"Michael´s Tale: Chapter 2" by Garon E. Whited

My alarm clock was a little girl.  Claire bounced up onto the bed and nailed me in the stomach.  She was still in her pajamas and looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Get up, Daddy!  It’s breakfast time!  Breakfast time!”  She bounced on my stomach a little while she said this.  I managed to suck in a breath while she was at it.  I’ve had worse wake-up calls.  I pulled her to one side and she slithered over easily to snuggle up.

“Breakfast, Daddy,” she repeated.  “You have to get up.”

I caught my breath and replied, “I will, I will.  What do you want for breakfast?”

“Toast and jam and milk and eggs and pancakes and orange juice and bagels and waffles and ice cream and pie.  Lots of pie.”

I reviewed my brain’s memory of the kitchen contents.

“What you’ll get is cornflakes.”  It was amazing.  At the word “cornflakes” there was instantaneous pout.  “But I’ll slice a banana into them.”  The banana offer reversed it into a beaming smile even faster.

“Okay!”  She was somehow over me and onto the floor, then tugging on my hand, half-dragging me from the bed.  “Cornflakes and banannas!  Come on!”

“My” daughter is a morning person.

The kitchen area included a table; she swarmed into her seat and waited.  I got out the bowls, spoons, cereal box, and milk.  She poured the cereal with a haphazard lack of concern for little details like getting it all in the bowls, but the milk she poured very, very carefully.  I left her to it while I checked on the bananas in the crisper.  They had gone over to the dark side, I’m afraid.  I picked one up and Touched it.  It re-ripened in my hand.

Let me sidetrack for a second.

One of the Rules is, “No Miracles where anyone can prove it without direct Orders.”  This means that I can un-spoil a banana to keep from disappointing a child, but I can’t make a banana tree grow out of the kitchen floor.  Well, I can; I’m just not supposed to.  As long as whatever I do can be explained away as something mundane—and it helps my mission—then it’s kosher.  I can do it anyway if I feel like it… but I’ll also answer for it.

I don’t completely understand the reason for that Rule, but I don’t argue.

“Got the milk in?” I asked, bringing the banana to the table.

“Yep!  Bananna!” she answered, bright and cheery.  She was seated at the table and her feet were kicking back and forth under the seat.  I peeled and sliced thin little discs of fruit into her cereal while she gleefully tried to eat fast enough to get each slice as it came down.  Not a hope, but that didn’t stop her from trying.  I got out some juice and made toast while she worked on the bowl.

No strawberry jam.  No orange marmalade.  There was some grape jelly, though.  I got it out along with some butter and we had cereal and toast and juice.

You don’t have breakfast in Heaven.  You don’t have a body, so you don’t have food.  You can have the memory of a body and the memory of breakfast, if you like.  I think this one will be on my menu in the future.  The food was okay, but Claire made the breakfast worthwhile.  She struggled to get a big bite in her mouth, dribbled a little milk down her chin, dabbed at it with a napkin like a proper lady—while her cheeks bulged with cornflakes and banana—and slowly chewed.  She smiled and giggled a lot.  She was delightful.

When we were done, I put the dishes in the sink and rinsed them; Claire climbed a chair and sat on the counter to watch.  I put the dishes in the rack to dry and the doorbell rang.  Claire made a face.

“Don’t let your face freeze like that,” I cautioned, and then went to answer the door.  Outside, there was an attractive blonde; I could see where Claire got her hair and eyes.  If Claire took after her mother in other respects, she was going to make men dizzy with her looks—a heart-shaped face over an hourglass body, with clear, clean skin and fine-boned hands.  Mom was wearing a skirt-suit arrangement in dove gray silk with a white blouse and strappy little heels.

She looked me up and down and frowned.  “I’m here to pick up Claire.”

I reviewed my brain.  Yes, Saturday morning, nine A.M., right on schedule.  Always punctual.

“We just finished breakfast,” I began, but she cut me off.

“Fine.  You’re not ready on time.”  She brushed past me into the apartment and found Claire sitting back at the table again, looking disconsolate and swinging her feet under the chair.  Mom took her hand and hurried her into the bedroom.  Claire shot me an unhappy look, but went.

