Hoodyhoo!

I am pleased to announce that two stories published at Southern Gothic in 2007 have been recognized as Notable Stories by the storySouth Million Writer's Award.

They are:

The Tennessee Scrambler by Stephen Roger Powers
MisLiza was Soothsaid by Lucious Vaughn

In late May or early June, Jason Sanford will select the Top Ten stories from the list of Notables. Then, readers will have the chance to vote for the best story published online in 2007.

Last year, Mark MacNamara's story Vertically Divided, Blue-Red-White made the Top Ten list and ultimately finished tied for 5th place in the reader poll. I hope that we can at least repeat that performance this year, and maybe even better it! Certainly, both of Stephen's and Lucious' stories deserve to make the Top Ten, but then again, I am rather prejudiced toward them.

As a side note, a novella written by your humble editor was also recognized as a Notable Story. Ananke was published in 2007 at Theaker's Quarterly.

Full Disclosure: I was once again honored to serve as a preliminary judge for the Million Writers Award. However, I did not know who the other judges were at the time I made my selections, nor was I allowed to choose stories from Southern Gothic or any of my own published stories. Not that I would have. Jason Sanford takes great care not to prevent any conflicts of interest or even the appearance of conflicts of interest which could jeopardize the credibility of the contest. And if you don't know Jason, he edits storySouth, which is a damn good online literary magazine.

The Grimoire of Reverend Levesque

"The Grimoire of Reverend Levesque"
by Wendy Koenigsmann

The Haunters or the Haunted?

It was many years ago, yet they still tell the story of Rose and the man known as Leroi Levesque, a scoundrel if ever there was, known as much for his hollow words of faith as much as his sordid dealings with the devil. He was a hollow man, they say. He wound her, like the tale I am about to tell, in the hollowness of his whispers, wound her hair in ringlets and reeds where she drowned many years ago. Here in this white house they often met.

It was here, where lush foliage creeps around a small white house, the wet grass prickling white, blood-strained feet. Leroi Levesque tipped his hat and the sun disappeared when he smiled. Rows of corn, endless, and then appeared another harsh light, the light of unreality and dreams. His smile, also endless.

It was the time of gaslight and absinthe and also wild decadence, under scrutiny of high-mannered folk who still clung to illusion, who still clung to the reeds, like Rose. But the banks full of reeds were steep. Rose was drenched wet that summer's day when she heard Leroi Levesque's lone whistle. A hot torrent of rain fell across the bayou as the damp foliage strangled the white house. The wet, sharp grass against her blood-stained feet.

Leroi Levesque stood in the field, walking with sure strides, his boots dragging through the mud; his eyes were flickering with a sort of unusual fervor. Rose turned around on her knees. She smiled as Leroi anointed her with the spirit – she smiled, because she seemed to see the Angel of her dreams. The man's eyes were the type that dazzled, set in a face of patrician-like stillness, like the busts of ancient Rome, or Byzantine saints. Leroi Levesque spoke many languages it seemed, for he spun his words now from a marble-like maw – voudoudaje – charms like swamp fevers and dreams that meant dust and death. Rose could not comprehend the words, but she turned her eyes towards Heaven.

It was many years ago, but some say that to this day, you can see Rose's lost gaze in the stained-glass windows. The house of God is haunted and no one dares go near it. It sits in ruins. But perhaps Rose was only a ghost in the mind's eye, perhaps she never existed; and so the people would have liked to believe, were it not for the grave in the church cemetery ("Rose Belanger , beloved daughter, daughter of sin, daughter of lost souls . . .") No one really knows what became of Leroi Levesque, but it is whispered that he still walks, elegant and striding, more lost than Rose ever was, and devil-may-care; absinthe on his tongue and blood on his mind. Some say he had the look of hunger in him, a lean hunger that menaced and grew into full-blown madness.

Perhaps he could not understand his own torment.

Perhaps he could not understand his own careless deceit. He wandered, tormented by some thirst that could not be slaked or commanded, a thirst born out of the soul of the girl.

