be contagious.
“Could you help me get out of here?” she asked, then.
She had a strange way of speaking, not an accent really, but a lilt. She was reaching up toward me like a little kid wanting to be lifted up onto a parent’s shoulders. I actually felt sorry for her.
I reached down and took the woman’s dirty wrists into my hands and pulled.
One of my odd jobs is as a dog handler at the local animal shelter. I routinely lift very large dogs up onto examination tables. This woman didn’t weigh much more than Henry, the mastiff who was endlessly scraping himself up.
She clambered up, her bare feet finding purchase in the wall of earth. Then, exhausted from this effort, she fell belly-first in the grass. She looked dead. Alexander Vinokourov went over to sniff the air around her. I was about to nudge her with my foot when she rolled over and sat up.
“Are you all right?” I asked, squinting at her.
There was mud caked in her eyelashes.
“No,” she said simply. Again, she tried passing the joint back to me.
I looked all around. The woman was, after all, at least half-naked and totally covered in mud and we were just a few feet away from Newman Road, the street that skirts one side of the cemetery and leads to the dump. Some guy in a pickup truck was bound to drive by at any moment, get turned on at the sight of my muddy friend, and come running over.
There was no one around though. The road was quiet and my lust for the joint outweighed any concern about contagion. I took another hit and felt a little calmer.
“Do you want me to walk you over to the hospital?” I asked. If I took her to the cops, they’d eventually pack her off to the psych ward anyway. It would be kinder to just take her there directly.
“But I’m not ill, I’m dead. Or was dead.” She said it with a straight face.
“Ah.”
“You don’t believe me. But it’s true. I was dead. Buried. Then, two days ago, I woke. There were sounds. Earth-moving machines. Digging us up, digging up the pine boxes that we were buried in. In 1924.”
I sighed. I looked at my dog. My dog looked at me. “I’m sorry. I can walk you to the hospital if you’d like, but that’s all I can do.”
“Noooo,” she shook her head. Her muddy hair moved.
“Then I can’t help you.” I turned my back, even as she called out to me.
“My name is Annabelle,” she said, trying to humanize herself, imprint herself on me.
I ignored her, though I could feel her eyes on my back as I retreated.
I got home, took Vino’s leash off, then immediately smoked another joint. I usually don’t smoke at home for fear of attracting neighbors wanting to bum weed off me. But after you’ve had an encounter with a woman who claims to be dead, it is sometimes necessary to smoke at home.
I was hungry. I walked into the kitchen with its bright yellow linoleum tiles, relentlessly cheerful, even at night. I opened the fridge. There was meat for Vino, but not much for me. A shrunken head of lettuce. A pear. A jar of almond butter. Maybe I’d walk over to the tortilla truck on Warren Street.
I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. My black T-shirt and jeans were covered in mud and dog hair. My own hair, well past my shoulders, was in nests. I leaned over the big porcelain sink and threw water on my face. I ran my fingers through my hair. I put on lip gloss.
I was looking at myself in the mirror when suddenly Annabelle appeared there, standing right behind me.
I screamed, reached for the nearest object, and pointed it at her. It was a hairbrush.
“How did you get in here?” I shoved the hairbrush, bristles-first, into Annabelle’s stomach.
“Ouch!” She looked like I’d hurt her feelings more than her physical vessel. You left me there, left all of us there,” she said. Her eyebrows moved like muddy caterpillars as she motioned beyond the bathroom.
I craned my neck and saw two more muddy women behind her. I screamed again.
Vino
“Could you help me get out of here?” she asked, then.
She had a strange way of speaking, not an accent really, but a lilt. She was reaching up toward me like a little kid wanting to be lifted up onto a parent’s shoulders. I actually felt sorry for her.
I reached down and took the woman’s dirty wrists into my hands and pulled.
One of my odd jobs is as a dog handler at the local animal shelter. I routinely lift very large dogs up onto examination tables. This woman didn’t weigh much more than Henry, the mastiff who was endlessly scraping himself up.
She clambered up, her bare feet finding purchase in the wall of earth. Then, exhausted from this effort, she fell belly-first in the grass. She looked dead. Alexander Vinokourov went over to sniff the air around her. I was about to nudge her with my foot when she rolled over and sat up.
“Are you all right?” I asked, squinting at her.
There was mud caked in her eyelashes.
“No,” she said simply. Again, she tried passing the joint back to me.
I looked all around. The woman was, after all, at least half-naked and totally covered in mud and we were just a few feet away from Newman Road, the street that skirts one side of the cemetery and leads to the dump. Some guy in a pickup truck was bound to drive by at any moment, get turned on at the sight of my muddy friend, and come running over.
There was no one around though. The road was quiet and my lust for the joint outweighed any concern about contagion. I took another hit and felt a little calmer.
“Do you want me to walk you over to the hospital?” I asked. If I took her to the cops, they’d eventually pack her off to the psych ward anyway. It would be kinder to just take her there directly.
“But I’m not ill, I’m dead. Or was dead.” She said it with a straight face.
“Ah.”
“You don’t believe me. But it’s true. I was dead. Buried. Then, two days ago, I woke. There were sounds. Earth-moving machines. Digging us up, digging up the pine boxes that we were buried in. In 1924.”
I sighed. I looked at my dog. My dog looked at me. “I’m sorry. I can walk you to the hospital if you’d like, but that’s all I can do.”
“Noooo,” she shook her head. Her muddy hair moved.
“Then I can’t help you.” I turned my back, even as she called out to me.
“My name is Annabelle,” she said, trying to humanize herself, imprint herself on me.
I ignored her, though I could feel her eyes on my back as I retreated.
I got home, took Vino’s leash off, then immediately smoked another joint. I usually don’t smoke at home for fear of attracting neighbors wanting to bum weed off me. But after you’ve had an encounter with a woman who claims to be dead, it is sometimes necessary to smoke at home.
I was hungry. I walked into the kitchen with its bright yellow linoleum tiles, relentlessly cheerful, even at night. I opened the fridge. There was meat for Vino, but not much for me. A shrunken head of lettuce. A pear. A jar of almond butter. Maybe I’d walk over to the tortilla truck on Warren Street.
I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. My black T-shirt and jeans were covered in mud and dog hair. My own hair, well past my shoulders, was in nests. I leaned over the big porcelain sink and threw water on my face. I ran my fingers through my hair. I put on lip gloss.
I was looking at myself in the mirror when suddenly Annabelle appeared there, standing right behind me.
I screamed, reached for the nearest object, and pointed it at her. It was a hairbrush.
“How did you get in here?” I shoved the hairbrush, bristles-first, into Annabelle’s stomach.
“Ouch!” She looked like I’d hurt her feelings more than her physical vessel. You left me there, left all of us there,” she said. Her eyebrows moved like muddy caterpillars as she motioned beyond the bathroom.
I craned my neck and saw two more muddy women behind her. I screamed again.
Vino