WHISTLING SHADE


Passing Along

by Zeke Jarvis

Sister Agnes watched the half-transparent form float its breasts across the picture window of their client's home. She didn’t mind the ghost's actions, though she knew that she’d have to disapprove by the end of the job.  Now, the breasts hung pleasantly, without having the vulgar jiggle or bounce of some fleshy breasts (or non-fleshy, implants).  They looked feminine but substantial.  Like they belonged in a decent house.  A Cape Cod.  Or maybe something else.  But not Vic­torian.  This was a suburban kind of house, and these were in the upper tier of suburban type breasts.  

But a job was a job, and the customer was always right, so the breasts, lovely or not, would have to go.  This customer seemed to be a nice guy, more or less.  And all this was moot anyway, because Madame Salome would kill her if she sug­gested turning away or tried to talk him into just getting thicker curtains and hoping the ghost would stay inside, which it did so far, from the customer’s report.  Sister Agnes lit a cig­arette and went to the car.  Most of the crystals that they car­ried were just props, as showy and useless as their job names, so she grabbed relatively small ones.  They were shiny on the surface while being dull in color.  Stones that would make the customer happy, but that wouldn't weigh her down too much. If she dropped a too-heavy amethyst on the floor, there might be a dent, and the customer would want some money off the bill. Their business didn’t really have a standard rate, and Madame Salome could be haggled with by some customers.  Especially the old people, for some reason.  "Sliding scale" didn't exactly describe what they had, but it was a start. They ended up doing some pretty ridiculous removals for the elderly exhalers for cheap.  Madame Salome kept insisting that this would be good word of mouth for other old people and good karma for them.  Sister Agnes kept arguing that it would be bad karma, because it left the old people all alone, but she thought Madame Salome probably knew this was just an argu­ment to get out of doing fake removals for low pay.  Sister Agnes didn’t like to argue too much with her, because shortly after she started, Madame Salome had told Sister Agnes that her predecessor had been let go for arguing about whether the three sides of existence were pre-life, life and afterlife or life, death and afterlife.  Madame Salome hadn’t told Sister Agnes which answer was right, and she hadn’t asked.

Sister Agnes looked at the customer's garage and grabbed a Bible to go with the crystals.  The customer had a Jesus fish on his bumper, which made her feel like this would get them the extra credibility they sometimes needed.  It also made her suspect that the husband's problem wasn't that he was getting too many onlookers or that he feared for his safety, but that he had moral objections to his wife's posthumous performances. Sister Agnes spat on the ground, and she headed back to the front of the house.  The breasts had turned away from the win­dow, so that it was like seeing breasts from the inside with nothing inside of them.  It was the mold of a dead wife.  

This was a strange one, because there were, in the hus­band's defense, so many watchers around. Madame Salome was happy for the free advertising, but Sister Agnes felt a little bad for him, even if he was being a prudish exhaler.  He might be risking getting kicked out of his church or something by bringing in her and Madame Salome.  Then again, for all she knew, he'd already tried an exorcism. And maybe this ghost was someone he'd wronged and wouldn't cop to, so they were taking his wife's form. Ghosts, as Madame Salome had often opined, could be pricks just like living people.  Most exhalers never thought about that.  Sister Agnes went inside, trying to balance the crystals while he opened the door.  She heard talk­ing and made her way to the kitchen, then slowed down and stopped a little before she interrupted Madame Salome's spiel.

"We have multiple ways of addressing the dead," Madame Salome was feeling her way through prepping for the ritual that would mark the end of the transaction.  That's how she talked about the phases of dealing with customers.  Sister Agnes just thought of it as getting them to open up.  Or lying, depending upon the day.  But most exhalers didn't really get the mechan­ics of talking to the dead.  They wanted it to be grand, but ghosts were people, and people are kind of boring.  "You're quite certain this is your wife?"

The customer dropped his eyes but nodded to Madame Salome.  "There's a way that her, well, breasts hung, and she has a slight waddle from pronating."

"Waddle?" Sister Agnes asked.  The customer turned towards her, then started rubbing his forearms, and Madame Salome smiled to an off-putting width, but Sister Agnes felt that clarity and accuracy were important to doing the job right.  The customer shrugged.  "I don't totally know how to describe it, I guess."

Sister Agnes nodded and shifted the crystals.  "I'm sure this is difficult."

   The man rubbed his head, then coughed, possibly to over­power the start of a sob.  Sister Agnes noticed that there was a lot of silverware in the sink, but almost no plates or bowls.  As Madame Salome continued to give a falsely elaborate version of talking to the dead, Sister Agnes shuffled over to the man's garbage and peeked.  Lots of take-out containers and frozen dinner boxes.  She started to feel bad for the customer again, and she shuffled away so she didn't get caught snooping.

