Hotel Carolina - 1. Chapter 1

His father dies on Wednesday. There's no fanfare, and little is said when the nurses file in to disconnect the machines. He simply stops breathing, chest rising in a series of short huffs before deflating like a balloon. Then nothing.

Russ has been waiting for this moment for weeks. Each day has ratcheted the tension in his spine tighter, and now…nothing. At the very least there should be a glimpse of the Reaper or a beam of light. Something. He feels cheated, wants a chorus of dancing angels, but in the hospital room, darkened out of respect for the living, there's nothing. Just the distressed beep of the ventilator, a distant clanging of an alarm at the nurse's station down the corridor, and Russ's own stilted breathing while he watches his father slip away. Probably to nowhere.

It's in the time between the nurses – those who unplug the wires and tubes and the second group, those who sponge the body and bear it away – when the old woman arrives. Russ ignores the squeak of the door, but looks up when a wave of florescent light from the hall spills over the bed and pools around the corpse. It's no wonder the rooms on this floor are kept dark. This is where people go when there's no hope left, and by God, they look the part. His father's skin is elephant-gray, and so loose it looks to be sliding off his bones and onto the sheets.

This day that his father dies, a Wednesday, the old woman comes and tells him that his mother is next. It'll be a plane crash. Her raspy voice is matter-of-fact, as if her prophesy is a done deal, unstoppable, and she pats Russ on the arm and clucks her tongue. She's wearing a flower-print housecoat and heavy, sensible shoes, and her hair glistens, ash blonde woven with silver. Poor boy, she says before shuffling out. She has a cane, and the rubber-tipped end plunks a steady beat on the linoleum as she exits the way she entered – in a focused ray of white light.

When he sees her next, six months later at his mother's funeral, she's in the body of a little girl. Her eyes are the same unmistakable blue, and they match the satin ribbon looped through her hair. She takes his hand, smiles, and inanely, all he can think is…it's not Wednesday.

"My momma died too," she says. Her hair ribbon glistens in the sun – real satin. When was the last time he saw a young girl in petticoats and satin ribbons? It's a southern thing, for sure. Savannah is mired in the past, some of it too ugly to mention. Ghosts walk its streets. He'd forgotten that part.

"It’s you," he says hollowly. Better to blame his memory lapse on grief and not the true culprit: fear. He heard the clump of her cane for weeks after his father's death. "I know it's you, even if you look different."

She tilts her ribboned head, scrunches her nose, and the spell’s broken. The child holding his hand is just that – a child. Not the Reaper. Then she giggles, mouth hidden behind her cupped hand, and his opinion flips again. She confirms it with, "Poor boy. I hope I didn’t scare you."

Russ chokes on a brittle laugh. "You did a bit, yeah. Wouldn’t do me much good to lie about that, I suppose."

"No. Smart boy."

"Stop calling me that." Reality bends sideways. His mother’s in a box – pine this time because it’s all he can afford – and what few people came to pay their respects already think him a waste. Adding crazy to the rumors won't help.

The child of prophesy and satin smiles sadly, lips pursed. "I’m sorry, Russ." She squeezes his icy fingers. His skin is cracked and calloused, but hers is butter-soft. Low-mileage skin, his mother called it.

Russ glances left and right. His mother’s few friends have made an uneven semicircle around her grave. Like school children, they clump together, friends at their sides. The bridge club ladies stand guard at the head of the coffin, stuffed into the dresses that are brought out whenever somebody dies. One sniffs into a black lace hanky. Its embroidery matches her dress, though the hanky is a deeper, shinier black. He’d never realized how many shades of grief there could be, but then the Old South does love to mourn. Almost as much as it loves satin ribbons on little girls.

"C-can they see you?"

"Some. Maybe." The end of the ribbon blows into her face. It's coming unraveled, and a thin blue thread trails over her chin before alighting on the lapel of Russ' suit. His funeral suit. His only suit.

"Because they might get suspicious. You're a kid," Russ babbles in a low voice, "and my mother didn't know any kids." He pulls at his tie. "She didn't like them."

"Well, she liked one, didn't she?"

Maybe she did. The possibility is enough to make him weep. "I was closer to my father," he says. His gruff reply draws a few stares, and he ducks his head, wipes at not-so-imaginary tears until the attention is back where it belongs. With the dead.

"I know," the girl says. For the first time, Russ sees she's holding a yellow rose. She rolls it between her palms, and he can't help wincing as her soft skin presses against the thorns. She seems not to feel the sting. "You're dying, Russ."

