Chapter One

He was– he had been– so achingly handsome. Sometimes she would be downright irritated looking at him. That there was some human near her as beautiful as he was.

When she would say so, tell him he was handsome, that he was her favorite thing to look at, he’d respond in one of two infuriating ways, depending on just how low he was feeling. Either, “makes you wonder where I came from,” or on his bad days, “not so good-looking that I can’t be abandoned.” 

Right now, sitting entirely alone in the oddly pink anteroom of the crematorium, staring at the cheap and badly printed poster of him, she gritted her teeth again. His pointed-tooth smile and strong jaw made her think about how it felt like she’d thrown nine years of her life in the garbage disposal that was Bash. Chopped up and bound to stink. 

How was she the only one here? 

She wasn’t surprised the girl he’d cheated on her with hadn’t lasted. But he was an absurdly attractive man. And remarkably charming– for short but intense stretches. There should have been some woman… several women, crying alongside her in this sterile place. 

Well, she’d be dry-eyed regardless. But she’d expected a coterie of Dracula’s Brides weeping hysterically. Listening to a tinny rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water, she shifted uncomfortably in dress and pumps– work appropriate, but too sexy-corporate for a funeral. 

Just when she was wondering just how long does it take to sweep him up in a dustpan and put him in the damn plastic bag? someone else entered the room. She turned, about to nod politely. Or ask for an ETA on her sack of ashes, but stopped. A neatly dressed woman– appropriately dark suit. And approximately the right age to be Bash’s mom. At the final curtain, she’d finally shown! 

“Ms. Tremblay?” the woman asked, hand outstretched. Jody Lee hesitated to give her hand or acknowledge the greeting. How would Bash feel? If his mother finally showed? When it just didn’t matter any more? He’d want me to spit in her face and step on her foot. 

The woman’s step stuttered, seeing the lack of welcome on Jody Lee’s face.

“I’m from the offices of Sherron and Williams… I was told I might be able to find a Jody Lee Tremblay at this… memorial service,” she said. 

“I’m Jody Lee,” she finally said.

“Oh! Good,” the lawyer said, sounding relieved. “This is not the time or the place, but if I could just get contact information–”

“This is a fine place,” Jody Lee interrupted. “What is it?”

“Mr. Smith has a will to be executed… We could set an appointment if you would–”

“Sure,” she cut her off again. “I’m leaving town in a few days– how’s tomorrow?”

“Fine,” the lawyer said. “Just fine, absolutely. AM all right for you?”

“Perfectly,” she said. 

The pneumatic door opened across from them. A cuddly looking attendant in a poorly-fitting black suit entered. Carrying a perfectly square box.

“Then… tomorrow,” the lawyer said, ducking out ungracefully. 

Jody went forward, taking the box. Lifting it up too high. Expecting it to be heavier. But just about six pounds. How had he become just six pounds? He’d been the heaviest thing in her soul, and now he was in a bag in a box. Like a box of wine. 

Once she got home she stood about a foot inside the doorway. She’d propped the box of Bash, as she was already thinking of it, on a hip in order to do up her three locks. But now she just stood. Because where to put him? Her natural inclination, as she stood with keys between her fingers, purse on her shoulder, was to simply turn to her left, and set the box down on the high-backed hall chair she usually dropped things on. The spot that held purse, or gloves or heavy purchases. 

Oddly, she didn’t like the idea of leaving him too close to the door. As if, even in his ashy state, he’d be able to too easily get up and escape her apartment. Or as if a home invader would only step in those few feet into her home and snatch the box, and the box alone. Absurd, but impossible to put away the thought.

But where, then, to put him– it?

She stood swaying in the doorway. Shifting the box to her opposite hip in order to at least put down her purse. Kick off the uncomfortable pumps. Finally walking further into her home and going into the kitchen. Leaving the box on the counter. She knew she’d regret it– that counter was her prep space. But for now, it was fine. Just fine.

She continued on as she had been for the last few days– namely, packing. She’d work throughout the very early morning. From about when she woke at four until noon. And then pack the house. While she hated packing she was looking forward to the move. Nothing left here. The fact that she currently had ashes sitting beside her cookie jar really highlighted that fact. 

