Secondhand Souls

  “You don’t love nothin’, Evan. You’re no use to me. You’re no use to anyone. In fact, I’ma choke you out. Say good-­bye to the world, Evan.”

  “Wait!” Evan gasped.

  “Wait, what? Ain’t no thing. I’ma choke you out ironically, Evan, so you be too cool for school. Cool as a motherfuckin’ corpse, Evan.” He let a little air through.

  “I love something! I do love something.”

  “You do?”

  “My cat, Cisco.”

  “Cisco? After the outlaw?”

  “After the networking company.”

  “Yeah, I’m sho-­nuff gonna choke this motherfucker out!” Yellow said to the ceiling, just an amen short of preaching.

  “There won’t be anyone to take care of him. The ­people in my building will take him to the shelter and they’ll put him down.”

  Yellow loosened his grip. “Evan, did you just say something that wasn’t about you?”

  Evan nodded as best he could.

  “Where is the shit was in that case?”

  “With Fresh. It was gone this morning when I got here.”

  “Tell you what, Evan, I’ma give you a gift—­a gift of passion. You got a passion for finding the shit was in that case.”

  Yellow let him go. Evan fell back against the glass case, gasping. The man in yellow reached in his vest, pulled out a business card, and threw it on the counter. “That shit turn up, you call that number.”

  Evan nodded.

  “And that’s all you know about this encounter, Evan. You got a passion for finding that shit and calling that number. You didn’t see nobody, you didn’t hear nobody, you don’t even know how you got that card.”

  Evan nodded.

  “And shave your motherfucking neck.” Yellow pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his choking hand as he left the shop. “That shit is nasty.”

  The bell over the door rang and Evan looked up, surprised that no one was there. No one had been in all morning. Just as well, he could feel a sore throat coming on.

  It’s done,” Audrey said. She opened her eyes and looked around.

  “What’s done?” said Jane, she looked up from her phone just in time to see a dark shape plummeting out of the fog bank above them. Two things hit the water with explosive impact only about fifteen feet from the boat—­Pow! Pow!—­a water spout shot up and dispersed over and around them.

  “Holy fuck!” Jane said, staring at the water.

  “Audrey, can you hand me that,” Minty Fresh said, pointing to the big, gray suitcase at the stern. His diving mask was on his head. He hit a button on his watch.

  “Holy fuck!” Jane said.

  Audrey stood, grabbed the handle, and swung it over to the big man, who stepped past the console and set it in the bow.

  “What’s in there?” Audrey asked.

  “Soul vessels,” said the Mint One. “After Cavuto, I wanted them with me.”

  “Holy fuck!” Jane said, still staring at the settling spot where Mike had hit the water.

  “Jane!” said Minty Fresh. She shook off the amazement and looked at him. “We need to get into the water.”

  Jane shook her head. “Too much current, someone has to drive the boat.” She wore a wet suit under a yellow Gore-­tex rain jacket, which she had refused to take off because she wasn’t happy about her butt.

  Minty looked to Audrey, who shook her head.

  “Fine, fold down that swim platform, Audrey,” said Minty. He moved to the rear of the console—­his fins now in the space where Audrey had been sitting—­sat on the gunwale, then pulled down his mask, put his snorkel in, and flipped over backward into the water. He took one breath on the surface and dove, his fins standing straight up out of the water like the flukes of a sounding whale. Sirens began to sound on the bridge.

  “There’s enough foam in those motorcycle leathers to bring him to the surface,” Jane said. “Isn’t there?”

  Audrey shrugged . . . who knows?

  Jane maneuvered the boat to keep it near the point of impact. Without a word, Audrey reached over the stern of the boat and folded down an aluminum and teak swimming platform that formed a little dock at water level next to the big Mercury outboards. Jane pulled a backpack with the defibrillator in it out from under the console and handed it back to Audrey.