I went to my room and changed.  Seemed like a good time for it.  I waited on the couch in the living area.

Mom—what the heck was her name, anyway?  I rummaged in the brain some more.  Clarissa!  Claire was named after her mother—Clarissa and Claire came out a few minutes after I did; Claire was in a floral dress with white shoes and her hair pulled back into an unruly ponytail.  I hadn’t had time to brush the sleep-tangles out of her hair this morning.

I rose, saying, “Well, we’re looking exceptionally pretty tod—”

“Next time,” Clarissa snapped, “please try to have her ready on time.  I don’t expect you to actually succeed, but I’d at least like you to try.” She checked her watch.  “I allowed for your lapse, as usual, so I’m not late—yet.  But we have to go now.  Say goodbye to Robert, Claire.”

Claire twisted her hand out of Clarissa’s grip and ran over to hug me; I got down on one knee to let her put arms around my neck.  She squeezed with all her strength and whispered, “Daddy, can I stay home?”

“You’ve got to go with Mommy, honey.  You know you do.”

She nodded into my neck and sniffed, once.  “Okay.”  She didn’t let go.

“Be good, sweetheart,” I said, and gently pried her arms from around my neck.  “Give Daddy a kiss and try to have a good time, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.  She didn’t sound too enthusiastic.  She kissed my cheek and went back across the room to Clarissa.  They left without a word.

If an unhappy child didn’t make my heart ache, I wouldn’t be qualified for this job.

*   *   *

My schedule for this Saturday included work.  Normally, I maintain the whole apartment complex; in exchange, I get an apartment and a small salary.  If you add the effective rent to the salary, it’s pretty decent.  I also do odd jobs for people who don’t live in the complex.  Mr. Stuart is one of these.

Mr. Stuart is the kind of fellow you expect to be in a retirement home, but he refuses to go.  As far as I can tell, he gets up in the morning to sit on his porch and glare myopically at the passerby until it’s time to go to bed.  Every time Robert has gone over, Mr. Stuart was on the porch, in his rocker, with a half-glass of lemonade on the side table.  This was no exception.

“G’wan in,” he said, rocking a little more fiercely to punctuate his words.  “Sink’s where it always was.”  I went in, lugging a large box of plumbing supplies with me.

The interior of the house was a maze of furniture in glorious, flea-market style.  A low, French divan was parked next to a Colonial roll-top desk.  A chair that might have belonged to Louis XIV was across from a heavy-framed medieval monster of the chairmaking art.  There was even a beanbag.

I wound my way through the maze to the bathroom.  As I suspected from previous encounters, the drain was full of hair.  I refuse to speculate.  Miraculously, the drain cleared.  I clanked and puttered under the sink for a while just to make it look good.

After a good little while, I packed up and headed out to the porch.  Mr. Stuart was still there, still a human gargoyle.

“That’s one stopped drain, sir,” I said.  “Twenty-five dollars.”  The going rate on such a job was actually a lot higher, but Robert was a fairly nice guy; he tended to price-slash for people who didn’t have a choice about hiring help.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long wallet.  With exacting care and close peering, he counted out two tens and five ones.  I accepted the bills when he handed them to me.

“Call me anytime, Mr. Stuart.  Have a nice day.”  He grunted at me and I got into the car; it was an older Ford pickup truck that used to have a very nice flame job in blues on a black base.  I was almost home when my cell phone went off.

“Hello.”

“Rob?  It’s Max.  You busy?”

“Hi, Max.  No, not just at the moment.”

The brain burped a précis of Max.  Maximillian Barriman.  Tallish, red-haired, laughs a lot.  Well-to-do, mischievous, prankster, drinker, life of the party, womanizer, charismatic, charming, somewhat amoral but with surprising streaks of nobility and kindness.  A friend.

“Good.  I’ve a spot of trouble with my pool.  I’ve called the idiots who installed it—twice! –and I get an answering machine each time.”

“I see,” I replied, turning onto Broadway.  “What’s it doing?”