 

 

*

 

   "Ghosts aren't these mystical entities," said Madame Salome.  "They're assholes. Babies, really." Sister Agnes sig­naled to change lanes.  She had heard this before.  Though only a couple of times, which wasn't bad for having worked with Madame Salome for a few years now.  "They just crave atten­tion.  They're like little children who need comforting. But the living need comforting, too.  Ghosts simply don't care.  It's sad that death doesn't give people more perspective.  This is why I don't bat an eye at exorcisms, cleansings or anything else like that.  Whatever the exhalers want to call them.  The ghosts are nuisances.  The kind of folks who sell magazines door to door rather than getting real jobs.”

   Sister Agnes made the last turn before the customer’s house, remembering a bookstore manager who used to be her boss.  About once a month, the manager would go on the same rant about the unions under President Reagan, which Sister Agnes didn’t really remember, but it seemed important to the manager for some reason.  Sister Agnes supposed that the man­ager wasn’t much different from Madame Salome.  Today, they were back for the third phase of the exorcism on the boob house.  The first day, they met the customer and did a show-sweep.  Then, they researched floating breasts a little and drew up a plan for communicating with the entity.  Sometimes, they did actual research, but the floating breasts seemed relatively unprecedented to Sister Agnes, and relatively obvious in their desire to Madame Salome, so they’d knocked off early and gone to a karaoke bar, which was very rare for Madame Salome.  She’d actually sang “Barracuda”, and it had been sur­prisingly sexy.  Sometimes, Sister Agnes forgot that Madame Salome wasn’t actually that much older than her.  Sister Agnes had only sung Cindy Lauper, and she felt a little embarrassed after that.  She felt even worse after this slightly older man with a tie and rolled-up sleeves bought her a drink.

   "But, like children, many ghosts understand a sense of dis­cipline.  They actually respond to stern commands.  Though I don't think they are child-like in all ways."

   Sister Agnes took a long sip of her coffee.  As Madame Salome went on, Sister Agnes realized that this speech was for the sake of Madame Salome more than anyone, though Sister Agnes supposed that she'd had this realization the last time that she’d heard this speech.  She was too hungover to really con­template, which Madame Salome never complained about for the ritual itself.  It made Sister Agnes look drained and half on another plane, which usually pleased the exhalers.  Really, Sis­ter Agnes was just weighing the purpose of her job, which was one of the few normal things about her work.

   "I think, for instance, that the ghosts are not intimidated by us.  It's more that, when we point out their childishness, they genuinely feel bad.  Finally.  I think they reflect on who they are and want to leave rather than remember who they were and, especially, what they've become."

   Sister Agnes looked at Madame Salome.  "You have to admit, the breasts do look good."

   Madame Salome smiled.  "They're not ours."

   Sister Agnes nodded.  "Too bad for us."  She pulled the car into the driveway.  There weren't many onlookers today. It could be the ghost knew it was on its way out, or it could be the chill in the air.  Maybe the uninvolved exhalers got bored because there wasn't any genitalia. Once again, Madame Salome would be disappointed in ghosts, since the small crowd meant fewer observers and less word-of-mouth advertising.  But this was a low-traffic time, too.  A weekday during work hours.  Sister Agnes wondered if Madame Salome was going soft and accommodating the client too much.  Sister Agnes got out and opened the rear, driver-side door.  She began to gather the crystals and crosses, but Madame Salome, still sitting in the passenger seat, said, "Don't worry about that.  I'd like to make this quick."

   Sister started to put everything back.  She shut the door and watched the car.  The engine was pinging or cricking.  Whatever noise an engine made after it was turned off.  Sister Agnes was beginning to sweat, but it might've just been the hangover.  Madame Salome sat in the front seat for what seemed like quite a long time before she got out.  Sister Agnes wondered if the customer was watching them.  She took a breath; the customer must have just mowed the lawn.  Sister Agnes understood the feeling.  She also sneezed.  As if this was her cue, Madame Salome got out of the car.  The two of them walked towards the house.  About 20 feet from the front door, they saw an ass appear in front of them.  The hips swayed as it floated before them.  It wasn't totally disrespectful.  It wasn't wagging the ass, but it was clear that the owner was enjoying this display.  