Today, of course, there’d been the interruption of the crematory. So work, crematory, packing. When her stomach knocked emptily, she went into the kitchen.

She was mostly packed in there, which made her sad. The kitchen being her place of quietude and creativity. She’d left one shallow bowl, a fork, a cast iron skillet, a chef’s knife and a spatula out in order to make her meals and that was all. 

She’d prepped sweet potato gnocchi in the morning. Now was thinking about tossing them into the skillet with some butter and drowning herself in starch for the evening. She had to shift the box of Bash in order to use her cheese grater for the Parmesan. Shift him once more when she tied up her garni, snarling at the box as she shoved it with her elbow. Glad indeed she hadn’t bought one of those enormous wooden boxes, wee casket, or jar for him. He’d just be even more in the way.

While Bash had been graceful, in life, he made himself underfoot frequently. She herself wasn’t naturally affectionate and didn’t enjoy physical touch. Meanwhile, Bash needed it desperately and wanted to be in-reach of his lover at all time. His hobbies were all social– playing music, dancing, finding pick-up games in their neighborhoods. She cooked, she read books. And he would invade her space. Wriggling his face between her ribs and cocked elbow as she stirred paella. Clambering into her lap like a dog while she read in an armchair. Always reaching out from his side to take her hand when they walked. Laying in the middle of their bedroom floor as she tried to put away laundry. Stepping over him repeatedly as he ran fingers down her calf, or tried to circle an ankle as she moved. Reaching across the middle of his Hudson Big Boy cab to lay a warm palm on her knee. And somehow, even in death, he managed to be in her way. 

When she tossed the skillet to move the gnocchi and brown the opposite side, her elbow whacked into the corner of the box. He slid precipitously to the edge of the counter as she tried to slide him back again by hipping it back up with her side.

“God damn it, could you just help me out this once by staying out of my–” she hissed, keeping an eye on the heavy skillet as she set it back carefully on the burner.

The box hit the floor with a soft cardboard thdud-dud as it hit one corner, then another. It was strapping taped together, so luckily it didn’t explode. But the bottom right corner was now definitely dented, the cardboard slightly crunkled from its impact with the tile.  

As she bent to lift the box of Bash she realized she’d said to his ashes what she’d said to him so many times to his living ears– could you stay out of my way.

And that was what made her finally cry.

Chapter Two

Still crying, she moved the skillet off the burner. She put the box back down on the counter top and then leaned forward, standing, until her forehead rested on the counter as well and just cried, one arm wrapped around the box.

She had met Bash at a show– a particularly dreary and sticky show. A basement show in an abandoned steel mill warehouse. It was how she often spent her free time in those days. The greasy release of a good punk show was a way to loosen her joints after five days of 9-5 at her corporate job. She’d been astounded when he spoke to her. In fact, she’d been open-mouthed speechless when he approached her.

She’d usually stand on the fringes for nearly the whole act. Wade into the middle of the crowd at the end and get beat and beat silly in return. But again– this show had been dreary. The opening act had been drunk– nearly fall down. The lead singer would have fallen if he hadn’t been nearly as thin as his mic stand, and hanging onto that kept him upright. The next act had a little bit of a droney, wannabe new wave sound and that hardly livened up the crowd.

She was tired– work had been a bummer, and this show wasn’t helping. It had been a gray day in a series of gray days. That was par for the course in this part of the country, but still, depressing. She was cold, and regretted her outfit.

And then the most handsome creature she’d ever seen had sidled up to her. 

“I think we might need to call the Depeche Mode police,” he said, raised voice, mouth close to her ear.

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. The idea of some synth-pop corp breaking into the basement and taking this not-great band hostage delighted her. And she’d been startled by how suddenly he’d been beside her, and further startled by his good looks. Dramatic. He looked like a portrait painted by a very nervous artist– one who knew his head would be chopped off if he wasn’t flattering. 

They’d ducked out together that night. Hopping into his Hudson Big Boy. Painted a high-shine and spectacularly waxed black. Only two bumper stickers on its immaculately clean body. A classic Misfits logo and a ‘Bobby Kennedy for President 1968’ round sticker on it.

