Body of Immorality (3 page)

It’s kind of funny, Carrie, if you think about it. Imagine if you had to take a piss, I mean, a really bad piss, or if you got
really
horny? That would suck, wouldn’t it? You’d just have to sit here and douse all over yourself. You could try willfully procuring an orgasm. Now, that would be impressive! What kind of thoughts are going through this guy’s head? I’d pay to see that? Can you see yourself on the cover of
People
magazine?

He couldn’t even roll his eyes.

“ I wish you would shut-the-hell up,” Carrie said. “As if things aren’t bad enough with your antics! How’s a person supposed to hear himself
think?”

All he heard was the graveyard, its primitive characters voicing their inane banalities. Didn’t they have the desire to shut-up, to take a break, to get some
sleep?

Maybe they’ve tried that already, Carrie?

He had the curious misfortune to spend eternity next to Joe and Nadene Emerson. Nadene was ruthless, verbally vicious to Joe. Joe took the badgering like a broken, tormented figure molded to fit his humility and shame. He’d been one of those people anxiously waiting for death, Carrie thought, and now he was doomed to lie forever next to the belligerent, unruly cow that was his wife. Joe
lived
in hell! That was certain. But this! Buried for eternity next to a
dragon?
God
must
be more merciful!

He was quick to learn what Joe’s life had been like.

Nadene complained, insulted, belittled, tyrannized, subjugated, and did everything but tear poor Joe’s soul apart with words alone. Nadene would’ve crawled into the casket and throttled the poor sonofabtich if given the chance. After all, this abhorrent reality was all
Joe’s
fault! Joe had done
something
to piss off the Man Upstairs!

“No dinner unless that lawn is mowed, Joseph Waldo Emerson.”

Nadene was notorious for her lack of discretion, too:

“ Sex? Sex? You want to get that thing all damp and scrawny after you’ve
punished
me with it? You know I don’t have sex with
you,
Joe?”

“ Joseph, you left your under-shorts in the bathroom again! How many times have I told you? Like a hairy rat crawling across the rug! Get in there and put ’em with the rest of your wildlife apparel! ’Things scared me so bad, I had to fight them off with a
broomstick!
They was crawling ’cross the
floor,
Joseph. They have
legs!”

“Your breath is sort of foul, Joe! You smell like the crypt. Why don’t you gargle so I don’t choke to death!”

Carrie, despite Nadene, got a good chuckle over that one. Joe, however, continued to lie in his eternal nightmare, not saying a word. Sometimes, Carrie heard an audible groan coming from Joe’s casket.

As if Joe hadn’t been through enough? Did the
rest
of them have to listen to it?

“Can’t you at least tone it down and give the guy a break?” Carrie said when he’d first arrived.

“ You mind your own lonesome business,” Nadene replied. “You and your imaginary friend, anyway! Got a real
nut-case
with us, ladies and gentleman!”

Maybe Joe didn’t mind. Anything was better than lying here in the dark listening to yourself think. In a situation of this magnitude, even Carrie could appreciate the worst of spouses. Joe wasn’t alone in his lunacy, at least. Maybe Nadene suffering alongside him was a sort of redemption.

Carrie thought back to his own death, the truck blindsiding him. He’d been walking home from the grocery store. He’d looked both ways before crossing the street, the grocery bag cradled in his right arm. It had been a warm, windy day in August. The gusts threw him off balance. The truck must’ve come around the corner when he was switching the groceries from one arm to the other. That explained why he hadn’t seen it. Why the
driver
hadn’t seen him, of course, was a mystery.

He’d stepped onto the asphalt. He remembered taking three complete steps was all. The next thing he knew, a bright light sent him into the dark. He recognized—for a split second—a jarring flash of pain.

The grocery sack sailed through the air. Granny Smith apples hit, split, and rolled across the pavement. Milk made a wide white patch on the asphalt, spreading toward the gutter. Broken eggs sizzled.

Someone screamed. Not Carrie. He knew his own voice.

His sight revealed a strange view of the street when his vision returned.

The truck had broken his neck, but he was still alive. The reason he was alive wasn’t because he could see and hear, but because he could
feel
the heat from the asphalt. Summer had made him sweat.

“Mister? Mister?”

Isn’t that a music group,
Carrie thought?

