Fiction: Martin Redux

By Stephen Myer

Three kills in a day. A month ago, a week? Memory stumbles running from conscience. Back then, Nausea wrapped her stench around me as the Wolf loped through my brain like a troupe of vicious ballerinas. Maybe the little demons have found a new stage, and Nausea a new lover.

I finish my beer and check the clock. The night shift at the mortuary starts in five minutes. Plenty of time. O’Neill rings up the tab on the cash register and blesses my soul for the generous tip. It’s a quick jaunt to the prep room. I slip into my gear, roll the slab out of the icebox, as old man McCauley calls it, then slowly pull back the shroud, exposing a pair of lonely feet. They look familiar—crimson toenails and curved arches sculpted by the cruel slopes of seductive shoes. The shroud inches up, revealing well-formed calves and thighs. At the sight of her breasts, a shock of recognition hits as I stare at the corpse. Cassandra? I toss the shroud across the room and explore her body. She’s as graceful in death as in life. Yes, there’s the bullet hole just above her navel. Of all the joints in the city, Cassandra Hayes winds up here. Is remorse a sign of weakness or cause for celebration? I look away. My eyes are drawn to the sign on the wall.

STOP!

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

The serene and lissome Cassandra sets desire in motion. In this room, passion is bound by no law. McCauley walks in, dressed smartly in a tweed jacket. I hardly recognize him without his bloodstained apron.

“Jaysus, Martin,” he says, pointing to the sign. “We went over this when I hired you.”

I gape at McCauley, the owner of this deadhouse. “Nothing happened,” I say, buttoning my frock.

“Shite. There’ll be none of it while you’re on the clock. I’ll lose my license. Find a frosty princess someplace else, eh?”

“It’s just that we were—”

“Not interested. There’s work to be done.” He examines the body. “You haven’t drawn the blood yet. Christ, do I have to primp this woman myself?”

“No. I’ll take care of everything.”

“You best have her ready for tomorrow’s sendoff.”

McCauley looks into the mirror and straightens his tie. He smiles at his reflection as his thick fingers rake his silver mane.

“Have a date tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah, with the Pint Sisters. I’ll be at O’Neill’s,” he says. “Trying to drown the depravity of what I just saw.”

McCauley turns and walks away—shaking his head and muttering some Celtic curse or prayer—then slams the door behind him without looking back. I finish up.

*

I welcome the small group of bereaved attendees as they file into the funeral parlor. The corner organist, as usual, is inebriated, slurring sacred hymns like a choirboy in God’s secret gin mill. His fingers fumble at the notes or miss the keys entirely. McCauley puts up with him—and me. Anyone else would have fired us long ago.

The priest notices the mourners fidgeting in their chairs. He revs up his eulogy, quoting lines about resurrection he swears are from the Bible. No chapter and verse I’d ever read. He sounds like a car salesman, only making his bones off the dead. What he offers isn’t enough to keep his audience from nodding off in boredom. If every word were a dollar, muses the priest, I’d be a goddamned millionaire, buy a one-way ticket out, then hire the recently deceased to serve me cocktails on a private yacht. No one hears the truth that lurks beneath his homily—except me.

I can’t blame the man for his errant thoughts. It’s the job. The same drivel, day in and day out. Words recycled into monotonous platitudes for the unknown—comforting spirits, good or evil—still, all losers for not making it into this year’s Book of Life. Call me to the stand as a character witness. I’ll praise Cassandra’s perfect breasts, her unwholesome mind, and her exquisite duplicity, now confined to the vagaries of memory in this sad world of our making. That’s what mourners sitting on their swollen veins want to hear. 

I keep my distance from the drunken organist, blending into the dark curtains that match my suit. In the front row sits an attractive woman in a black dress and a thin veil. Our eyes meet and hold. She fidgets with her handbag, contemplating drawing a gun, then offing the padre and the bored mourners. I lower my head to hide a smile. This woman understands the possibilities of the day. Please, don’t use a gun to drive the bile back into the bodies. Use a shiv. Slice the flesh to release the blight, then banish it to another sad planet. Her purse remains closed. None but I know how lucky they are.

The service ends with the organist dragging his arm across the keyboard. Its deranged tone cluster startles the torpid mourners, herding them toward a table near the exit, where petit fours conclude the festivities. The veiled lady sashays past me with purpose; her arm brushes mine. I follow her as she disappears behind the blue curtains, my faith in the world restored by the sway of her hips.