He thinks he might be ill, but… "I figured." The bridge club ladies have begun their recession, each throwing a scarlet flower onto the casket before stumbling back across the lawn in their black Sunday pumps. He makes a fist and holds it to his chest. The others mistake it for grief, and, blessedly, he's left alone. No one questions the girl in the pinafore and petticoats. "How?" he asks, then has to press the fist against his lips before the sob escapes.

He doesn't want to die.

"April thirtieth," she says. Russ gasps, less from the answer than from the quality of her voice, no longer child-soft, but raspy like an old women's. He stares, and when she speaks again, the hair on his arms stands on end. "You're a good boy, Russ."

Benediction, but it's too little, too late. It's not his mother speaking, just death dressed up as a child. But he can pretend. Why shouldn't he? "Mom?"

"May she rest in peace," the girl says.

II.

The owner of The Three Sisters has a jones for yellow roses. That's all Russ can figure as every table hosts a three-bloom bouquet ensconced in a crackled crystal vase. It's becoming; the yellow complements the chocolate brown and ochre oil paintings and picks up the honey tones of the scuffed parquet floor, but so many reminders of his death in one place push him a bit closer to insanity. Fifty-eight days to go.

Mary fusses with her glass until it's centered on the cocktail napkin. "You're not going to die on April thirtieth."

Russ shakes his head. "You weren't there."

"Sorry about that." But she's not. She hated his mother. The fan above their table ruffles her mousy brown hair, and she pats it down, scowling up at the huge leaf-shaped paddles. "Doesn't this place have air-conditioning? I'm wilting."

Russ shoves more heart of palm into his mouth before he's tempted to agree. Wilted is Mary's default look, but she's carrying at least thirty extra pounds and dresses like she isn't. It can't be comfortable.

"Listen, Russ." Mary sips her mojito. "Nobody is going to be totally sane after losing both of their parents in six months. You're allowed some delusion. Hell, I think it's required."

Russ chews and watches the fan.

"So I can understand this fatalistic… thing, obsession, thing, but sweetheart, Death didn't show up at your mother's grave and assign you an expiration date."

A waiter steals Russ' empty salad plate while he's buttering a roll. Their shoulders brush, then he's gone.

Mary harrumphs. "That guy's flirting with you."

"I'm not blind, Mary."

"I'll refrain from adding what I believe you actually are then, and ask what the hell your problem is? It's not like you get offers like that everyday."

He's over forty with a receding hairline and a defunct 401k. Offers like that come once in a blue moon. "Can we stay on topic?"

"As long as it's not the topic of your impending death." She waggles her fingers, ignoring how cream of asparagus soup drips from her spoon to the tablecloth. "It's spooky."

"It's hard to focus on anything else."

"Oh, fine." She tosses her spoon aside, a bit dramatic considering her bowl is empty, and sits back. Russ averts his eyes when her blouse gapes open across her chest. "So you're dying. I'll miss you. You've been a good friend, if a bit steeped in cynicism and bitterness. What's your plan? See the world? Climb Mt. Everest? Shake hands with the Queen? And I mean the one in England."

"Fuck, no."

The waiter arrives with their lunch. Baked cod for Russ. Warm beef for Mary. She cuts into the steak without preamble and blood spills over the plate, puddling around the baked potato. "No? Enlighten me, then. How is the great Russ Singleton going to spend his last days?"

"I'm going somewhere."

"Like Vegas?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Mary snorts, nearly choking on her filet. Russ concedes with a sigh. "It's a little hole in the wall bed and breakfast off the coast of South Carolina. And when I get there, I'm going to do nothing. Absolutely nothing." He collects a forkful of cod, dredges it in butter. He's still chewing when the waiter arrives to check up on them. Russ waves him off. "Seriously, Mary. Do you know what happens to all those people who go searching for happiness right before their death? For that one experience that will make their life complete? They find out it's nothing like what they thought it would be. Reality can't hold a candle to the fantasy."

Mary cocks her head. "Hear that? It's the sound of a million romantic hearts breaking."

"They find out Disney World is only paint and plastic, that the Grand Canyon is a bunch of rocks, and the celebrity they've spent their life waiting to meet has halitosis and supports his kid's heroin habit." Russ laughs, even though he's shaking at his own words. He grabs his nearly empty goblet and slurps what he can through the ice. The waiter fills it the moment he sets it down. There's no ruse to accidentally touch him this time. Russ grips his fork like a hunting spear, but the butter has congealed in a slimy mess around the cod, and he doesn't think he can stomach another bite.

Mary studies him while she decimates her slab of raw meat. "Okay, don't take this the wrong way."

"I'm not going to a shrink."

