Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran (4 page)

The young woman said, “Excuse me, but who is this?”

The color drained from Bill’s face. He said hoarsely, “What are you doing here, Mrs Blum? You were dead in the tub, I found you.” He waved his arms. “You can’t stay here!”

“Let’s cut the crap, all right?” the young man said. He thrust money at Rose. Several fifties and three of his fingers went through her forearm.

“Ted, she’s a ghost,” the woman said, clutching at his coat. “She must be the ghost of the woman who died here.”

“Well,” Ted said, letting his extended hand float slowly back down to his side. “Tiffany, honey, I think you’re right. So, uh, what would you think about living in a haunted, I mean, co-occupying with, um? I’m sure we could work something out, a sort of timeshare arrangement? I mean, look at the height of these ceilings.”

Rose said, “Sure, we can fix it. All I need is for you to let me drink a little blood now and then. You could take turns.”

“Ah, Jesus,” sobbed Bill.

Tiffany’s eyes bulged. “It’s not a ghost,” she gasped. “It’s a vampire.”

“How much blood, exactly?” Ted said, pale but still game.

“I don’t exactly know,” Rose said. “We’d have to experiment a little at first—”

They fled.

“That’s a ten-thousand-dollar finder’s fee you cost me!” howled Bill the super, lunging at her.

His breath reached her before he did, and Rose felt her careful astral assemblage fly apart. He had been eating garlic, and the fumes acted on her new body like acid. Her consciousness bounced around like a beach ball in the slipstream of a speeding truck as her body dissolved.

Bill jammed his fist into his mouth and ran, slamming the door so hard behind him that a very nice French Empire miniature fell off the wall.

“Garlic,” said a familiar voice. “It’s a remarkable food. Completely dissolves the cohesibility of astral material.”

Grabbing for errant parts of her body, Rose grumbled, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to cover everything,” the Angel said.

“Listen, Dr Simkin,” Rose said. “I can’t do this. I’m no vampire. I’m a nice Jewish girl.”

“A nice Jewish radical girl, not religious at all,” the Angel reminded her. “You named your first cat Emma Goldman.”

“We were all freethinkers in those days, but so what? A Jew is a Jew, and Jews don’t have vampires. I can’t do this blood-drinking thing. It’s not natural.”

The Angel sighed. “It’s your choice, of course, but you’ll have to go up. Your life review is overdue as it is.”

Rose thought of God reviewing her life. “What about you?” she said desperately. “You must be drinking blood yourself, to be sticking around driving me crazy like this. You could spare me some.”

“Oh, no,” the Angel said, “I do all my work strictly on the astral, nothing physical at all. I don’t need weight.”

“Why do you look like that?” Rose said. “Harry Simkin didn’t look like that, don’t think I don’t remember.”

“Well, I like it,” the Angel answered rather shyly. “And I thought it would reassure you. You always had a good eye for art, Mrs Blum.”

“A lot of good it does me now,” she said. “Listen, I want to talk to Fred. You know Fred, my husband?”

The Angel cocked its head to one side and rolled its blank eyes. Then it said, “Sorry, he’s not available. He’s finished his processing and moved on to another stage.”

“What stage?” Rose said, feeling a surprising twinge of apprehension for Fred. She remembered all those
New Yorker
cartoons showing fat-bellied businessmen making glum quips to each other in hell, with pitchfork-toting devils leering in the background.

“Don’t you think you have enough to deal with as it is?” the Angel countered. “You’re bobbing, you know, and your head isn’t on straight. It won’t be long at this rate.”

“I’ll find somebody,” Rose said quickly. “I need more time to get used to the idea.”

“Don’t take too long,” the Angel said. “Isn’t it interesting? This is the first time you’ve asked me about anybody who’s come before you.”

“What?” said Rose. “Anybody, who? Who should I ask about? I’ve been on my own for twenty years. Who cares for an old woman, so who should I care for?”

The Angel, inspecting its fingernails again, drifted silently out through the pane of the closed window.

It was very quiet in the apartment. The walls in these old buildings were very thick, with real plaster. Rose had peace and quiet in which to reassemble herself. It wasn’t much fun– no point in making yourself look like, say, Marilyn Monroe, if you couldn’t see yourself in the mirror – and it wasn’t easy, either. At one point she looked down and realized she had formed up the shape of her most recent cat, Mimsy, on a giant scale.