They’d had messy sex in the front passenger seat. Both of their skin horribly goose-pimpled, breath hanging all around them in a fog. Windows coated in condensation, eventually. She was shocked that she came with him– it wasn’t something she took for granted. Especially not the first time with anyone. Especially not crammed into a car in a parking lot in November. Shivering, they drove back to his place. At the time, he was living in the outskirts of the city. On the third story of a brick walk up beside what used to be another steel mill. The bottom floor was empty. His fireplace was bricked in. He had two half-dismantled bicycles in his kitchen. Three half-empty forties on the counter. Between nine and thirteen mousetraps. A huge blow-up of the newspaper article following Bobby Kennedy’s assassination. The tragic headline “God– Not Again!” plastered over nearly half of one wall of his living space. On the opposite wall was a hand-done painting of Jack Ruby as a thorn-crowned saint.

He had a futon, and they fucked again on that– totally covered by his comforters, ducking even their heads under the blankets. She could hear the iron radiators clanking the whole time they were in the apartment– but it never seemed to quite warm up.

 After their second interlude he’d gotten up. Spread butter on bread and sprinkled sugar on top. Made her decaf coffee– he never drank anything else. And they cuddled back into the blankets, dipping white-trash dessert into their coffees and talking about music. 

And they never actually parted again after that chilly night. She couldn’t trace the exact timeline– not any more. But she had him moved into her much nicer apartment on the other side of town within four weeks, maybe less. They bonded quickly– two glue traps snapping together. Corpses buried chest to chest, rib cages tangling nearly instantly.

She’d been, as she put it– triply orphaned. Living with her mother and stepfather who’d died. Shipped to her biologic father who quickly shipped her to his parents. Who promptly dropped dead. By that point, she was sixteen and just sort of… slid off the skin of the world. She’d graduated early. Nominally, her father was technically her guardian. But she had just kind of lived out of her grandparents silent and unchanging house. After a year of that, she slipped out even further. Moving out of New England to the Rust Belt to go to school and start her career and never talking to anyone again. Not that anyone tried to reach her.

Bash had grown up in the foster system. As he put it– “it was bad, but it could have been worse.” The two of them had always thought themselves to be the loneliest and most unloved and unlovable people on earth. So it was mortally easy to latch onto each other– drowning victim to drowning victim, pulling each other out further with every shift in the tide. 

They did unspeakable, gentle damage to each other. She’d been on her own for so long, doing it all on her own. He instantly let her take care of him, make all his decisions, feed him, tell him what to do and when. He never questioned her, or stood up for himself. He easily and happily slid into the position of baby-man and wallowed in what he thought was care– but was merely control.

He drove her mad with his incessant, “do you love me?” “are you angry with me?” “are you going to leave me?” “do you hate me?”

At first, she’d tried to answer softly every time– “of course I love you,” “no you never make me angry,” “no how could I ever leave you?” “no, of course, my love, how could I hate you?”

But it was so never-ending and when she was most likely to be distracted she began snapping. Or answering honestly. “Right now, I don’t love you very much.” “I’m angry at you when you won’t shut up.” “Sometimes I think about leaving.” “Sometimes I hate us both.”

And he needed so much. They both agreed to monogamy, but he wasn’t capable. It always seemed to be just sex with him. He couldn’t seem to find the same emotional sink in anyone else that Jody Lee could provide. But he’d sleep with anyone– and there were so many willing women.

And she found, and it made it all worse, that she eventually didn’t care when he strayed. And she knew then that she was falling out of love. She found herself shrugging thinking of his hands fumbling between his hips and someone else’s, sliding his cock back inside some other woman. Wondering, sometimes, if he did the same trick of dragging his palm along the underside of a jaw and lifting another face up toward his. And instead of jealousy or rage she just felt vaguely disgusted. Like seeing litter on a street corner, or a still smoldering cigarette butt. Nothing worrisome, or anything that pertained to her– just something to sneer at. 