"I said not to take it the wrong way." She sighs, and Russ knows the moment his problems eclipse the temptation of her sour cream and chive potato. She meets his eyes for the first time that day. "At least tell me you won't be alone."

"Oh, Mary." He takes her hand across the table. She's been a good friend. "I want to be alone. Shouldn't a dying man get what he wants?"

III.

His mother's neighbor, Quimby, has owned a black cat named Siam for thirty-six years. When one Siam dies, he gets another – there's no shortage of black cats in the world – so his only companion is the ghost of something long gone. Russ used to think it was sad. Now he wonders if Quimby isn't some latent genius.

This Siam is different than the one Russ remembers from five years ago, the last time he visited. A smudge of white across her chest mars her sleek, black coat, and her meow is softer. She sheds like any old cat, though. Russ frowns at the black hairs left behind on his khakis as she winds between his legs.

"Siam!" Quimby snaps his fingers. "Leave Russell alone." He nudges her with his cane, and she skitters away. "Over thirty years I've been yelling at her not to rub on people like that. Damn bitch never learns."

Siam runs under his mother's bistro table and glares. When Russ brushes at his pants, the cat hair transfers to his hand. "It's okay, Mr. Quimby."

Ivy-covered brick walls border his mother's patio on two sides. One cradles a rusting iron gate that leads to the street. Russ knows that a cherub statue guards the entry, but it's been completely swallowed by a rampant bed of mint. Only its plump outstretched hands, palms turned toward heaven, are visible through the foliage. On the third side is a low white-picket fence, separating her courtyard from Quimby's. His is empty, hers is awash in flowers. The humidity blends their scents into a thick perfume that makes Russ' eyes water.

"Too hot for March," Quimby says. "Damn global warming. You wanted to see me about the house, right?"

Russ blinks. Quimby is more than the reincarnator of cats, he's a mind reader as well. "Yeah, I did. Do you want it?"

"Eh?"

"Do you want the house?" Russ toes an urn of flowers. "It's paid for."

Quimby readjusts his dentures with his tongue. "Eh?"

"I said, do you want it? I don't." Russ is sure he couldn't sound more disrespectful toward his mother if he tried. He thought her death would erase his bitterness; Mary said it worked like that sometimes. Instead, he hears her voice in every room. Failure, the house says. Lazy. Ungrateful. Faggot.

It's only polite to ask Quimby, but if he refuses, Russ will abandon the house anyway, leaving doors unlocked and windows open. The ghosts are welcome to it. He doesn't need the money where he's going.

"No." Quimby shakes all over, like Russell's question is a coat of cold raindrops he's desperate to shed. "Don't want it. Give it to the Historical Society. Let 'em fix it up and charge tourists five bucks to get inside."

Donate it? There's appeal there. He could give it to the local GLBT chapter. Suddenly he's grinning so hard, his jaw aches. The hell he's not poetic.

A stipulation of living under his mother's roof is piety, so Russ has at it: God in heaven, please let there be an afterlife, and let his mother see her beloved house brimming with homosexuals. Amen.

"Aw shit," he wheezes and doubles over with laughter.

"You okay, Russell?" Quimby's bushy brows have drawn together, and he's half bent, searching for a glimpse of Russell's face.

"Perfect. Really," Russ says as he straightens, brushing at damp eyes. "That's an idea, Mr. Quimby. A fine idea."

"Give to the needy." Quimby tempts Siam with the end of his cane until she leaps and lands with a graceful half-twist. "It's the Christian thing to do."

"That it is."

There's not much to say after that. The constant goodbyes are wearing thin. Russ sticks out his hand, Quimby takes it, and they shake over the white pickets. "You're a good lad, Russell. I always said so to your mom."

"And what did she say back?"

"Well." Quimby clucks his tongue for Siam, and she vaults over the fence to his side. "Well. Good luck to you."

Good luck and goodbye, Russ thinks. He touches two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute and retreats inside. It smells, like old magazines and bed sheets gone too long unchanged. He stays long enough to phone his lawyer about his plans for the property, then escapes out the front door and through the overgrown garden to the street.

At the next corner, he wrestles the house key off his chain and drops it into a storm drain. There's only one left, for his car, and he plans to ditch that in South Carolina, leaving this world exactly like he came in. With nothing.

The key plunks into a stagnant puddle at the bottom and sinks. Goodbye, mother.

IV.

One hour north of Hilton Head, he stops for fuel. Beside the gas pump stands The Lucky Diner, a rectangle of corrugated steel capped with a red neon ring. The N in DINER is dark; the other letters flicker electric blue. Tabletop jukeboxes glitter through the grubby windows, and a bell tied to a yellow string hangs over the door. It chimes at least a dozen times while Russ is pouring gas into the Camry’s tank. He averts his eyes and scans the parking lot. Empty. The pump gurgles and the breeze carries the scent of burnt bacon, but there’s nobody.