  They watched the water fizz where Mike had gone in, looking for any sign of movement. A shadow rose in the deep green water and heads broke the surface. A geyser of seawater sprayed into the air as Minty Fresh cleared his snorkel. He looked around, located the boat, then hooked Mike under the chin in the crook of his arm, and started kicking for the boat.

  “Backboard,” said Audrey. She was still in her nun robes, yellow and maroon silk, now beginning to whip in the cold wind.

  There was an orange plastic backboard lashed to the rail on the console. Jane slipped the knot and handed one end of the board back to Audrey, who caught it by one of the many handles. The two of them lowered it over the side and waited. Minty Fresh swam Mike’s limp body up to the backboard, then pushed him onto it as Jane and Audrey held it steady. The big man cinched a nylon strap around Mike’s chest, then another around his feet, then kicked back to the swim platform, which he launched himself up and around into a sitting position. He allowed himself one breath, pulled his fins off and threw them into the boat, then was on his feet, reaching over the side to grab the backboard.

  “Just pull his head up, we’ll slide him up out of the water,” said Audrey.

  They did, sliding the board up, then turning it so it would fit in the open part of the boat behind the console. Audrey and Minty Fresh immediately fell to their knees over Mike.

  “Jane,” called the Mint One, tossing his head to point. The boat, in neutral, had drifted and was dangerously close to the south tower pier, which loomed above them.

  “Holy fuck!” Jane said. She dove for the console, threw the throttle forward and powered away from the massive concrete monolith.

  “Easy,” said Minty.

  Audrey flipped the strap off the backboard, unzipped the front of Mike’s coveralls, then his leathers. Mercifully, he wasn’t wearing anything under the leathers. The defibrillator started making a high-­pitched whine as the capacitor charged.

  “Place pads on patient’s chest,” said the defibrillator. “Charging.”

  Minty Fresh handed Audrey the pads, which she separated and stuck on Mike’s chest.

  “Please stand clear. Do not touch patient.”

  Audrey pulled back her hands, the defibrillator fired, Mike’s body convulsed, relaxed, then he started coughing.

  “What? What?” said Jane.

  “He’s back,” Minty said. Audrey fell forward across the body and let loose a soul-­shaking sob.

  Audrey felt a hand on her head, pushed back, looked at the guy on the backboard.

  “Charlie?”

  “Hey, baby,” he said. She lost herself again, sobbing into his chest.

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” said Charlie. “I can’t move my other arm.”

  “Your shoulder is dislocated,” said Minty Fresh. “Just try to lie still.” He nodded toward Audrey. “She says the ritual will heal a lot of the damage. Don’t ask me how. We’ll hand you over to the Coast Guard rescue boat like we planned. They’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “Coast Guard closing,” Jane said. She turned at the console and looked down on Charlie. “Hey, little brother, welcome back. You’re all growed up.”

  “Hey, Jane.” He grinned at her, then looked up, trying to see past his feet. “What about him?”

  In the stern of the boat was Charlie’s former crocodile-­guy body, his wizard robe saturated with seawater, his little duck feet twitching as if he was being electrocuted.

  16

  A Brand-­New Day
>
  Charlie was actually grateful that they made him stay in the hospital over the weekend while doctors evaluated his injuries, ­mostly, it seemed, because they wouldn’t believe he wasn’t hurt worse than he was. It gave him a chance to get used to being someone else.

  “Mr. Sullivan,” said a Dr. Banerjee, scrolling through the chart on a tablet computer, “We analyzed the full-­body CAT scan, which we often do in the case of fall this severe, and it appears that you have no broken bones.”

  “That’s great, isn’t it?” said Charlie, spraying a little spit. He was still getting used to how Mike’s mouth worked compared to the crocodile guy. It was like driving a different car for the first time after not driving for a long time, but human-­sized stuff was coming back to him quickly.

  “It is. It’s amazing, really, considering. You’re very, very lucky.”

  “I think if I was very lucky, I’d have remembered to check the buckle on my safety harness.”

