A Succession
by Benjamin Roque
I stand at the dead man’s sink, turning his bar of soap between my palms--or what’s left of it. The bar is thin. He must have washed his hands often. A recent photobooth strip is taped to the mirror, spotted with water. Two faces are squeezed into each frame, his and a woman’s. They resemble each other in a strange way. I wonder if people are just attracted to what they can find of themselves in another. They’re kissing in the first shot, mugging in the next, and confused in the last--clear they didn’t know there would be another.
I turn the hissing faucet off, shake water from my hands, and the room is silent again. The mirror is streaked with old water and sawdust. I rub my elbow where my face would be, and the glass shifts, revealing the wall beneath it—the eggshell white the room once was. The rest of the room is yellowish, like the dead man’s skin. I can see his hand peeking out from under the woven blanket, and the side of his face. He’s face-down on a simple platform bed over by the window. The curtain is drawn, but it’s thin and pale with morning light. On the floor by his head is a neat little pile: some change, folded receipts, a wallet. I guess he emptied his pockets before he lay down. There’s a book on agnosticism called Beyond Belief, and another, a travel book titled Thailand on a Budget. A yellow tag says, “seven dollars, used.” I put the book back, pick up my toolbox, and head for the door where I stop to consider washing my hands again. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to use the last of the guy’s soap for some reason. There’s the maintenance request note taped on the door at eye level, dated yesterday. I read the guy’s name in his handwriting, and let the door click shut. All I know is his sink doesn’t leak anymore.
I turn the hissing faucet off, shake water from my hands, and the room is silent again. The mirror is streaked with old water and sawdust. I rub my elbow where my face would be, and the glass shifts, revealing the wall beneath it—the eggshell white the room once was. The rest of the room is yellowish, like the dead man’s skin. I can see his hand peeking out from under the woven blanket, and the side of his face. He’s face-down on a simple platform bed over by the window. The curtain is drawn, but it’s thin and pale with morning light. On the floor by his head is a neat little pile: some change, folded receipts, a wallet. I guess he emptied his pockets before he lay down. There’s a book on agnosticism called Beyond Belief, and another, a travel book titled Thailand on a Budget. A yellow tag says, “seven dollars, used.” I put the book back, pick up my toolbox, and head for the door where I stop to consider washing my hands again. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to use the last of the guy’s soap for some reason. There’s the maintenance request note taped on the door at eye level, dated yesterday. I read the guy’s name in his handwriting, and let the door click shut. All I know is his sink doesn’t leak anymore.
A one-armed construction worker cuts bricks outside the café where I work my second job. His t-shirt sleeve is knotted where his arm would be. Claire is seated at the counter. I can see the construction workers over her shoulder through the window, as another sets the bricks one by one in the street. I can’t hear anything over the sound of the saw, which makes it hard to take orders. In fact, the construction has deterred pretty much everyone since it started. There’s a homeless man though, somehow asleep on a bench on the other side of the street in front of the abandoned movie theater. “Hooray for Hollywood” is still up in big block letters on the marquee.
“I said, ‘how was your day?’” Claire sets her coffee down on the counter between us. She slips the empty nip of Crown into her jacket pocket. I dry my hands off on a bar towel.
“Think he’s alive?” I point at the man on the bench, but I’m thinking of this morning, the man in bed. I never made sure. That’s someone else’s job.
“I still can’t hear you,” she cups her hands around her mouth.
The sound of the saw finally cuts out. I can hear the brick-setter’s voice, muffled through the café window. He and his one-armed coworker start packing up what they can. The rest is yellow-taped off or covered with a blue tarp. It’s getting dark out. I didn’t notice until now that the streetlights are already on.
“That guy is what?” Claire asks. “Jack?”
“Who knows?”
“This isn’t waking me up,” she says. I look up at the clock above the rack of bottles. There’s a license plate up on the wall, too—some French word I can’t pronounce. Claire looks at her watch. “I’ve got to be at the hotel in half an hour.”