But he always came home to her– dogging her steps, asking for reassurance. Buying her presents, painting her portrait again and again and again. Crying with her, asking for her hands on his shoulders when they hurt. And it didn’t matter very much– because the more she found herself taking care of him, the less attracted she was to him. So it didn’t hurt that he didn’t have sex with her, because, frankly, she wasn’t that interested in having sex with him. He felt like an over wrought puppy, or a needy little brother, not a lover. 

Worse, he thought she didn’t know. How could she not know? She had four different women who’d sent her a “hey, girl…” text. A girl who’d left her a note in her tin box of panty-liners in their bathroom. A girl who’d emailed her to her work email saying, “I should have known he wasn’t single because the apartment was too nice, and you had wine glasses in the cupboard, and he drinks beer.” He thought he was sneaky and because he thought he had been keeping it all concealed, he felt guilty. And that frustrated her more. Finding his nearly-tear-drenched love letters folded into her laptop. Meaningful little gifts he couldn’t afford. Curling around her at night in the bed they shared with a clamping desperation apparent in his fingers. 

She thought of telling him sometimes, “I know, and I don’t care.” She considered, in a very passing way, giving him the same treatment he gave her. But he seemed to have weeded desire from her entirely. She knew it wouldn’t be hard to find some other dick to ride. But even that minimal effort seemed worthless. And what would be the point, anyway? He would indeed be heartbroken. She would continue to not care. And nothing would be solved.

She’d been surprised, in a toneless “huh” kind of fashion that it was him who left her. At much the same level of surprise as when an untalented magician unveils your card. Just a little “well, whatta you know, the queen of hearts was behind my ear the whole time.” 

All the usual; “I never expected this to happen, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say, I didn’t mean to fall in love with her.” 

Well, so good, she thought, at the time. He’s found some other damaged person. Maybe I can move on. Because her life was becoming embarrassing and boring. She saw everyone, from all sides, utterly confused by the two of them. When people asked, “how did you meet?” they said it with an ellipse in their tone. A disbelief that couldn’t be surmounted by any kind of romantic meet-cute. 

They’d gone in different directions. She was assistant vice president of her company. She was making what she knew was a very tidy salary. He kept starting and losing jobs. She kept finding him new ones. A record store, a warehouse, mail room at her company, a pinball gaming hall. He would fuck a coworker or customer and fail spectacularly and be fired or asked to quit. She’d been so mortified when it happened in her mail room. He’d had sex with an intern. And she’d liked the intern– smart as a whip and tonelessly sarcastic. And after Bash had screwed her, cried at her, broken up with her and then been fired, the poor intern slunk around Jody Lee’s office as if waiting for a beating.

She had almost considered taking the poor girl out for coffee and apologizing on behalf of Bash. But never quite got there before the girl’s tenure was up, and she left without a word. There was something even more tragic about the fact that the intern had started dressing and styling herself like Jody Lee. A clear and flattering imitation. She made sure to write the intern a very nice reference letter.

Jody Lee found herself feeling nothing at all as Bash moved out of her lovely home, wailing. She wanted relief. She wished for triumph. Or even a brisk, “well, now it’s time to get ourselves together!” sort of motivation.

But instead… Nothing. Like trying to blow a congested nose. Fury without substance. Effort without result.

For about seven months, there was still nothing.

Then anger.

Then a sort of tender sadness.

The first time she had sex after Bash was with a very nice man she’d met at a charity function. He was older, handsome and terribly kind. He took his work seriously, and he was gentlemanly with her. They had sex a few times over a period of four months or so. And nearly every time, she found herself closing her eyes and picturing it was Bash again. She didn’t miss him. Didn’t want him. If he’d shown back up on her doorway she hoped that she would shoo him off again. But it was so much easier to come thinking that it was Bash underneath or above her.

And after that, she’d had nearly two years of peace and quiet. Overall, things were good. Work was good. Her home felt like her home. Mostly, she was proud of herself. She wasn’t dating, but at least she was masturbating again. Feeling desirous once more. Relieved that she still got horny– and that she could get herself off without pretending her hand was Bash’s. 

