fingers and moved his stiff body out of the way. She then exited the office and Ethridge watched as she joined her husband at the feast.

He staggered backwards, not knowing where his feet were taking him. His heels collided with the leather couch and he plopped down into it.

The bleeping sounds from the Gameboy were just a bit louder than the sounds of tearing flesh, snapping bone and chewing, resonating from the waiting room. He looked over at the boy, still peering intently into the glow of the Gameboy.

Ethridge took a deep breath. When he breathed out he was no longer a paralyzed idiot and once again a para-psychologist.

"Andrew," he began.

The boy continued playing.

"Andrew, are you doing something to your Aunt and Uncle?"

"I don't want them to leave," Andrew said, not looking up.

"And why is that?"

"Because everyone leaves me." His forehead wrinkled. "Skipper left, mom and dad left. They left me alone."

"Tell you what," Ethridge said. "Why don't you come live here with me and-"

"Why should I?"

He had never had to convince a child, always a parent needed the persuading. "Because...because I have ice cream."

Andrew stopped playing and turned to look at him. "What flavors?"

"Oh, let me see. There is chocolate, vanilla, straw-"

"How about fudge?'

"Well, let's take a walk down to the cafeteria and have us a little-"

"Any progress, Doctor," said Mrs. Warren, stepping back into the office. Her husband was on her heels. Both corpses glared at Ethridge, hands glistening with blood, chins dripping.

"Andrew you have to let them go." Ethridge said. "Let them go now."

The corpses stepped toward the couch, hunger glinting in their dead eyes.

Ethridge put his hands on the boy's shoulder. "I'm not gonna leave you. I promise." He brushed the boy's hair from his eyes. "You can live here and have ice cream every day."

Andrew turned and faced his dead Aunt and Uncle. He blinked twice then said, "Go away."

The corpses stopped moving for an instant, and just seemed to stand there like marionettes whose puppeteer had fallen asleep. Then, their strings cut, they both slumped to the floor. Mrs. Warren's dead eyes seemed to lock on Ethridge.

Andrew hopped up, sticking the Gameboy in his pocket. Ethridge stood up slowly, eyes fixed on the bodies in his office.

"Can we go get some ice cream now?" Andrew grabbed Eldridge's hand.
Ethridge nodded, hoping to God that the cafeteria actually stocked some. Being a diabetic, he had never noticed. "Unless they've run out."

"I hope not," Andrew said. "I haven't had any since Auntie and Uncle ran out two days ago."