“I think he’d dead.”

’ Am not. I can see
you. I can hear you. I think I’m paralyzed. Would someone please call a doctor? Seventeen-fifty wasted on groceries. Damnit. My mouth won’t make any noise.

Sweat dripped into his eyes.

Oh, God,
he’d thought.
I’m paralyzed. I’m not dead, but I’m paralyzed!

You have no idea, chuckles,
a voice said, a strange, befriending phantom, eager to make his acquaintance. Carrie thought he’d imagined it.

He had vision after death, even when they’d closed his eyes. It was bizarre. Only when they closed the casket…

No, no!
he cried, behind his peaceful, sleeping face.
Wait!

Since then, as Poe would’ve put it, ‘darkness there and nothing more.’

His family and friends had been at the funeral. Everyone looked troubled, neutral, and emotionless. Their faces were strange, distant, and personal.

His mother had walked up to the casket. She’d been wearing a black and red blazer with a long black skirt. She was attractive in her stern, haughty way, lips pressed tightly as if the sight of Carrie had soured her. Her eyes didn’t show a glimmer of sadness. Similar to his birth, his death—for her—seemed the same disappointment. She didn’t say a word. She’d patted his hand, her obligatory duty as a mother, something she vied to protest. Her only son, Carrie thought, still wishing for a daughter. They were all at the funeral, Vicki and Ray, Caroline and her daughter, Susan. After a while, Carrie wished he
could’ve
closed his eyes.

So much for the out of body experience,
Carrie thought.

Even the coroner had made fun of him, humiliating him, poking and prodding here and there. If only he could’ve sat up! If only he had the strength, he would’ve turned their hair blinding white!
That
would’ve been perfect!

“What kind of name is Carrie for a guy anyway?” the coroner asked his assistant.

“Maybe she wanted a girl instead and thought it would change him,” the assistant replied.

“Maybe he’s a fairy.”

“Maybe he wears panty-hose!”

Both men had erupted in laughter.

“I’m still in here, you bastards!” Carrie wanted to shout. “You bastards, you can’t
do
this!”

I wonder why she didn’t put a ‘Y’ on the end.

The memory was gone. It slipped away into his newfound death. He was back in the casket at Rose Hill Cemetery.

“Just shut-up, already,” Carrie said, exasperated.

‘
Just shut-up, already,’
it mocked him.
Is that all you ever say?

Madness
was
possible in death. Proof of that was all around him.

Not an answer, not a single explanation,
Carrie thought.

God had no children to begin with. That must be it. Religion, the doctrine, the faith, and all that crap was just that: crap. A bold-faced lie!

God was a fruitcake. Carrie knew He was up there laughing. Or, there
was
no God. Carrie believed the latter

“ It’s all mom’s fault,” he said. “She never approved of me. That look she always had—the pain of knowing I existed, the grueling horror when she realized I was no one’s responsibility but her own. If she would’ve accepted me from the start, this never would’ve happened. I would’ve never moved to Idaho, this quiet town. The trees would
still
be green, the sky, blue. This darkness would
not
be here!”

It took until he was dead, but suddenly—feeling the years of pent-up fury for his mother—Carrie lashed out like he'd never had before:

“
DO YOU KNOW MUCH THEY TEASED ME AT SCHOOL, MOTHER? DO YOU? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DIFFICULT IT WAS TRYING TO BE YOUR UNWANTED SON? YOUR DAY’S COMING, MOTHER? YOU, TOO, WILL KNOW THIS HELL! AND IF THERE IS A GOD, WHICH I HIGHLY DOUBT, I HOPE HE BURIES YOU FOR ETERNITY IN A CEMETERY OVERPOPULATED BY WAILING BOYS! THAT WOULD BE
PERFECT!”

Dead at thirty-four, Carrie wished for a single tear. Just one—to forget—to mourn and be done with it all.

After all, he had a life to live…

Silence issued over the cemetery. Laughter failed to sound. Carrie thought he heard the words, “Long time coming, that.” Then it was gone.

What happened to those who took the stove, the kindling and the flames? Were they trapped forever in the heat of the fire? Did they
feel
it? Or did the urn keep them in the same darkness on the mantle above the fireplace, surrounded by their families as if they weren’t even there? Maybe Carrie
was
better off this way. Maybe the darkness
wasn’
t so bad.