And then someone from the Sheriff’s office had called her to come in and identify a body. She hadn’t even known Bash was still in town. But apparently, he was. They just had such disparate lives and lifestyles now they simply didn’t run into each other. 

He’d been working as a short order cook at two different restaurants. Doing the very early morning breakfast rush at one and the very late evenings at the other. She was still his emergency contact. 

The morgue attendant had been kind, in a standoffish way. Not asking her any questions. Mirroring her own professional coolness. He’d had to ask “how did you know the deceased?” and she’d said, “we were romantic partners.” When the attendant had offered condolences, she had shrugged. And from that point it was all business between them.

She’d steeled herself for the dead body. She’d seen them before– but it was always in such prescribed circumstances. The sterile open-casket of her grandparents had been merely surreal. And she’d been young. There was something altogether different about seeing the pale body of someone who’d once licked you and held you, now so distinctly still. 

But, at least from the neck up, he seemed nearly the same. He’d been light-skinned, and while he looked pale, it was almost the same paleness he had when he had a flu or was hungover. Sickish, but somehow not really dead looking. Skin still stretched over his handsome cheekbones, his clavicle, the roundness of his wide shoulders. The rest of him had been covered in a sheet.

He’d died of pneumonia. She’d been almost short-tempered hearing that. Clearly, he hadn’t quit smoking or drinking. She used to make him get his flu shots and vaccinations, but he must have stopped. He’d died on the hood of the Big Boy outside the breakfast place. He’d probably been trying to catch his breath, or finish a coughing jag before driving home. And his breath was never caught, or the coughing never ended. The opening manager the next morning found him slumped on the concrete by the passenger door. 

They’d discussed death at least a million times when they were together. Both of them were astounded they were still alive. Neither of them ever pictured making it to thirty. He thought he’d be killed outside of a rock show, or in a car accident. She thought she would be murdered, or die of an illness.

Well, they’d all been wrong. He died at thirty-six. She was thirty-four now, and remarkably healthy. He was the one who died with scarred up lungs.

She arranged for his cremation. Waiting for someone, anyone, to call her. A girlfriend or lover. Even, secretly, waiting for his birth parents to call or show up. To apologize for what they’d done to him. For a foster parent to express remorse.

But it turned out, they’d both been right. It was just the two of them. And at the end of all things, now it was only her.

Going to the law offices the next morning she was irritated and impatient. As though the whole thing– the years together with him, his death, should have all been neatly wrapped up by the action of setting him on fire. And yet here she was, in a beige on beige office on the wrong side of town. Smells of old coffee, and dust burning off radiators making her skin crackle with dryness and her stomach heave.

The same woman from the crematory eventually came out of an office and ushered her in. 

The nearly nostalgic surreality of her grandparent's funeral washed over her. As if she was listening to the woman talk through a pillow case. Or as if her own ears were covered by muffs. 

It all boiled down to, “he died with no debt” (a surprise) “and he left everything to you” (a bad surprise).

“What’s everything?” Jody Lee asked, tiredly.

“Well, the belongings in his home, though I don’t believe anyone has been in there since the deceased… since Sebastian left the apartment that night… a savings account and his vehicle.”

“He died on his vehicle,” Jody said.

“Well, yes, and it’s currently in law enforcement impound, but it is paid outright, he has the title, and he did will it to you,” the lawyer said, solemn face going tight. 

Jody Lee sighed, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of her nose. He loved that stupid, fucking truck. He’d been born in a hospital in Massachusetts and had lived for the first two-thirds of his life in New England. He’d become overly attached to classic car show in his first neighborhood. As if that was his one anchoring fact– he didn’t know his background, but at least in a concrete sense, he knew where he was from. And he loved that truck, purchased in completely-beat status at that same show. Everything else might fall off or away, but he’d kept it cleaned and paid for and maintained. She couldn’t possibly abandon it. 

“All right,” she said. 

She didn’t own a vehicle herself– no need to. When she did need a car she simply rented one. Her life was in an urban circuit, and it was far easier to take a train than to try and navigate city streets in a car. 

Hey, maybe she could hitch a trailer to the Big Boy to haul her belongings when she moved, she thought, somewhat sarcastically.

