Revival House (11 page)

“I could kill you right here. No one would see.”

She looks back over her fat shoulder. “What did you just say?”

Heh. “I said ‘you’d be good at it, I’d like you to work with me.’”

She shakes her head and continues toward the car. I guess we’re leaving Oatland.

But she is not leaving Savannah.

Chapter 16 – Scarlet

I rattle my key in the lock and push open the front door to my apartment. I slam it behind me, not bothering to wave good-bye. I kick a pile of clothes off the couch, curl up, and cry. Not cry like silent tears rolled down my cheeks or whatever, but really sob, like someone is killing me or something. I wonder if the neighbors hear me, but then I decide I don’t give a fantastic fuck.

I’m not going to Hollywood. The reality hits me like a bullet to the chest.

Someone killed that part of me. That hope, that dream. That plan, that goal. What the hell else am I going to do with a fucking art degree? Work in a gallery or museum? Can’t do that, didn’t take enough art history. Do window dressing for department stores? Best jobs are in New York and I’d never be able to afford to move there.

Stay here and work in a funeral home? With that weird-ass guy?

He’s so fucking creepy. I mean, I’m sorry I thought he was gay or whatever, and I want to be his friend, like I used to be, but I don’t like him trying to hold my hand or touching my hair or anything. Eeew. He’s fun to talk with. Well, he used to be, anyway. Now he’s just bizarre and hostile. Maybe it’s the anti-psychotic meds he takes, plus drinking on top of them. I don’t know, but I really think he said he wanted to kill me today, out at Oatland Island, but then made out like he totally said something else.

And then there’s the fighting and the seeing giant lizards. I don’t know what that’s all about. I’m, like, kind of worried about him, but what can I do?

Seriously, though, could I work with a nutcase like that? Could I handle that smell of death he carries around on his clothes every day? I’d smell like that, too.

Suck it up. I’m going to have to stay here after graduation. I’ll keep doing the ghost tour thing, get another job, and a place to live, and just try to save up enough money to get the hell out.

And I’ll try to be nice to Funeral Boy, just because I’ve been friends with him for two years, and he doesn’t really have any friends, you know? I think he kind of needs me.

Chapter 17 – Caleb

I stare into the thick tan foam floating on the surface of my Guinness, waiting for it to dissipate. It’s taking too long. Where in the hell is the waitress? I’m about to throw the glass across the room, my hand curls around the too-cold sweating glass.

“So she thinks we’re gay. Big fucking deal,” Four says, flagging down the waitress. “I told you she was a bitch, remember? Now, was I right or was I right?”

The waitress approaches our table, licking her candy-apple lips. Four gives her a sly smile. I want to spit in her face.

“Hey,” he says, “I would love another Glenfiddich, please, neat, and my friend would like a shot of Wild Turkey.” He tilts his head, looking up at her with his dark puppy-dog eyes. “And, oh, if it’s not too much trouble, how about your phone number?” He grins and winks. He looks ridiculous. Like an oversized chubby gnome.

She giggles and then turns to me with a tight smile. My stomach churns. I’ll never know how he does it, how he charms every woman he meets, even when he’s in that ridiculous zombie costume or a Mighty Mouse T-shirt.

We watch her walk away, her hips swaying to some unheard rhythm.

“Now,” he says, returning his gaze to me, “where were we? Ah, yes, the bitch named Scarlet. Dude, you don’t need that shit. Stuff like that happens all the time. She’s the devil, man. You play with fire you’re going to get burnt to ash.”

“Nothing ever happens to you.”

Four snorts. “Huh. Plenty of shit happens to me. I just do not
take
shit, that’s all. If I don’t like what some chick is doing,” he waves at me, “‘bye-‘bye, there’s the door. Don’t let it hit you in the fat ass on the way out.’” He drains what’s left of his scotch and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his Mighty Mouse T-shirt.

The waitress comes back and sets two napkins on the table. She sets Four’s drink on top of one of them, winks at him, then swishes away. The second napkin has seven digits and a name written on it in red ink. He stuffs that napkin in the hip pocket of his dirty cargo shorts and takes a sip of his scotch. “Good stuff,” he says, smiling.

I sigh and let my eyeballs float around Kevin Barry’s brick-lined downstairs bar. It’s crowded for a Tuesday night. The beginnings of a headache tingle in my temple, aggravated by the buzz of the crowd. I reach into my pocket and pull out a Seroquel. I’m not supposed to drink alcohol with this stuff, but what the hell, my life’s going down the shitter anyway. Where do I get the stuff now that Sterling cut off my shrink visits? Funeral parlor owners know a lot of doctors, that’s where I get it. Dr. Cummings wrote me a prescription. I take it three times a day. It makes me see fewer reptiles. It also makes me unable to form coherent sentences at times. Especially when I’m drunk off my ass.

“How... it’s a fear... or girls like gators, you know? Slashing isn’t stealing.”

Four gives me a questioning look. I don’t know what I just said, either.

“You know what you need, Dude?” Four seems to always know what I need. “You need to get laid, man.”

I think of the hooker down at the Alamo Motel. I think of the patched over stucco spots on the ceiling and the way her eyes bulged when I put my hands around her throat. I think of the pink bathroom with mold-encrusted grout and how I punched her in the face before I dropped a twenty on the floor and left her bleeding and crying.

Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Sure.

What I need, I tell Four, is for Scarlet to stay in Savannah.

What I need is for Scarlet to love me.

Or at least to need me.