She was losing contact with her physical life, and nobody was likely to come around and help her re-establish it again for a while. Maybe never, if Bill the super went gibbering about what he’d seen in the apartment.

She hovered in front of the family photographs on the wall over the living-room mantel. The light was hard to see by, odd and watery – was it day or night? – but she knew who was who by memory: Papa Sol and Mama; Auntie Lil with that crazed little dog of hers, Popcorn was its name (God, she missed Mimsy, and the others); the two Kleinfeldt cousins who had gone to California and become big shots in television production; Nana in her old-fashioned bathing suit at Coney Island; Uncle Herb; more cousins. She had completely lost track of the cousins.

There was one picture of Fred, and several of the two cute babies who had turned into Mark and Roberta. I should have stuck to shopping and skipped the kids, she thought.

Two pictures showed Rose herself, once amid the cousins now scattered to their separate marriages and fates, and once with two school friends, girls whose names now escaped her. As everything seemed bent on escaping her. She sat in the big wing chair and crossed her astral arms and rocked herself, whispering, “Who cares for an old woman?”

There was no help, and no safe place. She had to hold on to the arms of her chair to keep from floating several inches off the seat. If she didn’t get some blood to drink soon, she would float up before that huge, angry face in the sky and be cast into hell on a bolt of black thunder . . .

The door opened cautiously and a man walked into the apartment. It was her lawyer, Willard.

“Oh, my God,” he murmured, looking straight at her. “They told me the place was haunted. Mrs Blum, is that you?”

“Yes,” she said. “What time is it, Willard?”

“Seven thirty,” he said, still staring. “I stayed late at the office.”

Seven thirty on a November evening; of course he could see her. She hoped her head was on straight and that it was her own head and not Mimsy’s.

“Oh, Willard,” she said, “I’ve been having the most terrible time.” She stopped. She had never talked to anyone like that, or at least not for a very long time.

“No doubt, no doubt,” he said, steadying himself against the hall table and putting his briefcase down carefully on the floor. “Do you still keep Scotch in the breakfront?”

She did, for the occasional visitor, of which scant number Willard had been one. He poured himself a drink with shaking hands and gulped it, his eyes still fixed on Rose. He poured himself another. “I think I’d better tell you,” he said in a high, creaky tone very unlike him, “this haunting business could have serious repercussions on the disposition of your estate.”

“It’s not haunting, exactly,” Rose said, gliding toward him. She told him what it was, exactly.

“Ha, ha, you’re kidding, Mrs Blum,” Willard said, smiling wildly and turning a peculiar shade of yellow. He staggered backward against the edge of the couch, turned, and fell headlong. His glass rolled across the carpet and clinked against the baseboard. Rose saw a pale mist drift out of the top of Willard’s head as his body thrashed briefly in the throes of what she immediately recognized as a heart attack like the one that had killed Fred.

“Willard, wait,” she cried, seeing that his foggy spirit stuff was rapidly escaping upward into the ceiling. “Don’t leave me!”

But he did.

Rose knelt by the body, unable to even attempt to draw its still and cooling blood. The Angel didn’t show. Willard Carnaby must have gone directly wherever he was headed. She felt abandoned and she cried, or something like it, not for Willard, who had known, as usual, where to go and how to get there with a minimum of fuss, but for herself, Rose the vampire.

After they took the body away nobody came for days. Rose didn’t dare to go out. She was afraid she would get lost in the uncertain light; she was afraid she would run into the outwash from some restaurant kitchen and be blasted to such smithereens by garlic fumes that she would never be able to get herself together again; she was afraid of water running in the gutters and crosses on churches. She was afraid of the eyes of God.

She was bumping helplessly against the bedroom ceiling in doomed panic when someone did arrive. Not Roberta (as she at first thought because of the honey-gold hair) but Stephanie, from the next generation; her granddaughter, who wanted to be – what? An actress. She was certainly pretty enough, and so young. Rose blinked hungrily at her.

Someone was with her, a boy. Stephanie pulled back the curtains and daylight streamed in. She would not be able to see Rose, maybe not even hear her.