“You’re to blame for all this,” she says. “Not that my sister didn’t deserve it.” There is no anger in her voice.

“Your sister?” Good Lord. “So sorry.”

“Save pity for the needy,” she says.

“Let’s drop the pretenses. Cassandra was a crackpot,” I reel off. “She killed her father and almost killed me. Dammit, I miss her, madly.”

“I do, too, though she was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

A Wolf?

“Are you planning to turn me in?” I say. “My crime was loving her.”

“How sentimental. You don’t seem the type.” Her fingers glide along the edges of my sateen lapels. “I’d never squander your talent.”

The dangerous scent of her perfume lingers in the air. Walk away. She lifts her veil. “Cassandra?” I murmur, incredulous. Then who’s in the coffin?

“People often get … got us confused. “You can’t be sure who anyone is until you sleep with them. Even then … I’m Felicity Hayes. Nine o’clock, Wooster Coffeehouse?”

“I’d rather the L-Shaped Café. Better menu.”

“And the worst reputation,” she adds. “A barista was murdered there. Surely you’ve heard about it.”

“All right,” I say, admitting nothing, careful not to irk the Wolf.

“You seem nice enough, Martin Morse. I can’t imagine why Cassandra exploited your kindness.”

“Exploited. Good word,” I say, wondering how she knows my name.

“Do you think I look good in black?” she asks, tugging at her lace collar. “I can’t wait to get out of these morbid clothes.”

*

We’re sitting at the Wooster. She wears a red dress; the woman is a ringer for her sister.

“Here you go, Felicity and Friendo,” says the indolent waiter holding two espressos.

“Thanks, Frenchie,” she answers in a sardonic tone.

He sets the coffee on the table, then quietly stands in place—arms folded, boyishly handsome, his weight balanced on one thin leg, the other foot tapping the floor as if waiting for an invitation to join us. Something about this guy feels familiar.

“I already said thank you,” says Felicity. “Run along before my gentleman friend rearranges your pretty face.”

“No need to be rude, girlie,” he says, then turns and shimmies away.

“Cassie always threatened to kill Father for what he did to us. I didn’t have the nerve, even after growing up in a hive of incest. She must have told you about our vile childhood.”

“I loved Cassandra, even if she was a schemer,” I reply. “She convinced me that a monster disguised as a boyfriend was the cause of her troubles. She never indicated the creep was her father. I was about to carve up the old man when she walked in and shot him. That wasn’t in our plan. She would have shot me too if the Wolf … Why wasn’t it a double funeral?” I interrupt myself. “They died in the same place, minutes apart.”

“I wouldn’t let Father near her in death. Who’s the Wolf?”

I silently admonish myself for mentioning him. Felicity sips her espresso. I take a sip and almost spit it back into the cup. Her eyes fix on mine. I swallow the sludge then slide the cup and saucer to the side of the table in disgust.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“Horrid stuff. We should have met at the L-Shaped Café.”

Felicity’s hand slips from mine. My mind wanders. I’m holding Cassandra. She’s dead, and we’re freefalling. We hit the bottom of a pit; her eyes open, and she leads me through a land I suspect is her savage heaven or disappointing hell.

“Snap out of it, Martin. She’s not coming back.”

“You sitting there, it’s almost like seeing her alive again.”

“The dead don’t give a damn about compliments—for obvious reasons. Take me home. I’m not done with you.”

Felicity’s words of disdain growl in my ears. The Wolf stirs. His claws brush against my skull and I clutch my head.

“What’s wrong, now?”

“A migraine, maybe.”

Her finger gently taps my nose. “Silly boy. You should have ordered green tea.”

As we depart, Frenchie pouts and waves goodbye with his middle finger.

*

I’m uncomfortable in the brownstone apartment where her sister and father were murdered. I wonder whether Felicity seeks revenge by returning to the scene of the crime. I walk around the room where the bodies once lay. There is no trace of malfeasance.

“This place is mine now,” she says. “Well, I’m making it mine. I don’t know if Father planned for me to have it after his death. He loved all his children equally—in a disgusting way.”

She turns her back toward me.

“Unzip my dress.”

I do as she requests in this house of horror and bliss.

*

The mythic scent of sizzling bacon and percolating coffee pulls me off the bed. I slip into my shirt and trousers, then head toward the dining nook.

“Sit, Martin. Breakfast is ready.”