If only the living knew. Cemeteries could be built above ground the world over. You could put in a reservation for a porch swing, an ocean view. Death could be an even bigger business! Anything but this monotony, these petty quarrels, meaningless trivia games! How many times could you recite poetry without growing violently ill? What had he done to
deserve
this? What had
any
of them done? If he judged correctly, he’d say he was a decent, law-abiding citizen. He minded his own business. He’d been a decent man.

With a girl’s name,
said the voice.

How long had he been here? Weeks? Carrie couldn’t remember. It was hard to tell when you never saw the sun. It wasn’t as if he
wanted
to get used to it. If he got used to it…

No, God, please don’t let me get used to it. Ever. I don’t
want
to get used to it…

Carrie didn’t know what to think. He felt better after wailing into the dark, but honestly, this wasn’t funny anymore.

Voices plotted murder around him; others conspired heinous acts of violence. Infants wailed, lost, still frightened in the dark. A lustful dialogue developed to his right.

Then, it came from nowhere. It came from...
everywhere:

“Just one more hit, just one…one more, and I’d be okay.”

“Does anyone have a cigarette I can bum?”

“Joe, I’ve told you countless times,
not
to leave the toilet seat up!”

“Anyone got change for a ten?”

“Doctor says I can, which is good, because I have this long flight to Miami.”

“I never told her I loved her. Blew up over that stupid thing and never told her I loved her…”

If he could’ve, he’d have closed his eyes and prayed, but what good would that have done?

Carrie Weis tried taking a deep breath, but it was futile. Darkness filled his lungs. Like a silent prayer, he begged:

“Please, God. Just a shred of humanity! Please! One display of decency, for
decency’s
sake!”

I can answer that for you, Carrie. And the answer is, NO! Probably not. Can’t see it. I can’t really see an end at all. Don’t know what you’re so hopeful for. Jeez, a guy dies one time, and look how bunged up he gets? Thinks the world
owes
him something.

Another bout of fury gripped him, but not for his mother. If God
did
exist, then Carrie had to say something! If this were as close to Heaven as he’d get, then to hell with it!

Taking another deep breath, Carrie gathered all his might, and shrieked into the unconscionable universe:

“
HEY! YEAH, YOU? FATHER OF JESUS! YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT! I’M TALKING TO YOU! CAN YOU HEAR ME? ARE YOU UP THERE? I HOPE YOU CAN HEAR ME! PRETTY FUNNY LIFE YOU GOT DOWN HERE FOR US! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR EVER-LOVING MIND? DID SOMEONE SLIP YOU SOME ACID? GOD’S ON DRUGS EVERYONE! WELCOME TO THE NEW MILLENNIUM! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO PEOPLE! IT’S BLASPHEMY! IT’S
INHUMAN!”

The cemetery went completely still. Not a cricket chirped. The leaves did not rustle over Rose Hill Cemetery. Even the wind had died. All was…like the grave.

The silence, however, lasted only a moment. In that moment, Carrie thought he’d found a loophole.

Laughter surged from the silence like stentorian catcalls, crushing whatever sanity he had left, killing his last vestige of hope. Carrie Weis, despite life in the grave, slipped into an even darker abyss of lunacy. Only the dead could travel here, he realized. Only the dead…
knew
…

You might as well get comfortable, Carrie. We’re gonna be here a while.

Whispers voiced around him. Someone said, “A newcomer,” and they started laughing again. Even Nadene drilled him, calling him ‘wet-behind-the-ears.’

I am
not
suffering!
Carrie pleaded.
I am
not
alone!

You are
quite
alone,
said the voice.
I’d blame mother.

“Probably,” he replied, in defeat.

Carrie gave up wanting to understand it. He tried mustering tears, but noticed, instead, a strange, forbidden slip taking place in his mind. Maybe he
could
get comfortable. Maybe he
could
do this. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the corners of his lips were curling upwards in a smile. Yes! By God! He
was
smiling!

He tried to shift. Something poked him in the back. What the hell
was
that, the tag on his suit?

No use.

She could have at least put a ‘Y’ on the end…

“At least,” Carrie said, sighing.

The meaning slipped away into the lifeless dark. You really
could
go mad in death. He was there now.

A long pause followed.