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Passing Through

by Betty Dobson

How many people wake up to see their dead brother standing at the foot of their bed?
Patrick died ten years ago today in a well-lit parking lot beside a busy downtown bar. He probably felt safe. I would have, after all those years living on the street together. We knew how to take care of ourselves. Most of the time.

On the tenth anniversary of that unforgettable April night, Patrick came to see me one more time. He looked good, all things considered. His chest showed no sign of the fatal blow. He smiled like he was getting ready to hit on the latest pretty girl in the bar. Not necessarily for sex, either. Patrick was generally out to score free drink and a place to crash.

"How've you been, Trudy? Looks like you've moved up some."

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and kept the motion going through my hair. "Not too bad," I said. "You?"

"Been worse," he said. "Believe it or not."

"That's nice," I said, nodding slightly. "Any particular reason you're here?"

"Just passing through." He clapped his hands together and looked around. "Nice place you've got here. Very understated."

"Thanks. Where you headed?"

"No place special. Just sort of wandering about, looking for folks to haunt."

I sat up and dug my fingers into the covers. "And you chose my place as a stopover? Did I do something to piss you off when you were alive? Could have sworn that was you torturing me with lame practical jokes all through childhood."

"Can't a guy just miss his big sister?" He cocked his head and smiled.

"Some, maybe. But not you. It's never that simple with you. And don't ask for money. It's not mine to give."

"Don't be so sure," he said. "Could be heaven's like prison, for all you know. Everything costs, one way or another."

I laughed despite the lump in my throat. "Now I know something's up. There's no way they let you into heaven."

He clutched his chest, right where the bloody gash should have been. "That hurts! I always thought you were better than that. So did you."

"Not better," I said, tossing a pillow at his pale face. "Just smarter." The pillow hit the wall, knocking a framed photo of an anonymous smiling family to the floor.

"You call that smart? If that were a mirror--"

"What's seven years' bad luck after a lifetime with you? You only survived the streets because of me. Bring it on!"

"Well," he said, leaning toward me with an exaggerated wink, "to be perfectly honest, that's really why I'm here. The boss sent me."

"You never kept a job for more than a week. No one's dumb enough or dead enough to hire you."

"For your information, I just got promoted," he said. "I'm a Recruitment Trainee now."

"That anything like Chief Assistant Lettuce Trimmer?"

"I was good at produce."

"Until you tried to trim a little lettuce from the till."

"Total frame up," he said, shaking his head. "They left the drawer open on purpose."

"Nice to know death hasn't changed your story."

"You won't be laughing when I make Pit Boss."

"I have every faith." I wrapped my arms around my legs and rested my chin on my knees. "After all, you've got eternity to get things right."

"Gotta start somewhere. Take you, for instance. Nice going with that married lawyer. We've come a long way, you and me."

"He was just a friend," I said as I pulled the covers up to my nose.

"Of course. Bet you didn't know his wife killed herself because of your affair."

"She never knew."

"Sweetie, the wife always knows, even if she does find out last."

"You're lying."

"I might have been a lot of things, sis, but I've never been a liar." He pulled out a little black book and thumbed to the first page. "We keep meticulous records, especially on people with potential. Like you."

"She had a car accident."

"Why didn't I think of that?" he said, slapping his forehead. "She probably skidded on a pool of spilled vodka. Or maybe it was vomit from too many tranquilizers. No, scratch that last one. Pills wouldn't work unless she kept them down."

"Why are you doing this?"

"It's sort of a destiny thing." He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. "Remember this? 'Call 654-3210 for a hot time.' And you thought he was a child molester trawling the streets for easy targets. He wasn't trying to hit on me. He saw my potential. Yours, too."

The last two words came out like a thunderclap, and the floor split open like a bright red gash. "Maybe this is your last night on earth and you have nowhere to go but down."

"What the hell?"

"Right the first time. See, you're a natural."

Something grabbed my legs and pulled me slowly and painfully towards the opening. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. Clutching at the bedclothes gave no purchase as my body dragged closer and closer to the gash. Sulphur assaulted my nostrils. Heat caressed my thighs like a long-denied lover.

"Stop," I gasped. "Please. I'll do anything. There has to be a way to stop this."

He tilted his head forward and glared at me. "There might be one way."

"Tell me. I'll do it."

"You have to do exactly as I say," he said, glancing around. "Exactly."

"Just tell me."

"Say 'I'm a stinky weasel with hair on my butt' while licking my feet."

"Excuse me?" The room returned to normal but for a hint of sulfur.

"You heard me. And work up some good spit. I haven't been near water in ten years."

I blinked so fast I thought I might be able to get airborne. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"Well, duh! Took you long enough." He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. "April Fools!"

"April...?" I groaned into my hands. "You sick, twisted little moron!"

He flipped open his black book. "Speaks ill of the dead," he said, forming each word carefully as he wrote.

"Not funny. They let you out for this?"

"Pretty common, really. Sort of like day parole, only without having to work."

"Sounds like you finally found your calling."

"Feels good, too." He sniffed the air and crinkled his nose. "Gotta go. It's almost time for lights out. See you in another ten years." He wiggled his fingers at her as he started to fade. "Or maybe sooner."