“I know this isn’t really a ‘you’ problem,” Jody Lee said after a long and awkward moment. “But I’m a few days away from leaving the state– I’m not really in a position to go into his home and empty it or anything…”

“I can recommend some companies who can do that kind of clean-up for you,” the lawyer said, looking at Jody Lee as if she were some kind of unfeeling cockroach.

“I mean I’ll… I’ll give it a look-see,” Jody Lee said, somewhat embarrassed and then feeling put-upon by the judgement of a stranger. “I just can’t do it justice or clean it out nicely enough to get back his security dep– Well, I guess that doesn’t matter.”

“No,” the lawyer said coolly.

They wrapped up the remainder of their business together. Shook hands– both their fingers cold against each other. 

And here was the fact: when he was there, he was an annoyance. He was her consistently unhealed hurt. A never-ending hangnail of a reminder that no one loved her. That the one love in her life was the biggest problem in her life. And that most of all, he’d been her youth. And that he’d existed longest as a memory. As an aching old injury for longer than he’d been a part of her life. 

Christ, he had been living back in the old neighborhood, she realized. Getting off at the old train stop. She had a tote bag filled with tote bags over her shoulder. A box of trash bags. And a dragging-foot dread. 

The lawyer had given her a ring of keys. She immediately recognized the Big Boy key. He’d left a dollop of purple glitter on another key– she assumed it was nail lacquer. She tried that key first for the apartment door. It was the right one. There were two other keys on the ring, but she didn’t know what they were for. 

It was shocking to walk back into the apartment. So instantly and nose-wrinklingly nostalgic she halted in the still-open door. His knock-off Guerlain cologne, old decaf coffee left to double steep, lemon pulp at the bottom of a glass of light beer and lived-in denim. 

By the window over the kitchen sink was that classic dreadful sort of citronella “odor eater” candle he always had beside his ashtrays. The ashtray in question this time was a porcelain plate with an American flag on it. There were glasses with wedges of lemon and about half an inch of beer everywhere and the scent was overwhelming. Going-bad lemon and the pissy scent of yellow beer made her eyes water. 

He had so many canvasses everywhere. God, what would she do with all the art? She didn’t want it. Couldn’t bear to take it. But how on Earth could she leave it to be tossed out, either? God damn him. God damn him for dying on her watch. For making it her watch against her will. One final nasty, sneaking little trick on his part. Some way to draw her back in. And she couldn’t even reject him, yell at him or hit him. Nothing to reject, no ears to hear, nothing to slap. 

Making a sudden decision to get a storage unit. Something cheap. She’d keep it paid up, and just leave everything here, in this state. No decisions had to be made. She could certainly afford to just let everything molder away until her own death. 

For about two hours, she wandered and cleaned the apartment. Dumping out the beer and lemon, running the garbage disposal with hearty dashes of old baking soda from his refrigerator. 

She knew he always left himself those few sips so he wouldn’t feel like he’d run out. That he always had at least one more sip of beer, and therefore would never be without. In order to stop him from doing that, when he lived with her, she would always make sure he had a forty and a six-pack in her refrigerator. Old habits were impossible to quit for him. He’d do the same with food– letting open bags of chips go stale, jars of pickles getting more pickled with one bite taken out, one spoonful of ice cream at the bottom of the carton getting ice-burnt.

She understood it. And at the beginning it made her hug him. Made her make sure to always have his favorite in the house. To cook him four or five meals a day and always serve him too much. Always add an extra grate of cheese on top as he watched. Pouring his coffee in the morning until it shivered edge to edge in the mug, held from spilling only by surface tension. Serving him warm brownies and adding two, three, four heaping spoonfuls of whipped cream on top until it was a towering tower of melting fat crowning fudge. As if all this could stabilize him. As if it would erase his fear of food scarcity. Change his ever-burgeoning drinking problem.  

Eventually, it just became disgusting. Both of them became disgusting, she believed. Making so much food that things went bad, that their table groaned at meal times. And he would still leave these little rat-piles of food, small hoards and going-flat sips of beer. Especially dreadful when she quit drinking. And eventually sort of stopped eating too. She forgot her favorite meals… but remembered exactly how he took his pasta, undercooking his cookies, overcooking his bacon and oversugaring his coffee. 