"It's not as nice as the breasts were," said Madame Salome. The ass dissipated and Sister Agnes smiled.  It had been a bit saggy, but just in the way that everyone's gets once it passes a certain age.  It wasn't overly dimpled or unattractive. Madame Salome had been right, but that spoke more to the quality of the breasts than the quality of the ass.  When they got to the door, the customer opened before they could even knock.  This would drive Madame Salome nuts, but today there was no discernible reaction.  Even behind sunglasses, Sister Agnes's eyes were tearing up a bit.  

   "You're here to take her away for good?" he asked.

   Madame Salome touched his forearm.  "We're here to do what you're asking us to do. If you change your mind, we can leave, but if you change your mind again, then you'll need to find someone else."

   The customer nodded.  Sister Agnes wiped her forehead.  For the first time this job, she started to really dislike the ghost, which was handy but not fair.  Madame Salome touched her elbow.  Sister Agnes looked back, and Madame Salome was smiling at her.  To see this during an exorcism was a first, and she had a flashback to karaoke and a long, “Ooooooh” that had gotten a large round of applause.  Sister Agnes felt that her head was extremely heavy, and a smirk was the best she could offer.  Madame Salome raised her eyebrows, then made her face serious.  She turned back to the customer.  "Is this some­thing you really want to be around for?"

The man scratched the side of his head.  He wasn't such a bad-looking guy, if he would take care of himself.  His shirt was rumpled to the point that even a man should notice, though maybe not a recent widower.  Under other circumstances, he might have been cute.  The poor exhaler scratched at his head, pulling a little hair out.  Then, out of nowhere, he started cry­ing.  Madame Salome looked at Sister Agnes, and she nodded.  "Sir," she said to the customer, "why don't you come with me?"  She took his hand and led him outside, but to the back so the neighbors wouldn't see so easily. After they were outside, the guy started to settle down, and he eventually stopped alto­gether, wiping his eyes.  Sister Agnes pulled a pack of ciga­rettes out of her pocket and held it out to the customer.  He stared at it for a few seconds then took one.   The cigarettes were less of a prop than the crystals, but not totally necessary, either.  "Thanks," the customer said.  As Sister Agnes took out her lighter, the customer said, "God, I haven't had a cigarette in years.  Not since college."  

   Sister Agnes said, "Today's a good day for it.  I don't think you'll feel like it again after today." He inhaled as Sister Agnes held the lighter up to his cigarette.  He closed his eyes while he held it in his lungs, then he exhaled and coughed just slightly.  "These things'll kill ya," Sister Agnes said. The customer chuckled, then sniffled, then rubbed his eyes.  "Maybe I'm just trying to get closer to my wife."  

Sister Agnes smiled.  After a few more drags, the cus­tomer asked, "Is she staying for me?"  Sister Agnes sighed.  It was such an exhaler question to ask.  She made a mental note to tell Madame Salome that ghosts weren't the only ones to be self-centered.  "You can't really think of it like that.  A ghost's perspective on time and place...look, it's just, you can't really think about this too much one way or the other.  And, when you see her in the afterlife, eventually I mean, don't bring it up. If she's willing to talk about it, she will; if not, you won't make anything better by trying to talk about it."

The customer scratched the side of his head again, picking out more hairs.  "But I will see her?  Like, in Heaven?"  

Sister Agnes contemplated the end of her own cigarette.  "Well, I don't feel comfortable saying that I for sure know how that end of the afterlife works.  It's not my place."

The customer squatted down and continued to smoke.  "God," he said, "I never imagined."

"Losing her?" asked Sister Agnes, "or being haunted?"

He bit his lip.  Sister Agnes hoped she hadn't crossed a line.  He stood and said, "Even after she's gone, I might be haunted."

Sister Agnes's head was aching just enough to keep her from laughing.  She looked at the customer as he stood and leaned over her.  To her eyes, he was a bird, bobbing his head around before pecking her eyes out.  When he leaned his head in, she stopped a giggle in what must've looked like a pucker. Or maybe he just didn’t care.  He kissed her, and, when he was done, she put her cigarette back, making sure no ashes got on her clothes or his.  It was a dry, meaningless kiss.  Not invasive.  Sister Agnes was annoyed, but she wasn't in a place where resistance felt plausible or even worth it.  It could’ve been worse.  To press lips against this man, this at-least-presentable man, was tolerable.  Preferable to a conversation, even.  After a couple of almost dramatic puffs, the customer turned to walk away.  That was fine.  Madame Salome came walking back.  She was smiling.  

"Good news," she said, "You're wife was willing to go."

The customer took a long drag off his cigarette.  When he exhaled, Madame Salome said, "Well, as soon as you cut the final check, we'll let you get on with your life."