“Just you and Steve on tonight?” I watch the construction workers disappear from the darkening window. “Is daylight savings tonight?“ I wonder.
“A half hour,” she says. “What time are you closing here tonight?”
I look around the empty café. Wooden floors, wooden chairs, tables—the owners were going for a rustic theme, if they were going for anything at all—all empty. “Probably right after you head out,” I shrug. “Is Steve—”
“He’ll be asleep in the lobby all night,” she sighs, “Snoring away.” A woman across the street stops under the abandoned theater marquee to light a cigarette. Her face flickers, hidden in her hands. “You’ll be tired,” Claire says. “I don’t know how you do this, one job after the next.”
“How does anyone?” I ask. “Leave the back door open for me?”
“Of course.”
“171.”
“Hopefully it’s a quiet night.” She looks out the window. I notice the homeless man is gone. Someone else is sitting on the bench now, and a dog wanders at the end of a leash. “I’ll see you there,” she leans across the counter, kisses me, and leaves me here.
“I said, ‘how was your day?’” Claire sets her coffee down on the counter between us. She slips the empty nip of Crown into her jacket pocket. I dry my hands off on a bar towel.
“Think he’s alive?” I point at the man on the bench, but I’m thinking of this morning, the man in bed. I never made sure. That’s someone else’s job.
“I still can’t hear you,” she cups her hands around her mouth.
The sound of the saw finally cuts out. I can hear the brick-setter’s voice, muffled through the café window. He and his one-armed coworker start packing up what they can. The rest is yellow-taped off or covered with a blue tarp. It’s getting dark out. I didn’t notice until now that the streetlights are already on.
“That guy is what?” Claire asks. “Jack?”
“Who knows?”
“This isn’t waking me up,” she says. I look up at the clock above the rack of bottles. There’s a license plate up on the wall, too—some French word I can’t pronounce. Claire looks at her watch. “I’ve got to be at the hotel in half an hour.”
“Just you and Steve on tonight?” I watch the construction workers disappear from the darkening window. “Is daylight savings tonight?“ I wonder.
“A half hour,” she says. “What time are you closing here tonight?”
I look around the empty café. Wooden floors, wooden chairs, tables—the owners were going for a rustic theme, if they were going for anything at all—all empty. “Probably right after you head out,” I shrug. “Is Steve—”
“He’ll be asleep in the lobby all night,” she sighs, “Snoring away.” A woman across the street stops under the abandoned theater marquee to light a cigarette. Her face flickers, hidden in her hands. “You’ll be tired,” Claire says. “I don’t know how you do this, one job after the next.”
“How does anyone?” I ask. “Leave the back door open for me?”
“Of course.”
“171.”
“Hopefully it’s a quiet night.” She looks out the window. I notice the homeless man is gone. Someone else is sitting on the bench now, and a dog wanders at the end of a leash. “I’ll see you there,” she leans across the counter, kisses me, and leaves me here.
I finish putting the chairs up on the tables and pause at the counter. There’s some feeling I can’t shake off. Hard to explain. I shake my head anyway. I’m pouring myself a shot when the door swings open. A woman in a flowing white dress walks in. A wedding gown. Her steps are silent on the wooden floor. She goes directly to the counter, where she places the pair of high heels she has been carrying, along with a battered bouquet of flowers.
I try not to stare, but that’s impossible.
“Vodka,” she glares at me. Her eyes are bright and wet, and somehow hard through the thin veil. Tears have shifted her makeup into awkward shadows. She’s middle-aged. Probably not her first wedding. There’s a locket on a thin gold line around her neck. I wonder what’s inside. Something old, new, borrowed, blue—however it goes. She whips off the veil, sending her brunette curls in all directions. She brings the glass shakily to her lips. Her fingernails are painted blue. She asks for another.
“Sure,” I say.
“Sure?” She looks at her hand where the ring would be. “Just sure?”
“Well, okay.” I place the bottle on the counter and pull up my own seat.
“Fine. Was it cold feet?”
“What?”
“It’s not Halloween.”