“I dreamt of Cassandra last night.” 

“Let the dead rest. It’s me you have to worry about now,” says Felicity. She grins as she tilts the coffee pot.

“Why did you lure me here?”

“You’ve heard of love at first sight,” she says. “It’s in the Hayes’ genes. Give it time, Martin. Cassie will fade from your mind, and you’ll fall madly in love with me.”

*

Not long ago, the city sweltered in a summer heatwave. During those days, my deceitful wife, Ingret, died, and shortly thereafter, Cassandra and Eve, the barista at the L-Shaped Café, were all lost to the Wolf. In this ruthless city's blistering heat, the Wolf counseled me, as did Nausea, my loving Muse of Sickness. Now I sense the possibility of remission, maybe even recovery. An occasional nudge in my head and a distant howl are all that remain. Otherwise, I am fine. Nausea, the vixen, likely found a new lover.

Late autumn in the park: gusty winds have stripped the trees. Colorful leaves dance around my legs, then shatter beneath my shoes. Dead and broken, these clusters line my path. I crave being with Felicity all the time. She urges me to quit my job at the mortuary. McCauley and the organist will be upset but will understand my devotion, having seen this alluring woman at the funeral. McCauley will joke about hiring a new man. The employment application will include an additional question. Have you ever had the desire to fuck the dead?

*

“Meet you at the steak joint on seventy-second at 6 PM for drinks and dinner,” she says.

“Sure. I’ll make reservations.”

Felicity has an afternoon appointment, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I head downtown to the Village to kill time at a cozy bar near The Tropic of Loneliness, the support group I frequented after Ingret’s death. On my way, I pass the Wooster Coffeehouse entrance.

“Yo!” Frenchie calls from the doorway. His arms are folded and his weight rests on one leg. Now, I remember. Cassandra’s funeral. He was standing like that at the rear of the parlor.

“Hey, man,” he says. “Let’s rap.”

I’m in no rush and wouldn’t mind knowing why he flipped us off when Felicity and I left the café.

“Come in, man, the espresso is tray bong.”

“Très bien,” I say, correcting his butchered French. “Do you serve green tea?” I ask.

“I’ll find some. There’s a secret staircase in the cellar that leads to the other side of the world.”

This guy is a nut. What’s his connection to Felicity? She knew his name and threatened him with a beating by my hands if he didn’t leave us alone. 

“I scored some, man.” He sets down a cup of green tea, then sits opposite me.

“You seemed put off when I came here with Felicity. Did I imagine it, or am I an unwanted third?”

“Nothing like that. I’m not here to blow your cool—just to warn you now that we’re alone. Watch out for this chick. She’s nice, nice, then bam! She’ll rip you to shreds,” he says, his fingers pawing near my face.

“How long have you known her?” I ask.

“Wow. Like all my life.”

“How long is that?”

“Hey. What gives, you a dick? She’s my older sister, that’s all.”

God damn it. Does this Hayes family ever end?

“Where did you grow up?” I ask.

“Some dipshit town in Maine.”

His answer jibes with Cassandra’s.

“Five years ago, Sweet Felicity juggled three lovers at once up there. Cool, huh? Things turned sour in a hurry. What a kick.”

Frenchie’s hipster artifice and vindictive manner grate on my nerves. “You think I’ll be the fourth?” I ask.

“You damn near were, with Cassie—rest her tormented soul.”

It seems that what one sibling knows, the others do too. “By the way,” I say. “Your green tea tastes as bad as your espresso.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Well, as they say in French, Kill DiMaggio.”

Quel dommage,” I correct him.

“Whatever, man.”

“I have to go. Brush up on your French. It’s très bad.”

As I leave, he gives me the one-finger salute. I head back to the brownstone, having lost interest in spending a lonely afternoon alone in a bar.

At the restaurant, Felicity asks me how I spent the day. I mention running into her brother, who warned me about her sordid past.

“Of course, he blames me for all his problems. That lying bastard. Don’t believe a word he says.”

“I take it you two don’t get along,” I say, chewing on a decent piece of steak.

“We never did. I wanted you to meet the creep to prove I was the only one in my family who came out even halfway sane.”

 How sane is halfway?

“Where are you from, originally?” I ask.

“Same place as Cassandra and Frenchie.”

My tongue dislodges a sliver of meat stuck between my teeth. “And, that would be …”

“Maine,” she says. “Who cares? Look, Martin. Here’s the truth.”