“It’s what it’s not doing,” he countered.  “The filter is supposed to take crap out of the water, and it doesn’t.  I have a small party tonight and there is likely to be some swimming involved.”

“Right.  You caught me in the car.  I’m on my way.”

“You’re a saint, Robert.  Thanks.  Ta!”

Not exactly a saint, I thought, and put the phone away.

Max’s house was one of those places that wants to be a mansion but just barely misses.  It was three storeys, had the fancy entryway, a big circle drive out front, a separate garage, and lots of hedges.  It screamed “expensive taste,” but the size just wasn’t there.

I drove around back to the garage, parked in front of it, and climbed out.  Max came out in a pair of carpet slippers and an ornate robe of red silk.

“Rob!  My man!  I am so glad to see you!” he declared.  His carrot-top hair was perfectly styled and his fringe beard had recently been trimmed; the barber was probably still in the house.

“I’ll get right on the pool,” I returned.  “Don’t let me distract you.”

“Not a problem, not a problem,” he said, waving a hand.  “I have to talk to someone who isn’t thicker between the ears than treacle.  I’ll watch and keep my hands to myself.”

“Okay.  But there’s an extra service charge if you make suggestions.”

“Then I shall talk about something else,” he laughed, walking with me as we headed to the pool.  “The party tonight—did you intend to attend?”

“My invitation seems to have been mislaid,” I admitted.

“A shame, that.  Do attend, old bean.  You’ll love it.  Gorgeous women, great food, sparkling wines, dimwitted conversation.  You’ll keep me from weeping into the punch.  Say you shall.”

“Maybe.”  I got out wrench and screwdriver and started examining the pool’s filtration system.  “What’s the occasion?”

“Occasion?”

“Why are you having a party?”

“Ah!  Yes.  Well, if you must know, it’s strictly for my own amusement.”

“Oh?”

He nodded vigorously.  “Oh, yes!  I get so bored with everything.  Then I need to surround myself with people and find something interesting.  I go quite insane without a good party.”

I removed a sizable glob of nastiness from the filter system.  I had no idea what it was and felt determined not to find out.

“I can’t argue with that,” I admitted.

“Good!  The party starts at seven on the dot, so be fashionably late and get here around half-past.”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, and don’t feel you need to dress for the occasion; I’ve specified casual.  It is a pool party, after all.”  He grinned wickedly.  “I fully expect to have your able-bodied help in chucking the overdressed into the pool.  Cheerio!”

He walked briskly back to the house, whistling the 1812 Overture through his teeth.  I didn’t have a chance to argue.

So I cleaned out the pool filters—by some miracle, the system worked perfectly after that—and considered what to wear.

*   *   *

Now, let me explain something about incarnating.

When you occupy someone’s body, you can rummage through their brain like you flip through a book.  The memories are all there, imprinted in the neurons, just waiting to be called for.  Unfortunately, you have to call for most of them; they don’t just pop up and appear unless they’re strongly triggered.

Take Claire, for instance.  I didn’t have to think about what sort of nicknames to call her; she’s “Goldilocks,” “honey,” and “sweetheart.”  Sometimes she’s “baby girl,” or “little miss smarty,” depending.  Talking with her about breakfast, I didn’t have to ask the brain for what she’d like; the banana memory popped up instantly.

Max is another good example.  The brain handed me the summary on Max because I was on the phone and wondering who the heck I was talking to.  We all do that until the light in the head clicks on and you have recognition—that’s how it feels.

I didn’t ask for anything more on Max.  I should have; the brain warned me that he was a prankster.

I arrived at seven-thirty, as requested, wearing almost-new black jeans, a flame-red pullover shirt, a tooled leather belt, clean black sneakers… and swim trunks instead of underwear.  He did say it was a pool party.  I parked the truck to one side, over by the guest cars—and a nicer collection of Mercedes, Cadillac, and Volvo I have not seen—before I walked up and rang the bell.

The butler opened the door.  I searched for his name, but Robert apparently never knew it and there was no plastic name tag.  He looked me up and down with that air that butlers go to school to learn.  It’s the one that makes you think they’re going to wash you before letting you in the house.

“May I help you?” he asked.  His tone suggested that I was beyond his help, and therefore beyond the help of any but the Almighty.