The girl's tomb is also said to be empty. They say he took her with him to hell. The same house still hangs, though in shambles, and the corn fields and the sullen mirror of big blue sky still endless, like a bad dream.

The Seance

It was early summer, and it all seemed so gay and endless, the tin roofs echoing the coming release of summer storms and not a care in the world. So simple it seemed, yet this is how it all began. Encased in a house of ivy and spiraling balustrade, the glistening lids of the medium released tears like rain. Candles flickered as hands were held tight and the incantations began. The medium, Madame Malvide, her voice was very soft and plaintive.

"I feel a presence... a... perverse presence entering." Madame Malvide seemed dead. Hands were tensed in a circle. "Who is it?" someone asked.

Rose Belanger was seated at the table but looked up as a dashing of glass and weeping willows broke the spell and sent the broken glass at them, and the wind seemed to whip black silks from a figure near the door, black over a tall, thin man with pale hands in motion. The house shook intensely as blue eyes like mosaic singled-out the medium.

"Madame Malvide . . ."

"Leroi Levesque I did not expect you so soon, I thought you were to arrive..." she motioned to him as the frightened seance broke. Only Rose remained, somehow unmoved. She seemed transfixed by his perfect yet somehow detestable beauty. His smile was dark, but comely. His voice, a soft whisper, but somehow soothing to her, like a song.

"Rose, dearest, do fetch Mr. Levesque a glass of water."

Rose nodded and lowered her head. Already a bit on fire with the summer heat, she felt a bit dizzy now as she climbed pantry stairs; she poured a glass of water and put the rim of the glass against her face. For a brief moment, she felt herself falling into a cool slumber of water. She shook her head and returned to Madame Malvide and the tall man's gaze. He looked at her briefly and nodded. In that moment, an odd electricity seemed to burn. A flash of some recognition. The stranger remained quiet, yet his eyes glowed blue coals. She was reminded of Scheherazade and the tales she had to tell to save her life. And the desert. Nothing at all like the rain. Nothing at all.

She noticed that the pale gentleman had queer movements, all at once strange and bold, and hands all expressive, like he was telling a story. They said the devil's men talked with their hands, too. They were talking about a... carnival of sorts. How exciting, she thought, for all children loved carnivals. The gentleman removed his gloves and smiled.

"All children love carnivals, don't they, Madame Malvide?"

Rose reached out very tentatively and felt his hand ensnare hers. His eyes were so big and round, deep ponds, whirlpools. She felt the heat on her brow and her lungs stifle. The pale man smiled and caught her.

"Oh, Rose," said Madame Malvide. "Excuse us," said the medium, "she often passes out from the humidity. Such a hot spell we're having this year, seems like it will never end..."

The Storm

The rain wasn't exactly over yet, nor would it stop for another two months. Rose dreamt now of the sun turning the green grass into a field of emerald gems, the rain a shower of diamonds.

Everywhere, dazzling white and iridescent deep green. Rose was on the porch of the mansion, watching someone riding away on a galloping white steed. Whoever he was, he turned to her and smiled, and she lifted her head and waved.

"Yes, I will work with her, she is the one." The voice was dark and yet sweet now in its intent; it trailed off in the hallway.

Rose continued to dream of the diamonds and a white horse; the galloping of hooves rung in her head. She could not see the rider's invisible face but the horse soon turned to that of a nightmarish steed, and she woke in cold sweat. There were echoes of rain on glass drumming endlessly, and the door to her room opened slowly. She felt a hand against her warm face. Someone sat next to her and prayed, but in a strange, unknown tongue.

A voice half-whispered and Rose opened up her eyes, but there wasn't anyone there. She saw only the moon and the shadow of hanging trees. She went back to sleep only to dream once more of those fields of green gemstones. But as she slept, that voice came back again, and spoke to her strange words from the ones who called themselves The Decadents...

"Even your darkest shade a canvas fears
Wherever my eyes must multiply in swarms
Familiar looks of shapes no longer there..."

Obsession

And so it had started innocently enough, or so it is thought.