“Not quite,” she inhales. “They found him this morning.” She grabs the bottle and pours herself one. I watch her throw it back.
“Found him?”
“Somewhere.”
“Oh?”
“He lied about his age. I guess he was a lot older than I thought.”
“So, he’s—"
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Heart attack?” She says as if she’s asking me. “I don’t know. He’s gone. That’s all. Just gone.”
Say it. Just say it. This sudden rage swells up in me. Say the word dead. I realize my shot is still in front of me. I just look at it. It doesn’t look like enough. I would rather break the glass across her face than drink it.
“I know it’s my fault,” she suddenly cries into her hands. “It was me.”
She slams her palms on the fake marble counter three times. “It was me,” she shouts, each word an explosion. She presses both palms down on the surface and starts hyperventilating. Deep, harsh, quick breaths, like she’s trying to blow out lit dynamite. I put my hand on one of her hands. And I start to squeeze. Her breathing slows. I don’t say anything, don’t even look at her, just at our hands. “It was me,” she says again.
I don’t want to agree with her. But I don’t want to contradict her. I don’t know her. But I know death. When someone suddenly dies, another is suddenly alone. Whether you pulled the trigger or not, that’s how it is. But I bet you’re especially alone if you did. I let go of her hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It really doesn’t.” She looks at me, confused, as I drink my shot.
“He lied about his age,” she pours herself another.
I try not to stare, but that’s impossible.
“Vodka,” she glares at me. Her eyes are bright and wet, and somehow hard through the thin veil. Tears have shifted her makeup into awkward shadows. She’s middle-aged. Probably not her first wedding. There’s a locket on a thin gold line around her neck. I wonder what’s inside. Something old, new, borrowed, blue—however it goes. She whips off the veil, sending her brunette curls in all directions. She brings the glass shakily to her lips. Her fingernails are painted blue. She asks for another.
“Sure,” I say.
“Sure?” She looks at her hand where the ring would be. “Just sure?”
“Well, okay.” I place the bottle on the counter and pull up my own seat.
“Fine. Was it cold feet?”
“What?”
“It’s not Halloween.”
“Not quite,” she inhales. “They found him this morning.” She grabs the bottle and pours herself one. I watch her throw it back.
“Found him?”
“Somewhere.”
“Oh?”
“He lied about his age. I guess he was a lot older than I thought.”
“So, he’s—"
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Heart attack?” She says as if she’s asking me. “I don’t know. He’s gone. That’s all. Just gone.”
Say it. Just say it. This sudden rage swells up in me. Say the word dead. I realize my shot is still in front of me. I just look at it. It doesn’t look like enough. I would rather break the glass across her face than drink it.
“I know it’s my fault,” she suddenly cries into her hands. “It was me.”
She slams her palms on the fake marble counter three times. “It was me,” she shouts, each word an explosion. She presses both palms down on the surface and starts hyperventilating. Deep, harsh, quick breaths, like she’s trying to blow out lit dynamite. I put my hand on one of her hands. And I start to squeeze. Her breathing slows. I don’t say anything, don’t even look at her, just at our hands. “It was me,” she says again.
I don’t want to agree with her. But I don’t want to contradict her. I don’t know her. But I know death. When someone suddenly dies, another is suddenly alone. Whether you pulled the trigger or not, that’s how it is. But I bet you’re especially alone if you did. I let go of her hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It really doesn’t.” She looks at me, confused, as I drink my shot.
“He lied about his age,” she pours herself another.
I get to the hotel about one in the morning. It’s just a cheap North Star Inn on Battery Street. Part of the building has been under renovation for the past two years, so no one notices I keep a room in the back. I don’t think Steve even does his rounds anymore. I don’t remember the last time I heard his heavy footsteps, keys rattling. I’m sure Claire is finishing up. It only takes her an hour or so to do the audit most nights.