The bell rings.

"Okay," Russ says, holstering the nozzle. "I hear you."

His appetite disappeared the morning of his mother’s funeral, but he still eats. Call it a conditional surrender.

The door sticks and Russ has to shoulder it open. The bell jiggles wildly on its string. "Honey, I’m home," he calls before shuffling to a booth halfway down the aisle. He staves off the silence by punching a quarter into the jukebox and choosing a song at random. Unchained Melody.

"Righteous," he drawls and hums along.

"Coffee?"

"Tea, please." He hates coffee, always has. Shouldn’t that be the type of information Death has on file? He taps his foot and stares out the window. He’s not going to look.

"Here you go. Brought you something a bit stronger. You don’t look like the Earl Grey sort." A mint julep slides into view, and Christ, that voice… Russ turns his head.

"You like?" Death does a pirouette.

"Yes." He likes on principle; the man standing over his table is the one he jerks off to. His fantasy fuck. Except for the blue eyes. "Have a seat."

"Don’t mind if I do." The waiter slides in, slim jeans obscenely tight over his package, just like in Russ' dream. He scribbles something on his pad, then slides it across the table. "Check it out."

"Is it your phone number?"

"I’m unlisted." The man fishes in his breast pocket for a cigarette. "Got a light?"

"Sorry." Russ ignores the note. "What’s the special?"

"Swiss and mushroom burger. But it tastes like crap." The man slides the cigarette behind his ear and loops his arms over the back of his booth. His t-shirt stretches across dark, erect nipples. The voice is as lyrical as Russ always imagined. His body responds, and it terrifies him.

"So, Russell," the man says, "do you want to die?"

"I’ll take the burger, hold the mushrooms. And are you serious? Who wants to die?" His voice is too loud, but there's no one to pass judgment. At three in the afternoon the diner's dead.

"Lots of people."

"Not me." Russ strokes his mint sprig. "So what is this? Bargaining time?"

The man shudders. "I hate haggling. Don’t believe in it, as a rule. Just thought you could use a break from driving. The roads out here hypnotize. Too much long, straight, and flat. It’s easy to fall asleep at the wheel." He presses a button on the jukebox. Ticket to Ride. "Love the Beatles."

Checking out early wouldn't be any fun, Russ has to agree. "I’m fine. Not the least bit tired."

"If you say so. Hey, pretty cool what you did with your mom's house. Didn't think you had it in you."

Russ snorts.

"You're not on a tight schedule, are you?" The man’s hand is at work out of sight under the table. "Can you spare a few minutes?"

The mint julep bubbles up Russ' throat. "Are you fucking kidding me?" His erection wilts. "You're not—"

"Shhh." The man waves his hand, the one that isn't busy. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The hand speeds and slows with no discernible pattern. "You can’t seriously be that self-centered," the man says. "Everybody dies."

"But not like this. Not with the warnings and the—" Masturbation. "—theatrics."

"Now you've killed the mood." The man extracts his hand, and his underwear snaps back into place. He taps the note and slides out of the booth. "Drive safely, Russ." He meanders down the aisle and through a set of swinging doors. "Yo, Marty! One swiss-n-shroom, hold the shrooom!"

Russ sprints for his car.

Two exits down the expressway he hits the roadblock. The backup is two lanes deep and a mile long, and while Russ can see flashing lights in the distance, he's parked in a sea of calm. An impromptu party springs up two cars ahead. Someone opens a cooler of food and drink, and in a heartbeat, two dozen people are tailgating an automobile crash, yelling and laughing while ambulances roar up the shoulder, spitting gravel.

Russ climbs out of the car and flags the truck driver next to him. "Is it serious?"

"Hang on." The trucker consults his short wave. "Sounds like it. Some lady crossed the median and hit a bunch of northbound cars head-on."

"Just now?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Fell asleep at the wheel, is what they're saying. Stupid bitch." A gob of saliva flies past Russ' face and splatters on the ground. "When you're tired, you get off the road. When will people fucking learn?"

Inside the Camry everything is quiet. Its tinted windows turn the rest of the world grey, like a deluge is imminent, though there's not a cloud in the sky. Russ sits and does the math in his head. Fifteen, twenty minutes ago.

On the passenger seat is the note, as yet unread, because he's too afraid it says something like You're dead, sucker! or Kiss your ass, goodbye, Russ! Now curiosity gets the better of his fear. He pinches it between the tips of his thumb and forefinger and flips it over.

Saved you, it says.