She saw evidence of his half-meals everywhere, and started to clean that up as well. And then stopped herself. She’d already called and paid for one of the cleaning companies the lawyer had recommended. She was really just here as a witness, at this point.

She had bought round little neon stickers and started to stick them gently on the edges of the art. Leaving a note to explain to the cleaners everything else could be gotten rid of but the stickered pieces. She’d have someone else move the art to the eventual storage unit. 

She began sorting through things that might be donatable. His television. His records, his clothes. Putting those into the totes she’d brought with her. Snarling as she came across the nice work clothes she’d bought him. Smelling old and unused and terribly wrinkled. Rolling the silver-banded watch she’d purchased for him across her knuckles. Finding a black-leather banded watch with an engraving love forever, baby that she hadn’t bought him beside it. Tossing it all into “donate.”

Not that he had much. Finding bobby pins and satin scrunchies underneath his pillow– he always wore his hair painfully short. He thought he looked “too pretty” when it was anything but shorn against his skull. Minky-silky, dark and looking like a high-fashion sable. Sighing when she could find condoms nowhere. Hoping everyone he’d been fucking was all right. He’d given her her one and only urinary tract infection and likely contributed to her year of yeast infections– as she thought of her twenty-fourth year. She supposed she was lucky to only come out with that. 

God willing, his swimmers had been useless.

Finally, shrugging, she slung everything by the door. Locking up and then leaving the key to the apartment in the mailbox in an envelope for the cleaning crew. 

In the next few days she could go to the impound lot to pick up the Hudson Big Boy. She could put the donatable things into the back, and drop those off and be done. 

God, when would it ever be done?

It never seemed to be done. The next day she had to go to his stupid little bank and close his account. In a manila folder she had his death certificate, a letter of announcement from Sherron and Williams, everything she thought she might need.

A polite and shabby little credit union in the center of downtown, dwarfed by all the massive investment banks on the same street. No wonder he’d chosen this place. Ever the man to pick the three legged-dog, the drooping rose, the dog-eared book.  

The woman sitting in an open cubicle by the door smiled and greeted her.

“I need to close out the account of a deceased person,” Jody Lee said, hoping to wrap this up quickly. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman said with warmly professional dishonesty. 

Jody wanted to wave her off, or roll her eyes but didn’t want to be so rude or raw in front of a stranger and so simply said thank you. The woman waved her over and Jody took a seat opposite, laying the folder on the desk between them. 

“I don’t know what you’ll need, or need to see, but I just need to wrap up any possible outstanding loans, or lines of credit and close out any accounts he might have had. I’ve got his cert and–”

“Well, let’s start with who we’re looking for,” the banker said, still smiling in what Jody was coming to think of as the no-teeth undertaker look.

“Sebastian Smith,” Jody said. 

The banker’s face crumpled, and she reached across the desk, looking for Jody’s hand still clasped over the folder. Jody slithered out from under the woman’s touch, letting her hands drop into her lap and knot there.

“Oh, missus Smith, I’m so sorry, we all liked Bash here! We didn’t know! We hadn’t seen him for a few days, but sometimes he traveled for shows and such and– and he’d just pop back up with donuts and posters and stuff for our back room… He made us all smile all the time… I think he was everyone’s favorite customer and–”

The banker seemed truly grieved to hear of Bash’s death. Certainly more demonstrably sad than Jody was. 

“Ms. Tremblay,” Jody corrected, as gently as she could. Genuinely feeling bad for this woman. Because Bash was consummately charming, and a great flirt. She’d watched rooms light up when he came in and knew this woman’s sadness was unaffected and true. 

“Excuse me, Ms. Tremblay,” the banker said, also taking her hands back from off the table. Fingers settling trembling on her keyboard. Finally, tip-tapping away.

“Jody Lee?” she asked then, hesitantly.

“Yes,” Jody agreed.

“You were his beneficiary, we just didn’t know ‘Jody Lee’ was a woman’s name and–”

“Mmm.”

