Stranger Things Happen | Page 8

he
died in, or else the one that his wife buried him in. He has been wearing
it ever since he woke up and found himself on the island, disheveled
and sweating, his clothing wrinkled as if he had been wearing it for a
long time. He takes his suit and his shoes off only when he is in his
hotel room. He puts them back on to go outside. He goes for a walk
along the beach. His fly is undone. The little waves slap at the dead
man. He can see teeth under that water, in the glassy black walls of the
larger waves, the waves farther out to sea. He walks a fair distance,
stopping frequently to rest. He tires easily. He keeps to the dunes. His
shoulders are hunched, his head down. When the sky begins to change,
he turns around. The hotel is right behind him. He doesn't seem at all
surprised to see it there. All the time he has been walking, he has had
the feeling that just over the next dune someone is waiting for him. He
hopes that maybe it is his wife, but on the other hand if it were his wife,
she'd be dead too, and if she were dead, he could remember her name.
Dear Matilda? Ivy? Alicia? I picture my letters sailing out to you, over
those waves with the teeth, little white boats. Dear reader, Beryl? Fern?
you would like to know how I am so sure these letters are getting to
you? I remember that it always used to annoy you, the way I took
things for granted. But I'm sure you're reading this in the same way that
even though I'm still walking around and breathing (when I remember
to) I'm sure I'm dead. I think that these letters are getting to you,

mangled, sodden but still legible. If they arrived the regular way, you
probably wouldn't believe they were from me, anyway.
I remembered a name today, Elvis Presley. He was the singer, right?
Blue shoes, kissy fat lips, slickery voice? Dead, right? Like me.
Marilyn Monroe too, white dress blowing up like a sail, Gandhi,
Abraham Lincoln, Looly Bellows (remember?) who lived next door to
me when we were both eleven. She had migraine headaches all through
the school year, which made her mean. Nobody liked her, before, when
we didn't know she was sick. We didn't like her after. She broke my
nose because I pulled her wig off one day on a dare. They took a tumor
out of her head that was the size of a chicken egg but she died anyway.
When I pulled her wig off, she didn't cry. She had brittle bits of hair
tufting out of her scalp and her face was swollen with fluid like she'd
been stung by bees. She looked so old. She told me that when she was
dead she'd come back and haunt me, and after she died, I pretended that
I could see not just her-but whole clusters of fat, pale, hairless ghosts
lingering behind trees, swollen and humming like hives. It was a scary
fun game I played with my friends. We called the ghosts loolies, and
we made up rules that kept us safe from them. A certain kind of walk, a
diet of white food-marshmallows, white bread rolled into pellets, and
plain white rice. When we got tired of the loolies, we killed them off by
decorating her grave with the remains of the powdered donuts and
Wonderbread our suspicious mothers at last refused to buy for us.
Are you decorating my grave, Felicity? Gay? Have you forgotten me
yet? Have you gotten another cat yet, another lover? or are you still in
mourning for me? God, I want you so much, Carnation, Lily? Lily?
Rose? It's the reverse of necrophilia, I suppose-the dead man who
wants one last fuck with his wife. But you're not here, and if you were
here, would you go to bed with me?
I write you letters with my right hand, and I do the other thing with my
left hand that I used to do with my left hand, ever since I was fourteen,
when I didn't have anything better to do. I seem to recall that when I
was fourteen there wasn't anything better to do. I think about you, I
think about touching you, think that you're touching me, and I see you

naked, and you're glaring at me, and I'm about to shout out your name,
and then I come and the name on my lips is the name of some dead
person, or some totally made-up name.
Does it bother you, Linda? Donna? Penthesilia? Do you want to know
the worst thing? Just a minute ago I