“Before I hear your version, why do you call him Frenchie? No one names their kid that.”

“It’s Aloysius. The little masturbator nicknamed himself after the French deck of picture cards he kept hidden in his dresser. Aside from that, there’s not an ounce of Gaul in him.”

According to Felicity, Frenchie had been a suspect in the murder of three drifters. He was never charged. Because he was a juvenile at the time, their father arranged with the court for Aloysius to quietly leave town and never return.

“My sister and I had already moved to New York. Father insisted we become our brother’s keeper until he turned legal. You know, Felicity and Cassandra—Patron Saints of the Perverse.”

She massages her temples, then takes a large gulp of wine.

“You okay?” I ask.

“This conversation is upsetting me.”

Is she ready to pounce, as Frenchie warned?

“Do you still want me, Martin, after hearing all this?”

It’s too late to say no. I’m a sucker for the Hayes women and she knows it.

“Of course, I want you.”

The Wolf howls louder. I am not cured.

*

Frenchie shows up at the brownstone five minutes after Felicity leaves. He’s the last person I want to see as I sip my morning tea. The brat takes a seat without asking and says, “I have a proposition.”

“Okay. What’s on your mind?”

“I stand to make out big if Sissy is out of the picture, like, you dig?”

“No, I don’t dig it. No metaphors or similes before noon,” I say. “And what’s with the hipster talk? That speech hit the road twenty years ago.”

“Don’t be a square, man. I’ll lay it on you easy. There’s just me and Felicity, see. Pretty sure the last cat or kitty standing gets everything in Father’s will.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Man, do you not dig where this is headed?” he says.

“You want me to off your sister. Am I close?”

“I’m willing to split 70/30.”

“How much are we talking about?” I ask.

“Couple of mils.”

“Mils? Like in two thousand?”

“Get with it. Like two million. My old man was loaded,” he says, resting a hand on my knee. I lift his clammy paw off and slide back into my chair.

“You’re the right cat for the job,” he says. “I … She digs you and won’t suspect a thing.”

I shake my head. “Beat it, Aloysius. You’re a nutcase. I’m sure your sister will dig hearing about your little scheme.”

“You think she doesn’t have a scheme of her own? Give it time, brother. Her offer won’t be as generous. You, me, and Felicity, we’re not so different. Only you have the guts to bring the curtain down. Keep in touch. You know where I hang.”

He winks, then scurries along the wall and out the door, like a rat.

I give Felicity time to propose a deal to take out Frenchie. It doesn’t come. Every day, she seems to grow more in love with me. I feel obligated to protect her. Frenchie needs to be content with probate. A few weeks later, I get a call from him.

“Hey, man. Have you reconsidered my proposition?”

“No dice, Frenchie. I’m sticking with Felicity.”

“I’ll take care of it myself,” he says in a threatening but unconvincing tone.

“Sure you will,” I say and hang up. I’ve learned to spot liars and killers. Frenchie is no killer.

*

It’s been three months in the brownstone with Felicity, and no further word from Frenchie. When we first met, she said, “Cassie will fade from your thoughts and you’ll fall madly in love with me.” Her words have come true.

Then, like bad karma, we receive a letter from her brother. He’s willing to extend a hand in good faith, bury the past, and accept his father’s will.

“I didn’t expect that,” I say to Felicity.

“A person can change their mind, but not their personality,” she replies. “He’d sooner see me dead. I hate that little shit.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth this time. Give him a chance to redeem himself.”

“Maybe you’re right, Martin. What do they say? Love opens the door, and hate slips in—or is it the other way around?”

“I don’t know who they are, but either sounds possible.”

At the probate hearing, Frenchie arrives dressed conservatively and no longer speaks in hipster lingo. He extends his clammy hand. I shake it, then wipe my palm with a handkerchief. Frenchie reaches out to his sister, but Felicity, wearing the black outfit from Cassandra’s funeral, shuns him.

The judge mumbles through the will’s boilerplate. Frenchie glances at us and smiles. Now comes the moment we’ve been waiting for. Item by item, the provisions are read. Everything goes to Frenchie, except in the event of his death, in which case all is bequeathed to the next of kin. Frenchie yells, “Yes!”

Felicity asks what just happened. I tell her: “Sorry, you get nothing.”

“That can’t be, Martin.”

I take her in my arms. “Your father left you and Cassandra out of his will.”

