Being Dead (6 page)

There was a knock at the room's door, and all three of us jumped. But it was only Dad. He didn't seem surprised to find Mom there, and he didn't seem to notice the ID card in her hand. "Brenda," he said to me.

He'd found the dent where Leah-Ann had kicked the car, I could tell, and he thought that I had done it.

"Michelle," he said, "my wife and I need to talk to Brenda."

Michelle, who could smell trouble as surely as she could smell dead raccoons, got out of there fast.

Dad reached over and turned off the CD player. He said, "Brenda—"

"I know you're going to find this hard to believe," I interrupted. I found it hard to believe, and didn't know how to start.

"What?" Mom prompted.

Dad said, "The people at the shop say the Honda has been in an accident."

Oh, great,
I thought.
It wasn't even him that noticed.

Mom was looking from Dad to me. "What kind of accident?"

How could I ever get them to believe it was a ghost-kicking-the-fender accident?

Slowly, Dad said, "They had the car up on the lift ... And they showed me underneath..."

Underneath?

Dad took a breath and started over again. "They say it looks like something was run over..."

Mom echoed, "'Something'? Like a bottle?" She had her concentrating expression on. "Or..."

"Bigger," Dad said. "They had someone from the collision department look at it. He's seen a lot of accidents, and he said right away that something big was hit. Then he found a piece of plastic caught around the shaft, like one of those tassel streamers kids sometimes have on their bicycle handlebars."

I could hardly breathe. "Not a bicycle," I said. All I had hit had been the curb on the edge of the pavement.

"There was some blood," Dad finished. "They think someone might have gotten hurt."

I shook my head. "I didn't..." I couldn't get my voice to work. "I didn't run over anyone on a bicycle," I protested. I
hadn't.
I knew that.

"Where did you go Friday night?" Dad asked.

"To Traci's," I said.

"Directly to Traci's?" he asked. "And did you stay there the whole evening?"

I hadn't had an accident with the car. I
knew
I hadn't.

"We went to pick up Jennie," I admitted—which I wasn't supposed to have done. They had only given me permission to go to Traci's. "And Tina," I grudgingly added. Tina lived way over in Amherst. I wasn't even supposed to be driving after dark, but they had said I could go say good-bye to Traci, four streets over, if I drove carefully. I always drive carefully.

"Did you stay at Tina's?" Dad asked.

"No," I admitted. "We went to the park." This was all so confusing. What had Leah-Ann done to me?

For the first time Dad glanced at the ID in Mom's hand. Apparently he saw the resemblance right away. Very quietly he asked, "Were you drinking?"

"A little bit," I said, figuring I was in enough trouble, I'd better be honest. "But I didn't have an accident."

Dad looked gray. Not as gray as Leah-Ann but definitely not well. Mom was crying, soundlessly, the tears pouring down her cheeks, as Dad said, "The people at the car shop are going to be reporting this to the police in Buffalo. The police in Buffalo will have to take a look at all the hit-and-run accidents—"

"I didn't hit anyone!" I cried. The police in Buffalo had enough to worry about with trying to find Leah-Ann. "We only bought a couple six-packs. Well, three. But I drove very, very carefully."

I
had.
We were just driving around, listening to tapes and feeling sorry because it was the last time we were all going to be together.

I remember fighting, playfully, with Tina, who wasn't as crazy about hearing "Margaritaville" over and over again as I was. I kept rewinding the tape because it seemed the perfect song for a summer night of good-byes, and after a while she got sick of it and she hit
FAST FORWARD
, and then I hit
REWIND
, and she hit the button to play the other side, and while I was trying to find "Mar-garitaville" again I accidentally turned the volume up so loud it hurt our ears, so Jennie and Traci both scrambled up from the backseat to lean over to adjust the volume, and we swerved off the road—we were on Hopkins, where it follows Ransom Creek, and there aren't any lights and there isn't any shoulder—so it was like hitting a speed bump when the car went off the road, just for an instant, then another bump and we were back on again, so that Traci and Jennie put their hands up like you do when you're riding a roller coaster, and Tina smacked her head against the dashboard, because she was leaning forward to mess with the buttons some more, and she said if she had any short-term memory loss she was going to have to sue me, but she didn't get hurt, and we didn't hit anything. Or run over anything. Not that I knew of.

Wouldn't you know if you had done something like run over someone?

Wouldn't you know if you had killed somebody?

I still don't remember seeing her. I don't remember being aware of hitting her. I would have stopped if I had known.

I didn't look in the rearview mirror and see her try to get back up on the bike the way the police say she must have done. I didn't see her wobble and fall into the bushes and into the creek beyond.

The only reason I knew to tell you to look in the creek where it comes right up to Hopkins at that last curve is because when I saw Leah-Ann—when she came to me after she was dead—she was always wet. She was dead and she was wet and she kept coming to me because I was the only one who could help her.

I didn't know.

END OF RECORDING

transcript signed by Brenda Keehn

in the presence ot Eugene Randolph, Attorney-at-Law

Nobody was surprised when Conrad Sharpe's wife, Marjorie, died.

Conrad Sharpe was a mean man—a bully and a bragger. He was too lazy and too stingy to fix die roof that leaked in the spring or die door and window frames that let in the howling winter wind, but he expected his wife to keep the house warm and comfortable. Her hands were rough and red from working in the house and working in the yard. All day long she worked, and late into the night. The neighbors always said that for each year Marjorie spent married to Conrad, she seemed to age two.