  “So this was an accident?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlie said. He’d already talked to a psychiatrist, a social worker, and two ­people from the Bridge Authority, as well as a ­couple of guys from the painting crew whom he’d pretended to know.

  “We don’t see any organ damage from impact, and beyond the bruising, which is fading, and your dislocated shoulder, which should be fine after a week or so in a sling, it’s only your mental condition that concerns me. There’s no physical evidence of damage to your brain, although you did sustain a concussion, but the memory loss concerns us.”

  “It’s just certain things,” said Charlie. “Like I can name every street in the north end of the city, in both directions, but I couldn’t tell you the address of my apartment if you gave me two numbers and a letter to start.”

  The doctor nodded, ticked something on the tablet, scrolled back. “I’ve also looked at your medical history, and it seems pretty clear going back, ten years. Hernia operation, that’s it.”

  “That’s it,” said Charlie.

  “So you haven’t had a major accident in the last year or two? Motorcycle?”

  “No, not that I remember. I think I’d remember a motorcycle accident. Or, knowing how to ride a motorcycle. Do I know how to ride a motorcycle?”

  “I don’t know, I just wondered. We had to cut motocross pants off of you. The CAT scan showed evidence of a pretty major accident within the last two years. Both hips broken, five cracked vertebrae, cracked ribs, all healed nicely, but recently.”

  Charlie shook his head. They’d had him in a neck brace at first, but after the CAT scan they’d taken it off. “I think I’d remember something like that.”

  He caught movement, looked up to see Audrey peeking in the door. “Is it okay?” she said to the doctor.

  “Well, hello, sir or madame,” said Charlie. “Please come in.”

  “I’ll leave you two,” said the doctor, bowing out.

  “That’s not funny,” said Audrey.

  “What? You changed your hair.”

  “I’ve given up the swoop.”

  “Who does he think you are?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  “My girlfriend or Mike’s girlfriend?”

  “Obviously Mike’s girlfriend.”

  “And yet you were living with me. Floozy!”

  She leaned over, grabbed his hand, laughing, and started to kiss him, then stopped herself and stepped back. “Weird,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s me. I feel like me. Kind of.”

  “Might take a little while,” she said.

  What it took was two more days, when she picked him up at the hospital. When he got in the passenger seat of her Honda, as he was reaching for his seat belt, she threw her arms around him and kissed him, hard and long, lots of tongue, not coming up until both of them were breathing hard, then she pushed him away and reached for her own seat belt.

  “There,” she said.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “We’re going to be fine,” she said.

  “Weird, though, huh?”

  “Absolutely.” She put the car in gear and drove them across town the to Buddhist Center.

  There was an empty apartment in his building—­well, Jane’s building, now—­and Jane was having it cleaned and painted for him to move into, but they still had to figure out how they were going to tell Sophie before they went there.

  “It’s a lot for a little kid to take,” said Charlie, when they got home. He sat at the oak table in the kitchen drinking coffee. “I don’t want to traumatize her.”

  Audrey fussed with the coffeemaker at the counter. “Charlie, she’s seen the Squirrel ­People, she’s Death —­the Big Death. She holds dominion over the Underworld. You’re not going to shock her.”

  “I know. That’s got to be really hard. And we don’t even know if she still is Death.”

  “I think you should just go over there and have Auntie Jane explain. Sophie will know it’s you. You sound like you already. You move like you. You just, you know, just don’t look like you.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s he doing?”

  Charlie’s former body, the wizard-­crocodile guy, sat on the floor in front of the dishwasher, rocking from side to side with the rhythm of the motor. Audrey had brought him home from the boat in a sack and had been caring for him while Charlie was in the hospital.

  “He’s good. He’s doing really good. I mean, he’s, well, you’ll see. Charlie, come meet a new friend!”

  “Really?” Charlie said.