Chapter 18 – Sterling

Last Will and Testament

This is the last Will and Testament of Sterling Montgomery Exley III, born on October 13, 1949 of 121 West Hall Street, Savannah, Georgia 31401, made this 18
^th
day of May 2012. I hereby revoke all former Wills and Codicils made by me and declare this to be my last Will.

I appoint my nephew Caleb Montgomery Exley to be the Executor of this Will.

I devise and bequeath the residue of my real and personal estate whatsoever and wheresoever to my wife Billie Fletcher (Mason) Exley and my nephew Caleb Montgomery Exley in the following manner. Billie Fletcher (Mason) Exley shall receive in monthly installments the full amount to keep her in the care of Summer Wind Retirement and Hospice Community located at 347 Wilmington Island Road, Savannah, Georgia 31410 for the remainder of her natural life. Caleb Montgomery Exley shall receive all physical property located at and including 121 West Hall Street, Savannah, Georgia 31401. Caleb Montgomery Exley shall become the sole proprietor of Exley & Sons Funeral Home located at the same address.

I wish my body to be lain in state in the Serenity Parlor of Exley & Sons Funeral Home located at 121 West Hall Street, Savannah, Georgia 31401. I wish for the music of Gilbert and Sullivan’s
Yeomen of the Guard
to be played throughout the viewing. I wish my body to be buried in the Exley Family plot located inside Boneventure Cemetery, Greenwich Road, Savannah, Georgia 31404; plot number 1022 on Stoddard Way.

As witness by my hand the day and year above written

Testators Signature/date

Signed by the said Testator in the presence of us at the same time who at his request and in his presence and in the presence of each other, have subscribed our names at witnesses.

First Witness

Signature

Name Dr. Edward P. Cummings

Address 3 Jones St., Savannah, GA

Occupation Physician

Date18 May 2012

Second Witness

Signature

Name Grainger J. Mercer III

Address 103 E. Gordon Ln., Savannah, GA

Occupation Hospitality

Date18 May 2012

Chapter 19 – Caleb

I knock on her door, holding a bouquet of flowers behind my back, which I, of course, took from an early service we’d had in the Peace Parlor. Footsteps approach the heavy oak door from the other side. Some kind of rustling ensues. I imagine her eye pressed against the peephole lens. I imagine what it would be like to have a blow gun to blow that lens right into her eyeball, cutting the cornea.

“Hey,” Scarlet says opening the door a few inches. I see only a narrow slice of her wide body. “What’s up?”

“Hi.” I pull the flowers from behind my back. “Peace offering?”

She smiles and opens the door wider, letting me step inside her flat. It looks as though an art supply store has exploded in here. Tubes of acrylic and oil paints in every color imaginable lay strewn about the room as if they were shot from a cannon. Three easels display works in various degrees of completion. Jars of stained paint brushes stand on homemade shelves. Pallets with plastic wrap stretched over the tops, keeping custom mixed colors from drying out, line the kitchen table. Bolts of fabric stand in corners and lay beneath the Swedish coffee table. I always wondered what an artist’s home looked like. She’d never invited me over. Now I see why. But, it’s not so bad.

She could have her own studio at the Parlor. It would be bigger than her whole studio apartment.

“Listen,” I say, looking into her bloodshot eyes, “I never meant to offend you in any way by offering you a job at the funeral home. I know your skills are way beyond that, but the economy’s tough right now.”

“Don’t forget I suck so bad nobody wants me in L.A.” She lets out a laugh/sob then bites her lower lip. “I still want to go there so bad. That’s where I’m supposed to be. I feel it.”

I look down at the sketches paving the floor— heartbreaking drawings of girls crying, angry doodles of mushroom clouds engulfing the Hollywood sign, an angel kneeling before a crypt. I try to mold my face into a mask of sympathy when I really feel like laughing until my sides split. I look up at her, into her leaking sapphire eyes.

“Come work with me, Scarlet. Think about it: you can decorate rooms, do people’s make-up, have your very own art studio and bedroom— rent-free, of course— plus, you’ll get to see me every day.” I give her my best smile. I feel her ogling the space where my incisor used to be.

She looks apprehensive.

Or frightened.

Chapter 20 – Caleb

The phone rings, drawing me away from the window where I’ve been watching the rain drop from the sky in heavy gobs.

“Exley & Sons, how may I help you?” I punch the speaker phone button and straighten my blue tie with the regimental red stripes as I listen. I could not find my green tie this morning.

“Hey, kid.” I make a face. This particular police detective, Officer... I can’t remember his name at the moment, is the only person who calls me ‘kid.’ I want to pull the outdated phone out of the wall and heave it out the window. “Listen, we’ve got a body,” he says. “It’s over by the projects, you know, off Broad over there.”

He needs me to make a pick-up since the coroner is busy or something. I don’t ask. I don’t care. I hang up without saying good-bye.

I pull on my rain jacket, keys in my hand, and walk out to the detached three-car garage. I’m trying to find the key to one of the hearses in the creeping twilight, my hair getting soaked, as I approach the garage door.

I hear something inside, a humming.

I don’t think much of it since I always hear a drone in my ears.

Then I roll up the garage door.

The hearse I was going to use idles and sputters, humming and coughing inside the cavernous space. A black hose runs from the exhaust pipe to the cracked driver’s window.

I don’t know what to do. I stand there for an indeterminable amount of time, seconds, hours, I don’t know. I understand what is happening but I don’t want to look in the window. What if he’s not done?

I have that funny movie feeling again, like I’m watching myself stand at the garage door staring in at the idling car.

The hose delivering carbon monoxide to the interior of the car turns into a hissing snake and I’m afraid. I back out of the garage. I trip on something, a rock maybe, and sit down hard on the gravel driveway.