One Sunday morning, around the bend of a bayou, lush with ripened and rotting moss, Rose took a walk to the church, a favourite haunt of hers. She liked the little white temple with its pointed steeple and clean cool floors. She often prayed on her knees to those saints she had been taught about not very long ago, by her mother Sophie Belanger, God rest her soul.

It was on one of these pleasant afternoons that she had been treading the green grass, which glistened from the rain. Corn stalks rustled behind her and footsteps trudged through mud. Rows and rows of stalks separated them but she heard a lonely whistle. Shading her eyes, she peered beneath her soft white hand. Drunk on the summer heat.

Even if she already was as beautiful a young women could be, with yellow-red hair and hazel eyes, her young and goodly nature made her all the more radiant. He removed his hat as he entered church. It was her gentleness that enticed the most. Taking her wrist in his, he pinned it gently behind her and brushed a leather-bound fist against her cheek. In God's own house he embraced her as the good saints wept. She felt something now, the reeds all around her, and the sharp cat tails, and her breath was heavier still.

One, two, three, she was awake again.

Next Sunday, much on a day like this one, he stopped to give her a present: a book of po-e-try by a man named Charles Baudelaire. Lover of poisoned flowers and gardens of evil. One poem in particular, caught her eye, and its name: Obsession... Leroi often read to her in church. The rain kept falling but they would stay dry inside by flickering candles and flickering hearts. He would turn to her, after reading, and she would drink deep of sea-blue eyes, touched by hints of green, and always like glassy marbles, or emeralds. Something about his gaze reminded her of the green emeralds of her dreams. In the reflection of his mirror-like eyes, eyes gleamed soft amber and green against her features. She resembled, with fragile bones, Boticelli's Venus, sexless like the angels, but still more beautiful then as any woman he had ever known. Still, and more.

La Fee Verte

It was in August of that year, in the harshness of half-light, that the strange Carnival came to life. Under the swirl of maroons and lurid tapestries, Rose was led to the stage. Levique said she would enjoy it, and Madame had no choice but to sit still. Elmira Malvide was frightened of this man beyond all reason and did everything he told her, too. Rose's mother had died long ago and left her to Madame Malvide, her only living relative, the outcast. So Rose would become a part of this sideshow. But it wasn't what you thought. Here, her lips were painted red, and the men were full of odd glances. Here, Leroi Levesque would pause and tell her to smile.

But by the third night of such lurid displays, after the men began to complain about the young girl's "unwillingness," Leroi Levesque grew moody. Moodier still he grew when he contemplated while he drank. Absinthe, drowned his sights. Absinthe, drowned his eyes. Everywhere, a green haze and everything a dream. She was given a gift. She wore the green too, on her wrist – a charm, spun in silver and green stones, like the green emerald-coloured glass. He drunk of his glass and drunk of her eyes – read her thoughts. Deep in the drought of her heart, he contemplated it. Something tender.

As of late he tired of the girl himself, and that heart clutched tighter and tighter. She was strangling him. Oftentimes, Rose woke beside him, because she could not bear to be with those men. So he kept her as his pet, and kept her close by. He seemed to soothe her for some time, but he was restless yet. She often dreamt of him, riding on a white horse, his smile, dazzling. And she dreamt of him, and the absinthe, the damned elixir -- and something strange began to happen. She dreamt of breathing out ashes, spread around her like dust, and the fear in her mind became a grim labyrinth.

Leroi dreamt too, but he was ridden by the devil himself, and while Rose slept near him he would escape to the throng of men below, to find what he wanted. Beneath the writhing tendrils of art nouveau lamplights, her eyes glowed eerily, reminiscent of jade, or La Fee Verte. This sideshow angel was the devil's new pet, who did not flinch. Emerging from smoke and haze, lips painted into a permanent cherry smile. Leroi tipped his hat at the girl with the green eyes and she took his hand.

Madame Malvide knew his affections for Rose could not last. No, not even for a minute could she believe, for his affections were more than just that, they were only affectations.