  The croc guy made a delighted growly noise as he climbed to his feet and scampered across the kitchen, his head and torso sort of wiggling back and forth as he moved, his lower jaw flapping, leaving a drop of drool on every downstroke, his long dong skittering on the tile between his feet as he moved. He stopped in front of Charlie and made an excited and juicy growling sound.

  “Charlie, this is big Charlie,” Audrey said, presenting big Charlie with a bow.

  Big Charlie looked at her. “You named him Charlie?”

  “What was I supposed to do? He was Charlie for a year. I’ve talked to him for countless hours as Charlie, so when I see him, I think Charlie. You’re not the only one going through a transition here. Anyway, I’ve decided on another name for him.”

  “Which is?”

  “Wiggly Charlie.”

  The croc guy jumped up and down, clicked his talons as if clapping, excited drooly breaths.

  “See, he likes it.”

  “He is pretty wiggly.”

  As if on cue, Wiggly Charlie resumed jumping, his torso, head, and jaw wiggling as if connected by loose springs.

  Charlie felt bad for the little guy, then he felt bad for Audrey. “Was I this goofy when I first, you know, when I first moved into that body?”

  “No, you were much more coordinated. There was kind of more there. Less drooly.”

  “Really? I mean, look at him.” Charlie looked at Wiggly Charlie, then at Audrey. “All that time, you weren’t—­you weren’t creeped out by me?”

  She sat down in the chair across from him, moved his coffee cup, took his hand. “To be honest, I was always captivated by your enormous unit.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded, eyes down, humble and sincere.

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  She nodded, eyes down, humble and sincere.

  She laughed. Wiggly Charlie made his breathy, excited noise.

  “Come here,” Charlie said, bending down. “We need to fix you.”

  Charlie untied Wiggly Charlie’s wizard robe, then wound his dong around his waist and cinched his robe shut under it, so now instead of a creepy little patchwork creature dragging around a completely disproportionately sized sex organ, he just looked like he needed to spend a little more time at a creepy lit
tle patchwork creature gym to work off his roll.

  “There you go,” Charlie said, sitting up to admire his work. “Better?”

  Wiggly Charlie frisked and drooled, clicked his talons together in applause.

  “Are you hungry?” Charlie asked. “Do you want something to eat?”

  More jumping, frisking, and drooling. Audrey sat back in her chair with Charlie’s coffee in hand and watched this very strange bonding.

  “Let’s get you something to eat,” Charlie said. He got up and led Wiggly Charlie over to the big stainless-­steel refrigerator.

  “I’m making him some shoes,” said Audrey. “The toenails on the tile and carpet drive me nuts.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because my annoyance at toenail noise seemed kind of trivial compared to the fact that I’d trapped you in that,” she said. Then to Wiggly Charlie, “No offense.”

  Charlie scanned the shelves. “Do you want a cheese stick?” He held up an individually wrapped mozzarella cheese stick.

  Wiggly Charlie jumped, reached up. Charlie gave him the cheese stick. He immediately clamped down on it, working it with noisy, wet smacks of his jaws, the cheese stick sort of becoming very distressed, but more of it hanging out either side of his mouth than in it.

  Charlie crouched down. “Look at me. Look at me.”

  Wiggly Charlie stopped chomping and looked at him.

  “Do your tongue like this? See, like this.”

  Wiggly Charlie did his tongue the way Charlie was doing it, rolling it. Charlie remembered having to learn to eat with teeth that were made only to tear, not to chew. In the hospital, he’d had to consciously get used to having molars again, not to swallow chunks of food.

  “Good,” said Charlie. “Now do this with your tongue while you’re chewing.”

  Wiggly Charlie did, and the cheese stick slowly disappeared into his mouth.

  “Good! Next time we’ll take the wrapper off.” Charlie said. “You want another cheese stick?” He grabbed another cheese stick from the shelf.

  “Want a cheez,” said Wiggly Charlie, very wet, very scratchy, but very distinct.

  Charlie looked at Audrey. “He talks.” His voice broke.