“Well, let me just grab some copies and then this can all be call settled. But please, let me extend my very sincere condolences again… He was a ray of sunshine.”

“Thank you,” Jody said, exhausted. 

She listened to the banker clacking away across the little lobby. The hushed whispers up at the teller line as the news was spread. A gasp. A little trembling breath. All the neat and sad little women who worked here shocked that the ‘ray of sunshine’ had dropped dead on the hood of a truck with the smell of discarded fryer oil and half-eaten waffles in the dumpster beside him. 

He had $217.12. Jody promptly put it into an envelope, unsure of what to do with it. Considering bringing it back to his apartment to use as a too-big and unasked for tip for the cleaning crew. But that was silly. Thinking about dumping the whole of it into the little ‘Artists Support Network’ coffee jar at the comic book store he always used to go to. He’d empty whatever coin change he had in his left hip pocket into it every time they went.

She used to love watching him shove his fist into the pocket of his jeans. How it would tug down the waistband just a bit. Sometimes, showing that sliver of flesh between the hem of his tee shirt and the ragged black leather belt he wore. Seeing just peeks of his pale flesh used to turn her on so badly– especially when they were in public. She used to want to put him into a display case and stare at him. Touch him all over and compare how his kneecap felt to his ankle bone. The taut skin over his diaphragm and the paleness between his shoulder blades.

Picking up the Big Boy was terrible– but she knew it would be, so it was easier. Feeling weird to be hauling herself back into the cab– in pumps and a skirt suit. Stranger still to be launching herself into the driver’s seat. She’d never really driven the truck. If she did, it was because he was drunk. And in those times, she was mostly focused on him, or on being angry. Not the driving.

But today, it was quiet. He’d updated the stereo in the truck. She immediately hit the eject button before anything could play. A CD sliding out horrifically slowly. As if it was going to be another jump-scare from her past. But it was just some amateur band, of whom she’d never heard of. She set it on the passenger seat. Returned to his apartment. Grabbed the bags of things she intended to donate. And returned home.

The apartment she lived in had a parking lot, but she’d never had to find a spot before. Still less to find a spot for a whole truck. 

At least he’d kept up with the same level of cleanliness he always had for the truck. It was immaculate inside. The only speck of dust was in the driver’s side from the soles of her own shoes. 

She really didn’t have much she was taking with her in the move. No furniture, mostly just irreplaceable art, books and cooking tools. Her things for work. 

She’d been looking to buy a house for some time. Not a project house so much as a design challenge. And she’d been willing to look almost anywhere. She’d been a little surprised that the one she instantly fell in love with was one back in her home state of Massachusetts. But she knew she didn’t want to stay where she was. She’d flown out twice to see it and on the second visit had put in her bid.

She’d begun buying things for the place and having them shipped there. A local caretaker was letting deliveries in. It was a vacation town in Massachusetts, but she was planning to be there year-round. Jim, the caretaker, was more than happy to take such an easy job on the off-season. 

For the things she still had here, she’d initially planned to just ship them with a cargo company. But now that she had the Hudson Big Boy she decided she would use it to haul. Even considering gas, and renting a trailer, it would certainly be cheaper.

It was oddly easy to ignore what she was loading her things into. Because it was easier and more immediate to focus on lifting and shifting. The pain in her body as she lifted over-packed boxes of books. Swearing as she shoved sacks of her clothes in around more angular objects in the trailer.

But once she was out on the road, it was painfully obvious where she was. In Bash’s love. And all she could wonder about was, was his art moved carefully to the rented storage shed? She hadn’t even bothered to look at the storage unit. It just had good reviews online. But she still resented that she’d been left as custodian to a man she just… just what?

She could have been married by now. She could have had a real partner. Or not even that! She could have spent her youth having sex with as many people as possible. But he had been number three. Of four. And unfortunately, he was still the best. And then she would get angry in a new direction– why blame him? She could have left. She could have left before he did. She could have gotten the drop on him. And then found the husband. Or the army of men to fuck and drop. Instead, she was driving a dead man’s truck backwards into their pasts.