House of Smoke and Mirrors

The Reverend's trysts grew to infamy, and he drifted from Rose. Truth be known, Rose had drifted as well. She started to know too much. Once, he came to her, only to find her fingering his leather-bound book, full of pictures and strange things. She set the book down and looked at him sadly. Lately, Rose also felt that she had been wandering a house full of smoke and mirrors. Dead things filled her dreams; not only rabbits and birds but the living dead; she saw grim faces and cries.

Leroi Levesque once found her in a state of frightening trance and he helped her to flee, helped her to forget. He could soothe her soul like any good absinthe, and so she slept again, if only for a while. Rose had learned much of his secrets while he would go away every night. For one, she learned how to fight the sleep. He did not yet know this. Many times she battled him and won. He did not realize her eyes were full of sadness, not enchantment. It was only a matter of time.

They say too that the Magician's girl could not fight her addiction to the devil, and she could not bear the pain of it. Ultimately, she only grew more sullen, and as she grew more tired and grey, she grew invisible, then dead. Meanwhile, Leroi Levesque knew that Rose was discovering too much. He did not wish to hurt her, but he had to. It was one day in summer that he took her to the old haunt, the church, and she finally understood what it all meant.

It was the bayou, not his kiss, that stopped her breath. There was something down there; it tangled her hair up, and the cattails were much too far to grab a hold of. She was falling deeper into sleep. By the banks of the bayou, Leroi Levesque wept, for as much as he was restless and mean, he made himself believe that he had only meant to stifle her fears and soothe her soul.

Before she slept forever, he gave her the ultimate gift. He strung her around him, like radiant pearls, fishing for her thoughts... and he saw himself in her mind's eye, gallant and proud, riding away on a white steed. She was on the porch of the mansion, waving, and he looked back at her, smile bedazzling. Everything was perfect and everything shone around her like a brilliant palace of gems, all around, nothing but sunshine and fire reflecting in the facade of glittering water.

He could not, would not let it end this way. He would not give her such a pretty ending at all.

It was a matter of time, as well, that the Nine O'Swords conquered La Fee Verte, the Magician's New Pet. Leroi had found others to entertain himself with. Leroi, gone. The world was dead and she sat there, eyes without tears. The room was empty of him. Empty and alone. He would never return. Absentmindedly, she got dressed. The cherry red smile curved unnaturally. The Magician's pet who did not flinch.

They found her dead the next day, blood upon her lips now. A case of self-induced poisoning. The card for the Nine O'Swords fluttering by her feet.

Awaken from Slumber

It was after this latest scandal that Leroi Levesque seemed to have become a ghost, spoken of often, hardly seen. Nothing was heard of him for many years. The dead sleep for many years too, and silence pervaded the gravestones of those he had vanquished, of those he had killed.

One Sunday morning, full of gloom, it was said Leroi Levesque had finally been seen once more, this time, it was certain.

It was at the white church, under a dream-led daze of sunlit fog, creating an unreal reality: the long elegant form of Leroi Levesque floated across the corn field, and closer and closer he came to the church door, now ramshackled. And a young girl was said to be kneeling inside, on her knees. They say she has a lifeless gaze. They say Leroi spoke words to her, only backwards, and the girl, thought dead, was not yet alive either – for she closed her eyes now and seemed pleased somehow.

Leroi Levesque made her dream again, her favourite dream. She still saw herself on a porch of a white plantation, waving at Leroi on his white stallion. She did not see much else. Day and night were all the same to her. She only saw now the white horse and his figure against the oppressive heat of the sun, and they never ceased to burn behind her dead eyes. The air there continually smelled of wildflowers.

Leroi Levesque could not give her back the one thing she needed most: her soul. It was cold in her grave, green and mossy. She slept and dreamt , repeating-like, till her head was as much a stone as the gravestone her pillow. She was a shade. "Une revenant," they said.

So she raised her eyes to him as if seeking sunlight, and he said nothing. Only the coldness of the years wore at him, until he too turned into a ghost of nothingness, with nothing on his mind but ugly thoughts, and ugly faces looking back at him... the memories of those long dead, turned into the living dead, until at long last he couldn't find his own way out of the labyrinth.