So no one was surprised when—one cold gray day as autumn turned to winter—Marjorie Sharpe died. The neighbors said it was the only way Marjorie could get any rest.

But, oh, how Conrad wept at Marjorie's funeral.

Conrad Sharpe always liked to be the best at everything—the biggest, the loudest, the fastest: the best. And if he'd never thought to be the best husband, why, that was no reason he couldn't be the best widower.

He went to Kelly's General Store and bought the most expensive suit for everyone to see him in and the most expensive dress to lay Marjorie out in. He bought the most expensive coffin from Gilbert Allen's casket shop, and he threw himself on the casket when the undertaker closed the lid, because Conrad Sharpe wanted to make sure everybody saw what a fine casket it was. He was careful, though, not to wrinkle his new suit.

Conrad wailed and sobbed and carried on all die while die casket was lowered into the ground, so that everyone would know what a devoted husband he had been.

Then he invited everyone back to the house afterward, for food and drink and to remember Marjorie, though he'd never been willing to pay for a party while Marjorie had been alive.

"Oh, Marjorie, poor Marjorie," Conrad said to the neighbors. "Do you remember how she loved to dance?"

The neighbors remembered. They remembered Marjorie dancing
before
she married Conrad.

"There never seemed to be enough time for dancing," Conrad said, though the truth was he was too disagreeable to like music and dancing. "Oh, if only Marjorie could come back for even one night," Conrad cried out, "I swear I'd dance with her to her heart's content."

A cold wind came howling then, where none had been before. Noisily it shook the boards of the Sharpes' house, and came in through the cracks by the windows, and down the chimney, and blew out the candle by Conrad's chair.

And then went away.

In the sudden stillness, Conrad realized everyone was looking at him. He rubbed at his eyes and repeated, "If only Marjorie could come back for even one night, I swear I'd dance with her to her heart's content."

Way, way down the street, the neighbors' dogs started barking.

Then, closer neighbors' dogs started barking.

And closer.

And closer.

Till the next-door neighbor's dog was barking.

Till there was a sound, like someone scratching at the Sharpes' front door.

The neighbors all looked at one another, and at Conrad.

To prove his courage, Conrad got out of his chair by the blown-out candle and walked to the door and opened it.

There was nothing there....

Except on the dusting of snow that had covered the front walk since everyone had come in, there were footprints, footprints that came from down the street, up the front walk, and ended at the door.

With no one there.

His hands shaking, Conrad closed the door. And bolted it And said, a third time—to prove that he was cold, not afraid—"If only Marjorie could come back for even one night, I swear I'd dance with her to her heart's content."

The door flew open, bursting lock and wood alike.

There stood Marjorie Sharpe in her fine new dress, though she had no shoes—since they wouldn't show in the casket, penny-pinching Conrad had buried her with bare feet Her hair was unbound and streamed out behind her, and though she was pale, she looked more beautiful than she had in years.

With never a word, she held her arms out to her husband.

And Conrad—to prove he was the bravest man there—asked, "Why, woman, would you come back from the grave to dance with me?"

Silently, solemnly, Marjorie nodded, and Conrad stepped forward. He put his arms about her body, which was as cold and as hard as the autumn-turning-to-winter ground, and together—while the neighbors watched with eyes gone wide in terror—Marjorie and Conrad Sharpe danced.

Around and around they went on Marjorie's well-swept floor, to music none of the neighbors could hear. Or maybe they danced to the howling of the neighbors' dogs.

After an hour Conrad said, "You came back for one night, and we danced. Surely we've danced to your heart's content," and he made to step away.

But Marjorie wouldn't let go, and Marjorie wouldn't stop dancing.

One hour turned to two, and the dogs continued to howl and the Sharpes continued to dance, while the neighbors watched with bodies made heavy with terror, till the candles burned low and the clock struck midnight. Then Conrad said, "You came back for one night, and we danced all night. Surely we've danced to your heart's content," and he made to push Marjorie away.

But still Marjorie wouldn't let go, and Marjorie wouldn't stop dancing.

Hour after hour the dogs continued to howl and the Sharpes continued to dance, while the neighbors watched with minds made numb by terror, till the candles burned out, past the setting of the moon, till the sky began to grow light with dawn. Then, pleased with himself, for he was sure that he had gotten the best of Marjorie's ghost, Conrad said, "You came back for one night, and we danced all night and into the next day. Surely you've danced to your heart's content," and this time he gave Marjorie a great shove.

But still Marjorie wouldn't let go, and still Marjorie wouldn't stop dancing. She danced Conrad out the door, no matter how he struggled, and down the front walk and into the street.

None of the neighbors dared follow, and the last they saw of Conrad was through the open door; they saw his pale face, and they saw the tails of his new coat blowing in the wind as he danced with Marjorie down the street.

A few minutes later, all at once, the neighbors' dogs stopped barking.

Once the sun was high in the sky, the neighbors followed the footprints in the snow. Down the street those footprints led, and over the hill, and they didn't stop till they came to the cemetery, where the dirt was mounded neatly over Marjorie Sharpe's new grave, just as it had been left the day before.