I go quickly down the dim hall. It shares a wall with the parking lot. There’s a window along the wall that acts like a dark mirror in this light. I don’t look, but I’m a ghost in my peripheral until I reach the door. I drop the key card into the slot, and the little light sparks green. I slide into room 171. It’s always the same as I leave it. Striped wallpaper, my clothes piled on the loveseat, a painting of the moon above the unmade bed, white towels on the floor—thankfully, the housekeepers don’t bother with unregistered rooms. I leave the heavy curtains drawn and dark. I don’t even know where the TV remote is. I pull my belt halfway out, slip off my jeans, pull off my shirt, and crawl into bed, face-down. The covers are coarse and thick. It’s always hard to sleep here. Or anywhere.
I don’t know if this is a dream, but there she is again. White gown flowing, silently crossing the floor. Dark clouds under her veil. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I find myself climbing up into a thunderstorm. Lightning splinters, always silent. And now here I am in its wake, that strange pause—waiting for thunder to shatter anything it can.
My heart clatters against the mattress, like a crazed gunman firing in all directions.
I hear the door click shut, and light from the hallway flashes through my eyelids. There’s Claire across the room, locking the door behind her.
“Jack,” she bends over, pulls off her shoes, and shimmies her pants down. She keeps her small button-down top on, for when she has to go back to the front desk.
“Hey,” she whispers as she curls up next to me. First, I feel the cold buttons of her shirt on my arm. Then her hips move against mine, warming up. I turn to her. Her lips touch mine, soft and wintery, a touch of mint. I slip my hands under her shirt.
After, I slip out from under the heavy covers and step carefully in the dark toward the sink on the opposite side of the room. The carpet feels like gravel underfoot. The handle is cold, and it squeaks as the water hisses on. It sounds like a fuse. I let it run until it scalds. I pick up the sliver of hotel soap left and close my eyes; it’s too dark to see anything in the mirror anyway. I turn the soap, again and again. It disappears between my palms.
“Jack?”
“Just a minute.”
I go quickly down the dim hall. It shares a wall with the parking lot. There’s a window along the wall that acts like a dark mirror in this light. I don’t look, but I’m a ghost in my peripheral until I reach the door. I drop the key card into the slot, and the little light sparks green. I slide into room 171. It’s always the same as I leave it. Striped wallpaper, my clothes piled on the loveseat, a painting of the moon above the unmade bed, white towels on the floor—thankfully, the housekeepers don’t bother with unregistered rooms. I leave the heavy curtains drawn and dark. I don’t even know where the TV remote is. I pull my belt halfway out, slip off my jeans, pull off my shirt, and crawl into bed, face-down. The covers are coarse and thick. It’s always hard to sleep here. Or anywhere.
I don’t know if this is a dream, but there she is again. White gown flowing, silently crossing the floor. Dark clouds under her veil. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I find myself climbing up into a thunderstorm. Lightning splinters, always silent. And now here I am in its wake, that strange pause—waiting for thunder to shatter anything it can.
My heart clatters against the mattress, like a crazed gunman firing in all directions.
I hear the door click shut, and light from the hallway flashes through my eyelids. There’s Claire across the room, locking the door behind her.
“Jack,” she bends over, pulls off her shoes, and shimmies her pants down. She keeps her small button-down top on, for when she has to go back to the front desk.
“Hey,” she whispers as she curls up next to me. First, I feel the cold buttons of her shirt on my arm. Then her hips move against mine, warming up. I turn to her. Her lips touch mine, soft and wintery, a touch of mint. I slip my hands under her shirt.
After, I slip out from under the heavy covers and step carefully in the dark toward the sink on the opposite side of the room. The carpet feels like gravel underfoot. The handle is cold, and it squeaks as the water hisses on. It sounds like a fuse. I let it run until it scalds. I pick up the sliver of hotel soap left and close my eyes; it’s too dark to see anything in the mirror anyway. I turn the soap, again and again. It disappears between my palms.
“Jack?”
“Just a minute.”
Benjamin Roque, an author and musician, has had stories published in Streetlight Magazine and Rod Serling Foundation Online. He currently lives in Burlington, VT, working as a repairman.