(c)2008 Wendy Koenigsmann

Small Press Month

My fan belt broke up on the four lane and I need twelve dollars to fix it so I can get back home because I went off and forgot my cat's asthma medication on the kitchen counter and he's allergic to cats, you see. We're headed to Dallas to visit my mother who is sick and can't get to the doctor because the warranty's gone out on her artificial hip and you know how these things are - they break as soon as the warranty expires. My children have been looking forward to seeing their grandma one more time before she dies, bless her poor old arhythmic heart, but they haven't eaten since yesterday, when we shared a Twinkie between the five of us. Things would be better if my wife didn't have to live in an iron lung.

March is Small Press Month, or so I've been told. So why not help out an old altar boy and make a tax deductible donation to WordArts and Southern Gothic today?

storySouth Million Writers Award

The nomination period for the 2007 storySouth Million Writers Award is open until March 31, 2008. If you liked any of the stories published here in 2007, please head on over and nominate your favorite. A word, though - to qualify, the story must be more than 1,000 words long, which disqualifies several excellent stories from our list. We're working on recitifying this regretable prejudice for next year.

The stories that qualify are:
Dry Rub
The Dream Machine
MisLiza was Soothsaid
The Tennessee Scrambler
(although if you want to nominate Mrs. Z's Beauty Parlor, it's damn close to 1,000 words - maybe nobody will notice ;)

Last year, Mark MacNamara's story, "Vertically Divided, Blue-Red-White," made the Top Ten and tied for 5th with a story published at Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. This was a tremendous honor for Mark, as it was his first published story, and for Southern Gothic, as 2006 was our first full year of publication.

Slush Pile Update

Dear authors,

I have no more stories from 2007. If you sent a story in 2007 and you have not heard back from me, your story either never arrived, or you sent it in the form of an attachment and it was deleted unread, per the note in the submission guidelines.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Dry Rub

"Dry Rub"
Nicholas Ripatrazone

Ninety-seven degrees at the Clarence D. Wilkens Memorial Barbeque Stand. Named after a Confederate veteran who allegedly died on the very spot. Conveniently located at the junction of county roads 316 and 514. Parking available in the back. Line for orders in the front. Owned by Malcolm Crooks. Malcolm smoked while grilling. Ashes rose and stuck to the carnival-style tent overhead. Often Malcolm grilled with no shirt. Heat came from all angles: the sun, the asphalt, the coals, the air. A set of speakers powered by a generator played rock from sunrise to sunset. Always rock. Rush, Bad Company.

On the rare occasions he did wear a shirt he wore the Rush 2112 starman shirt. A woman once complimented him on the shirt, and Neil crawled from beneath the table. He didn’t show teeth, he didn’t bark, but he gave a long look that said my master is taken. Well, he wasn’t exactly taken. Not anymore at least.

Neil was a coonhound. Pure breed. Bought from a raccoon hunter in Lafayette who could no longer hunt after his knees gave out in a field. Malcolm’s knees had never given out so he could not empathize but he tried to imagine the scene: the old hunter wore a hat, crouched behind a tree, shot, and then Neil, or whatever his name was back then, bounded forward to find the kill, and the old hunter stepped in a hole and fell. The coonhound currently known as Neil ran back and licked the old hunter’s face until it felt like his skin was covered in syrup. The scene had no basis in reality, but neither did most of Malcolm’s memories.

Neil spent his days spread beneath the grill. He lapped droppings of grease and fat from the asphalt. A commercial-size fan whirred behind him, slightly flapping his coat, which was mostly black but his chest was an uneven tan, as if someone had spilt coffee and it stained. When business was slow Neil slept and Malcolm read Wisconsin Death Trip. Between noon and one the stand was busy. The phone company was next door and employees arrived in groups wearing white shirts and short black ties. They complained about the heat and waved napkins in front of their faces and their razor burns flared pink. They said the dog looked like he was cool and Malcolm agreed. They sat at the benches and ordered chicken with blueberry sauce and ribs glazed with lime and lemon and invariably stained their starched shirts which they dabbed with ice and left a water ring around a nipple.

