Jack Dann - Voices

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Short story - Jack Dann

JACK DANN

VOICES

TO MOST OF US, DEATH WAITS DARK AND MYSTERIOUS IN THE FUTURE, BUT IF YOU

COULD

TALK TO SPIRITS,YOU MIGHT FIND DEATH IS NOT SO SCARY AFTER ALL

I was carefully papering the balsa-wood wing struts of my scale-model Gotha G V

bomber when Crocker asked me if I ever spoke to dead people.

Although Crocker is a member of the Susquehanna River Modelmakers and Sex Fiends

Association (which doesn't say much because all you have to do to become a

member is hang out in the shack by the river and make models), everybody thinks

he's right off his nut. On of the guys nicknamed him Crock-a-shit because of all

the stupid stories he told-- and the stupid questions he asked-- and the name

stuck. Hell, he seemed to like it. But nobody broke his arms or his legs or

smashed up his models, and so he stayed on, sort of like a mascot. He was fat,

freckled, and wore his whie-blonde hair in a brush cut. But he was also smart,

in his way. He was twelve, a year younger than me, and was in seventh-grade

honors.

"Steve, you hear me or what?" he asked me, turning down the volume on the club's

battery-powered radio. It was playing the Big Bopper's "Chantilly Lace." Since

Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper had died in a plane crash back

in February, the radio stations were still playing their stuff all the time--and

here it was June! "You ever talk to a dead person or not?"

"No, Crocker," I said. I was trying to work the air bubbles out of the paper:

This Gotha was the only model of its kind and would have a wingspan of over six

feet. My stepfather had given me the kit for my birthday. "I never talked to

anybody who's dead...except maybe you. Now turn the volume back up." But the

song was over and the disc jockey was saying something about Lou Costello, who

died back in March. I could never remember if he was the fat comedian or the

skinny one; but I only liked the fat one and hoped it wasn't him.

Anyway, this was frustrating work, and Crock-a-shit was, as usual, fouling

everything up. I have to admit, though, that he had made me curious; but just

thinking about dead people made me feel jittery, and sad, too. It made me think

of my dad, my real dad, who died in the hospital when I was seven. Funny, the

things you remember. I used to play a game with him when he came home from the

office every night. We had a leather couch in the den--Dad called it "The

Library"--and I would slide my hand back and forth on the cushion while he would

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Short story - Jack Dann

try to catch it. And then when he did, he would hold it tight and we'd laugh.

Dad had gray hair, and everybody said he was handsome. But when he was in the

hospital, he didn't even know who Mom and I were. He thought Mom was `his'

mother! She cried when he got mixed up, and I just felt weird about it.

Especially when he had an attack and then talked in a language that sounded like

Op-talk. Mom said it was because his brain wasn't working right. I knew that

if I could only understand it, everything would be all right. It was like he

was trying to tell me what to do in some secret language; and if I could only

figure out the words, I'd be able to help him get well. But then he died, and I

never got to say goodbye in a way he could understand because his brain never

did get right again.

Crocker didn't say anything more for a while, which was unusual for him.

When I had finished the wings, which weren't right and would have to be redone

again, I looked up and said, "Crock-a-shit, what are you looking at?"

"Nothing'."

"What's with all this dead people stuff?" I asked, trying to treat him like a

human being.

"I just wanted to know if you have ever done it, that's all."

"Done what?"

"I just told you! Talk to dead people."

"Have you?" I asked, knowing for sure I would get one of his bullshit answers.

"Yeah, I do it a few times a week. When I don't come down here."

"Oh, sure, and where do you do that?"

"Every day I check the paper to see if there's anything going on at the funeral

home on the corner of Allen and Main. If there is, I just sort of walk in and

talk to the corpse in the casket. If not, I come over here."

"And nobody says nothing to you? They just let you walk in and talk to dead

people?"

"They ain't bothered me yet." After a pause, he said, "You wanna go with me

today? They got somebody in there," and he showed me the obituary column from

the Sun-Bulletin. I glanced at what he was trying to show me and shook out the

sports section. Patterson was fighting Ingemar Johansson on Friday. I was

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Short story - Jack Dann

rooting for Patterson, who had KO'd Archie Moore in '56.

"You wanna go with me and see for yourself or not?" Crocker asked, indignantly

ripping the paper out of my hands. "Or are you afraid?"

"Screw you!"

"You probably never been to a funeral in your life."

"I've been to funerals before," I said. "Everybody has."

"But did you ever see a dead person?"

I had to say no to that. "I never even saw my own father after he died."

That certainly shut him up, but he had such a sorrowful look on his face that I

felt sorry for him.

"I'm Jewish," I said, "and Jews can't have open caskets. Of course, there must

be a reason for that, but I don't know what it is."

"How'd he die?" Crocker asked, fumbling around with his hands as if he wasn't

used to having them.

"Something wrong with his liver."

"Like from drinking?" he asked.

"No, it was nothing like that," I said. But I had heard my mother talking to

the doctor; maybe he did get sick from drinking, although I swear I can't

remember seeing him drunk or anything. And I had just about had it with

Crocker's questions; he was acting like Jack Webb on Dragnet. You'd think he

would have to shut up after I told him about my father. But not Crocker. He

was a nosy little bastard. After a pause, he asked, "Did you ever talk to him

after he died?"

"You're out of your freaking gourd, Crocker. Nobody but an a-hole thinks he can

talk to people after they're dead."

"If you come with me today, I'll prove it to you." "No way, sucker. I got

better things to do than act like a nimblenarm." "With your father being dead

and all, I can't blame you for being afraid," Crocker said. "I'd be, too."

"Crocker, get the hell out of my life," I said. I guess I shouted at him,

because he looked real nervous. But I didn't need him spreading it all over the

place that I was afraid to look at a dead person. Christ, Crock-a-shit had a

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Shortstory-JackDannJACKDANNVOICESTOMOSTOFUS,DEATHWAITSDARKANDMYSTERIOUSINTHEFUTURE,BUTIFYOUCOULDTAL...

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Jack Dann - Voices

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