The truth hits her hard. She slips from my embrace and glowers at Frenchie as he stands and approaches us.

“I’m as shocked as you, Felicity,” he says. “I guess Pop forgot he had two daughters.”

I understand why she hates him. The creep, in his impotent smugness, must have known all along that his father left him everything. He just wanted his sister dead—or was he testing me? To my surprise, Felicity smiles and tells her brother she’s disappointed but had no great expectations. I propose that the three of us head to the L-Shaped Café for refreshments.

It is late afternoon, and it is a short walk from the courthouse to my favorite café. A new girl works there. She looks a lot like Eve, the barista who met her fate at the Wolf's hands. I order two ginger green teas.

“Here’s to Mr. Lucky,” I say, handing Frenchie his cup. “And one for you, my love.” I get no thanks from either.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” asks Frenchie.

“In a moment,” I say, sitting between them.

“Look,” he says to his sister. “I feel awful about the outcome. You can stay in the brownstone until I sell it. I want to be fair.”

“That’s so generous of you,” she says, her eyes seething with resentment. 

“You ingrate,” says Frenchie. “You should be happy I’m offering that.”

“You’re right, Aloysius. I get what I deserve.”

Frenchie keeps blabbing, spewing unkind words, blind to the danger of his vitriolic rant that abuses his sister without laying a hand on her. Felicity turns to me; her eyes demand help. I shake my head as if to say, “Let it go.” The sallow pallor of Nausea creeps across her face. She covers her ears to block out her brother’s voice—or to stop the howling in her head. Frenchie has crossed the line. I insist we step outside behind the L-Shaped Café, hoping the acrimony will dissipate in the chilly autumn air.

The days have grown shorter since I last found myself here. A faceless moon rises behind silhouetted buildings. It’s the same jealous moon that parsed the summer night when the Wolf killed the innocent barista for recognizing him.

“You two behave while I get a ginger green tea,” I say, leaving them alone together.

I return to find Frenchie lying behind an overturned garbage can. There are claw marks on the side of his face, and four slashes crisscross his chest in a bloody grid of tic-tac-toe. Felicity turns to me, holding a knife.

“That wasn’t smart,” I say. “You’re next of kin. Whom do you think they’ll come after? We had all we needed. You’ve spoiled everything. Give me the shiv.”

Felicity refuses. I toss my cup aside and inch toward her, hand outstretched. She slashes at me as if I were some sinister stranger. Street noise hisses, and my head pounds. I grab her wrist, take the weapon, and pull her close—so tightly it feels like I’m embracing myself.

The Wolf howls, drowning out the harps of heaven and the horns of hell. The blade pierces her body, and she collapses. It’s not the first time a lover has died in my arms. I set her down beside her brother, then wipe the handle of the knife and secure it in Frenchie’s lifeless, limp hand. 

*

The bodies will be found by the time I reach the brownstone. I brew a cup of green tea to steady my nerves and sit alone, waiting for the police to arrive and arrest the Wolf. Tomorrow I’ll call McCauley to ask for my old job back. I’ll have to fill out another application. How should I answer the question about handling the dead? I’m not sure I can control myself if Felicity shows up at his place. McCauley will complain, but he understands. Everyone yearns for the resurrection of love.

I stagger into the bathroom. The I in the mirror meets the gaze of Martin Morse. “The Hayes family won’t hurt you anymore,” it says.

A cold hand touches my shoulder; a lump forms in my throat. “I’ve come back,” says Nausea, pale and svelte in a red dress and stiletto heels.

Nausea apologizes and promises never to leave me again.

“Liar! You never left. You are all the women I have ever loved.”

The Wolf snarls at my disloyalty. I wipe his drool from my eyes.

“Please, get out of here,” I beg her. “You’re taunting him.”

Nausea pulls me down onto the cold tile floor and she spreads her legs.

“Here,” she says, placing a knife in my hand. “End it.”

“No, I couldn’t bear the stench.”

 

 

 

 

 

Stephen Myer is a writer and musician in Southern California. His stories  have been published in The Literary Hatchet, Tales from the Moonlit Path, GossamerWight Lit, Bewildering Stories, JayHenge Publishing Anthologies, Adelaide Literary Journal, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Muleskinner Journal, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Blood Fiction Anthologies, Exquisite Death, God’s Cruel Joke, Fiction on the Web, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award for Literary Fiction.