Neil was awake during lunch hour and was usually ogled by men and women alike.

He has a beautiful coat, they said.

One of his eyes is a different color. It’s almost grey. Like smoke.

He’s so docile for a hunting dog.

Occasionally lunch scraps were offered to Neil and occasionally Malcolm allowed them. Neil’s tongue could be seen while he chewed. Feeding a dog is a rare activity that is both transient in result yet repeated endlessly.

The stand normally closed at dusk. Malcolm flipped the shutters, locked the back, and pulled chain across the entrance. They drove to an overgrown ball field where Malcolm threw a football incomprehensible distances and Neil, still graceful despite age, fetched the pigskin. Malcolm worked the dog until a flapping tongue was seen, and then they would go home.

Neil had his own couch and black and white television. He especially enjoyed Man from Atlantis. The home felt empty. Malcolm’s wife left three months earlier. Said she was going to her sister’s but never came back. Malcolm called the sister and she said he had half a brain to have fallen for the oldest trick. His wife sent a postcard from New York that said she was going to be gone for awhile.

Her reasons for leaving were simple: at least the way they came out of her mouth. Malcolm worked the stand year round and business was thin during the cold months. She wanted to know what kind of grown man had a lemonade stand? Malcolm had plans to open a restaurant but never did. She said he should moonlight at least. Bus table at the local diner, clean businesses after hours. He said no, and said no one too many times.

Her income as a teacher had helped, but now it was gone. So, after staring at Neil’s slobbering, sleeping face for an entire night, Malcolm took his wife’s advice. Somewhat. He decided to stay open late during the summer.

He slept on the idea and woke confident and committed. He brought all his vinyl from home. Everything. Burnt River Band, Chico Magnetic Band. He found a copy of Vulcan’s Meet Your Ghost beneath his bathroom sink. The sleeve was warped but the album was fine. He painted a new sign that said ‘we close when I fall asleep’. He stapled flyers to telephone posts and bought an ad in the sports section of the local paper. He spread the word to the phone company employees, who either appeared uncomfortable by the idea of midnight barbeque or seemed overexcited. He considered a laser-light show but knew the generator could only support the speakers. Music was absolutely necessary.

The first few nights were slow, and only a few guys from the phone company showed up. They brought beer in a cooler and inhaled ribs. Neil offered barks at regular intervals. Midnight came and the telephone company guys dropped bottles on the ground and drove away any reasonable persons so Malcolm replaced Robert Palmer with Chico Magnetic Band to scare them away. He blasted “Explosion.” The grill shook and Neil cooed. The telephone company guys rumbled. One jumped on the bench, a rib in his fist.

Out of the heavy darkness walked a group of teenagers. Late teens: nineteen. All in sandals or thongs. Tight jeans with holes on the knees. Hair tucked behind ears. Wiry waifs. Neil stood at their arrival. Malcolm set down the skewer and waited. And waited.

We’ve come for Chico, one of them said. To hear him scream. Nobody played Chico’s shit. It was golden. It was beautiful.

One of the telephone company guys said it sucked. Acid kids’ shit. The man standing on the bench rifled the rib against a kid’s bare chest.

A riff cranked from the speakers and fuzzed out, as if the world was consumed in television snow. Sandals slipped off clammy feet and bottles crashed against the grill. Malcolm swiped Neil’s leash and tied him to the pick-up’s hitch. He ran out front and took the skewer in one hand and a knife in the other and said to get the hell away you fuckers. Get the hell out of here.

The kids flung last-ditch punches and scattered. One of the telephone guys was already in his car, waving the rest to leave. Another appeared to hold his jaw in place. The last one, the instigator, told Malcolm he was going to lose business. Malcolm said business wouldn’t be lost. It would merely be gone for a while.

© 2007 Nicholas Ripatrazone

Mrs. Z's Beauty Parlor

"Mrs. Z's Beauty Parlor"
by Priscilla Rhoades

I used to date a mortician, but he died. Worked himself to death. The undertaking business is booming here in Huntsville, retirement capital of North Carolina, and he put in more hours than anyone I know. I'll miss him.

