But at least Misery was okay. Like, really okay. It was weird. Her cough was gone. Her sluggish response time was no longer an issue. Her reluctance to wake up in the mornings as she sputtered in protest every time I tried to fire all engines was nonexistent. Now she started on the first try, no groaning or whining, and she purred like a newborn kitten. How Noni had managed to fix her insides as well as her outsides Id never know, but the guy was good. And Noni was my new best friend. Well, after Misery. And Cookie, my real best friend. And Garrett, my kind of, sort of best friend. And Reyes, my my
What was Reyes? Besides the dark and sultry son of evil? My boy toy? My love slave? My 24/7 booty call?
No.
Well, yes.
He was all those things, but he was also my almost fiancé. All I had to do was say yes to the proposal hed written on a sticky note, and he would be my fiancé for reals. Until then, however, he was my almost fiancé.
No, my soon-to-be fiancé.
No! My
nigh
fiancé.
Yeah, thatd work.
I turned back to the naked dead man, stuffed a couple of Cheez-Its into my mouth, and confessed my latest sin.
Im just kidding, I said through the crackers, regretting the fact that Id tempted him and now had no follow-up. No punch line. I dont know any girl, mocha latte, dead man jokes. Sorry to get your hopes up like that. He didnt seem to mind, however. He sat staring straight ahead as always, his gray eyes clouded and watery with age, oblivious of my charm, my clever repartee, and my intellectual wit. He was ignoring me!
It happened.
Cheez-It? I offered him.
Nothing.
Okay, but you have no idea what youre missing here.
I could only hope that one day hed actually talk to me; otherwise, this was going to be a very one-sided relationship. I dusted Cheez-It gunk off my hands and went back to a drawing Id been working on. Since he didnt talk, I had no way of finding out his identity. And in my attempt to avoid eye contact with Naked Dead Mans penis over the last couple of days, Id also avoided several key clues as to said identity. First, he had a long scar that ran from under his left arm, over his rib cage, and down until it ended at his belly button. Whatever had caused it couldnt be pleasant, but it could be vital in identifying him. Second, he had a tattoo on his left biceps that looked very old-school military. It was faded and the ink had spread, but I could still make out an eagle with its talons gripping a United States flag. And third, right underneath his tattoo was a surname, presumably his: ANDRULIS. Id taken out my memo pad and pen and was drawing the tat, since I had yet to find a camera that could photograph the departed.
I did my darnedest to draw the tat while simultaneously balancing the Cheez-It box against the gearshift, within arms reach, and keeping an eye on the Fosters house. Sadly, I sucked at two out of three of those tasks. Mostly at drawing. Id never gotten the hang of it. I failed finger painting in kindergarten, too. That should have been a clue, but Id always wanted to be the next Vermeer or Picasso or, at the very least, the next Clyde Brewster, a boy Id went to school with who drew exploding walls and houses and buildings. No idea why. Alas, my destiny did not lie within the lines of graphite or the strokes of a paintbrush, but at the whim of dead people with PTDD: post-traumatic death disorder.
Oh, well. It could have been worse. Clyde Brewster, for example, ended up in prison for trying to blow up a Sack-N-Save. Thankfully, he was better at art than at demolitions. Hed asked me out several times, too. #Dodgedabullet.
I know youre not really into baring your soul, I said, eyeing Mr. Andruliss bare, naked soul, figuratively speaking, but if theres anything you want or need, Im your girl. Mostly because not many people on Earth can see you.
I added a shadow on the eagles face with my blue ink pen, trying to make it look noble. It didnt help. It still looked cross-eyed.
And those who can see the departed usually see only a gray mist where you might be. Or theyll feel a rush of cold air when you walk past. But I can see you, touch you, hear you, pretty
much anything you.
Maybe if I added highlights on its beak, it would look more like an eagle and less like a duck.
My name is Charley.
But I was using a pen. I couldnt erase. Damn it. I had to think ahead. Real artists thought ahead. Id never get into the Louvre at this rate.
Charley Davidson.
I tried to scratch off some of the ink, bracing the memo pad against my steering wheel. I tore a tiny hole in the paper instead and cursed under my breath.
Im the grim reaper, I said from between gritted teeth, but dont let that bother you. Its not as bad as it sounds. Im also a private investigator. Thats not as bad as it sounds either. And I shouldnt have given your eagle eyelashes. He looks like Daffy Duck in drag.
Giving up, I wrote the name underneath the eagle-ish-type drawing, consoling myself with the fact that abstract art was all the rage before pulling out my phone and snapping a shot of my masterpiece. After angling it this way and that, trying to get the focus just right, I realized the eagle looked better when turned on its side. More masculine. Less water fowl.