The customer covered his mouth.  For a moment, he looked like he might vomit.  Sister Agnes felt hurt that he could look like vomiting so soon after kissing her, though she knew the two things weren’t related.  He said, "My life," and Sister Agnes felt bad for wanting to laugh earlier.  Sister Agnes touched Madame Salome on the shoulder.  Madame Salome looked down at the ground, not at Sister Agnes.  "You know," Madame Salome said, "Your wife did say something."

The man uncovered his mouth and nodded.  "Oh."

"Showed something, I guess."

"Oh."

“A sign, I mean."  She looked up from the floor, and Sister Agnes had a rare moment of pride for her work.  "A triangle," Madame Salome said.

The customer narrowed his eyes.  "Triangle?"

Sister Agnes wondered if maybe the wife was declaring herself a lesbian.  She wasn’t sure what gender would mean to a ghost.  Maybe it was exclusively an exhaler concept.

"Yes, but not the shape,” said Madame Salome.  “It was a symbol, I think.  Maybe the pyramids?"

"Symbol," the customer said.

"A compact form of communication," Sister Agnes volun­teered, "like a rebus, or showing an eye to indicate the letter I."  She felt young and small, saying this, and she took a drag off her cigarette.

"Letter," the customer said, "Triangle."  He put his hand over his mouth again.  "Delta."

"A sorority?" After dozens, perhaps hundreds of custom­ers, Sister Agnes and Madame Salome had learned when to be quiet and let the customer have a monologue, and Sister Agnes bit her lip after she said it, feeling Madame Salome’s bossly gaze.  

"Delta represents change," the customer said.  "Math.  I think she's telling me that she's shifted into something else, maybe."

Madame Salome smiled.  She touched the customer's fore­arm.  "I think that's a very wise view to take." The customer nodded, then cried a little, then suggested they go back inside, where he offered them coffee.  Madame Salome declined for the both of them.  The customer nodded, then cried a little more.  Sister Agnes watched him and thought of the ghost's ass, swaying back and forth.  It was understandable why he kissed her a moment ago.  She wondered if the afterlife was so boring that coming back was actually exciting for ghosts.  

"But all change is relative to something."  The customer sniffled.  "To me, I guess.  Or maybe she wants me to change, too, because she’s…moved on."  He started crying, though he hadn't filled out the check yet. Madame Salome embraced him.  The customer cried a bit, then he sighed and pushed away, slowly wiping at his nose.  "I want to see my wife again," he said.

Sister Agnes inhaled and felt the booze start to shift the ground beneath her feet.  She watched the customer to see how he’d turn.  He stabilized and nodded after several min­utes.  As any exhaler would, he was caked with a sense of sub­stance, and Sister Agnes resented him.  The customer went into the bathroom, then came back with a check.  Sister Agnes tried to glance over her boss's shoulder. She was quite sure that the amount filled out was beyond their expectations, but it seemed fair.     

Sister Agnes said, "we need a sense of....something."

The customer nodded.  "Yes," he said.  "I couldn't agree with you more."  Madame Salome grabbed Sister Agnes’s hand and the customer’s as well and began to pray.  Sister Agnes had trouble focusing.  The “Barracuda” performance kept intrud­ing.  But, she thought that the prayer was something from “Ezekiel.”  Some passage about visions and prophecies.  Sister Agnes stifled a yawn and squeezed Madame Salome’s hand.  She squeezed back and finished.  There was quiet for a few sec­onds, then the customer hugged them both.  Sister Agnes wasn’t sure, but she felt like he was trying to feel her breasts squeezed against his chest.  She patted him on the back, and he let her go.  She turned to Madame Salome and said, “I’ll go to the car.”   Madame Salome smiled and nodded.  

Sister Agnes walked back to the car and made her way into the driver’s seat.  She leaned her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes.  She couldn’t throw up on the cus­tomer’s lawn.  If she did, it wouldn’t be from the little hair of the dog that she’d had.  Still it would appear unprofessional at this moment.  If they could at least get a few blocks away, if she threw up, illness might enhance their mystique, but not on the customer’s lawn.  She breathed in and out as slowly she could.  Eventually she opened her eyes and the world stabilized a little.  Madame Salome came walking to the car.  “What a shit,” she said as she got in.  Sister Agnes wasn’t sure if she was talking about the customer or the ghost.  She started the car and very slowly backed out the driveway.  “You okay to drive,” Madame Salome asked?  

Sister Agnes took a wide curve out into the street and put the car into drive.  “No,” she said, and she drove off down the road.