“I’m Robert Masters.  Max invited me over this evening.”

“Ah.  Do come in, sir.”

Inside, the party was slowly warming.  Waiters circulated with trays of snacks and drinks while a trio of musicians kept a pleasant background noise in the air.  I noted, with some surprise, that the guests appeared to be wearing considerably more upscale attire than I.  I did not see anyone in a tuxedo, but the gleam from polished shoes and cufflinks could have been dangerous on an open road at night.

Max was no exception.  He was looking good in a sort of Arabian Nights sort of outfit—baggy pants of gold lame gathered at the ankles, wide sash, embroidered vest, fat turban.  He strode forward grandly, arms outstretched, and embraced me like a brother.

“Welcome, welcome!  I’m so very glad you’re here!”

“You said ‘casual’,” I accused.

“And indeed we shall be—soon.  I haven’t announced that part just yet.  You are still going to help me throw the overdressed in the pool, are you not?”

I eyed the crowd.  “There won’t be room for the water.”

He laughed.  “There is a method to my madness, dear friend.  Trust me.”  He held me by the upper arm and dragged me off to introduce me around.  He pressed a drink into my hand and encouraged me to eat something while keeping up a steady flow of introductions and charming wit.  I met six dozen people in passing; I doubt any of them remember me other than “the poor dresser that fixes things.”  This didn’t include the people out by the pool; we had enough to do with mingling indoors.

When Max throws a party because he’s bored, he throws a big one.

I went with it.  It was fun to meet all the people; Max invited anyone that struck him as interesting.  He had guests from the age of eighteen to eighty—Ms. Palmer was eighty-two that week and mightily pleased when Max insisted that she accept a somewhat belated birthday present on his behalf.  He danced with her, had a cake brought out, and we all sang “Happy Birthday” to her.  One wit in the crowd added, “Again!” at the end of it and got a good ripple of laughter.

By this point, the party was rolling right along; people were laughing and dancing and occasionally off in a corner kissing.  That’s when Max signaled the musicians and made his announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, followed by a brassy fanfare.  “And all the rest of you.”  Drumroll, cymbal sting.  “I thank you for attending my little get-together, but you may recall that I mentioned that this is a pool party.”

“Yeah,” cried the wit from before.  “I thought the pool would be full of vodka!”

“Tempting idea,” Max replied, over the laughter.  “But for tonight, rather than drown us all in an alcoholic coma, I would much prefer to relocate to the pool area.  Nothing makes a woman look more beautiful than coming out of the water dripping wet—at least, nothing that I can provide for all the ladies at once.  See me later and I’ll show you the other idea.”  More laughter. 

“Really, though; this is a pool party and I’ve gone to some trouble to see that the whole pool can be turned into a hot tub.  Everyone, out of those fancy outfits!  I mean it!  Last one in gets to go home alone!”  With that, he revealed that he was wearing a rather small bathing suit by removing his pants.  Tossing sash and vest after the pants, he waved his arms, encouraging others to follow.  He settled into the shallow end of the pool wearing nothing but the abbreviated shorts and his turban.  At the touch of a control, the whole pool started to bubble and seethe.

“Ahh.  Who wants to work on my shoulders while I’m boiling, hmm?”  He got a couple of volunteers fairly quickly; Max is popular with ladies.  “Ah-ah-ah!  You have to be dressed for the role,” he cautioned.  One peeled down to her underwear immediately.  Another hesitated, then shrugged and followed suit.  They got into the pool with him.  Max lounged in the water, grinning like a madman, while they kneaded his arms and shoulders from either side.

“Well?” he asked.  “What are you waiting for?”

With some backing and filling, people slowly started to disrobe.  It wasn’t entirely a bad idea, they thought, just someone else should go first.  Or fourth, as the case may be.

I kept out of the way and tried not to be too noticeable.  It’s not that I was shy; I already had swim trunks on.  It’s not that I disapproved; Max threw the party and could ask anything he liked—if the guests didn’t like it, they could leave.

No, I didn’t want to be noticed because the very first woman in the water with him was Clarissa.