Rose noticed something new – a shimmer of color and motion around Stephanie, and another around this boy. If she concentrated hard, while floating after them as they strolled through the place giggling and chatting with their heads together, Rose could see little scenes like bits of color TV taking place within the aura of each of the young people: quick little loops of the two of them tangled in each other’s arms in his, and a rapid wheel of scenes in Stephanie’s aura involving this boy dancing with her, applauding from an excited audience, showing her off to important people.

Their hopes and dreams were visible to Rose, like sit-com scenes without sound. The walking-on-the-beach scene, a comfortable winter beach with gray skies and green sea and no sand fleas Rose recognized at once. She had had the same fantasy about Fred.

While he was having, no doubt, fantasies like this boy’s, of sex, sex and more sex; and sex with another girl, some friend of Stephanie’s . . .

“Dump him, Stephanie, he’s nothing but a wolf,” she said indignantly, out loud.

The boy was too rapt in his hormones to hear. Stephanie frowned and glanced sharply around the room.

“Come on,” the boy said. “Who’d know? It would be exciting.” Good grief, he was proposing that the two of them make love right here – on the floor, on Rose’s antique Chinese carpet! Rose saw the little scene clearly in his aura.

Stephanie hesitated. Then she tossed her honey hair and called him an idiot and tugged him out of the place by the hand. But she came back. She came back alone after dark and without turning on the lights she sat down quietly in the big wing chair by the window.

“I heard you, Gramma Rose,” she said softly, looking wide-eyed around the room. “I heard what you said to me about Jeff, and you’re right, too. I know you’re here. The stuff about the apartment being haunted is true, isn’t it? I know you’re here, and I’m not scared of you. You can come out, you can talk to me. Really. I’d like it.”

Rose hung back, timid and confused now that her moment had come. After all, did she really want her grandchild’s presumably fond memories of Gramma Rose replaced with the memory of Rose the vampire?

Stephanie said, “I won’t go until you come talk to, me, Gramma Rose.”

She curled up on Rose’s empty bed and went to sleep.

Rose watched her dreams winking and wiggling in her aura. Such an appealing mixture of cynicism and naivety, so unlike her mother. Fascinated, Rose observed from the ceiling where she floated.

Involuntarily reacting to one of the little scenes, she murmured, “It’s not worth fighting with your mother; just say yes and go do what you want.”

Stephanie opened her eyes and looked directly up. Her jaw dropped. “Gramma Rose,” she squeaked. “I see you! What are you doing up there?”

“Stephanie darling,” Rose said in the weak, rusty voice that was all she could produce now, “you can help me. Will you help me?”

“Sure,” Stephanie said, sitting up. “Didn’t you stop me from making an utter idiot of myself with Jeff Stanhope, which isn’t his real name of course, and he has a gossip drive on him that just won’t quit. I don’t know what I was thinking of, bringing him up here, except that he’s cute of course, but actors are mostly cute. It’s his voice, I think, it’s sort of hypnotic. But you woke me up, just like they say, a still, small voice. So what can I do for you?”

“This will sound a little funny,” Rose said anxiously – to have hope again was almost more than she could bear – “but could you stand up in the bed and let me try to drink a little blood from your neck?”

“Ew.” Stephanie stared up at her. “You’re kidding.”

Rose said, “It’s either that or I’m gone, darling. I’m nearly gone as it is.”

“But why would it help to, ugh, suck a person’s blood?”

“I need it to weigh me down, Stephanie. You can see how high I’m drifting. If I don’t get some blood to anchor me, I’ll float away.”

“How much do you need?” Stephanie said cautiously.

“From you, darling, just a little,” Rose assured her. “You have a rehearsal in the morning, I don’t want to wear you out. But if you let me take a little, I can stay, I can talk to you.”

“You could tell me all about Uncle Herb and whether he was gay or not,” Stephanie said, “and whether Great-Grandpa really left Hungary because of a quarrel with a hussar or was he just dodging the draft like everybody else – all the family secrets.”

Rose wasn’t sure she remembered those things, but she could make up something appropriate. “Yes, sure.”

“Is this going to hurt?” Stephanie said, getting up on her knees in the middle of the mattress.

“It doesn’t when they do it in the movies,” Rose said. “But, Stephanie, even if there’s a little pinprick, wouldn’t that be all right? Otherwise I have to go, and . . . and I don’t want to.”

“Don’t cry, Gramma Rose,” Stephanie said. “Can you reach?” She leaned to one side and shut her eyes.