I've worked at the funeral home now for close to twenty-five years. This was my first job out of beauty college and I can tell you honestly that I never expected to stay this long. I even left once, got a job at Hair Today out on Biltmore Boulevard. But when I got tired of listening to all the doctors' wives gab and bitch, I came back. At least here the clients are quiet.

This morning for instance, Mrs. Cooke was laid out as pretty as a lily on a pond. After I'd given her hair a proper Baptist coif, powdered her face, and shaded her eyelids Burnt Sienna, you wouldn't have known that she was ninety-three the day she got called up to those condominiums in the sky. Cosmetology is a tricky science; you have to be careful with the lips, for instance; too much color and you get a cartoon; too little and you see death smiling up at you. When I finished with Mrs. Cooke she looked as beautiful as a queen, more dignified in death than she ever was in life.

I should tell you about John, the mortician whose heart gave out. He was possibly the gentlest man I've ever known. More gentle even than Stephen, my husband. Stephen was killed in the Vietnam War, a long time ago. He was a medic and the Army sent him into Cambodia, where we weren't even supposed to be, and he was loading a wounded soldier into a helicopter when he caught a stray bullet. VC or friendly fire, no one could ever tell me. Stephen and I were high school sweethearts and if he'd lived, I'd be one of those doctors' wives, getting a henna rinse and gossiping at Hair Today.

After Stephen died, I finished school and got my diploma and when I answered an ad in the Citizen Times, John gave me this job. The first thing I noticed about John was that he wore foundation: turned out it was Christian Dior, medium coverage. Probably no one else would have noticed but of course I did. Much later I found out it was to cover the scars; he'd had terrible acne as a teenager.

John was a third-generation mortician so I suppose you could say that embalming was in his blood. He was very good at it. Embalming is another tricky science. People don't realize how much skill it takes to make a dead body appealing.

We didn't date right away. John had just come through a hard divorce, and I was still in love with my dead soldier; neither of us was ready. It happened slowly, the way women like it - friendship first, then romance. But I can tell you the day it changed. I should explain first that all my life I've had hypoglycemia and on that particular day I had forgotten to eat. The hospitals had been paging Mr. Post like crazy that week, and I'd pulled an all-nighter and then had a cup of coffee to get through the morning.

John found me at work on Mrs. Duckworth; the Duckworths are an old family around here; they go way back, before the War of Northern Aggression. I was trying to make Mrs. Duckworth look presentable, and I was having a hard time of it. No matter what I did, her color was still wrong. John felt my frustration and put a sympathetic hand on my wrist.

"You're cold," he said. He looked at me then like he was seeing me for the first time.

"It's my blood sugar," I told him.

That was the moment I knew. John was not like other men, like the grunge I met at the Round-Up, where I would occasionally spend a Saturday night with girlfriends. John was a gentleman. He didn't rush at me for sex; he took his time. Another thing about John, he was meticulous: shirts starched, slacks pressed, shoes shined. And his hands - they were as smooth as a baby's butt, manicured, clean, and I'll tell you a little secret. That hair on his knuckles that so many men have? John dyed his so you wouldn't see it.

The first night we made love he insisted we both shower first, that's how fastidious he was. After we'd undressed and he'd hung our clothes in his closet, I followed him into the shower. He placed me carefully, respectfully, under the spray and I jumped a little without meaning to, startled by the sudden cold splash on my back. He kissed me then and after a while I forgot the chill of the water and concentrated on the heat growing inside me.

As I say I always knew, at least from our first touch I knew about John, but I found out for certain by accident. Working late one night I walked in on him with Mrs. Fluharty. Mrs. Fluharty was younger by half than most of our clients - a car accident victim, cut up pretty bad. She took a lot of work on my part.

The way I learned to think about it was this: what John did with other women was his business. And if those other women happened to be corpses, well, who was I to judge?

When he died, I did his face in Christian Dior, and he looked as beautiful as a lily on a pond. The orator said, "John was a man who loved hiswork."

And I, more than anyone, knew it was true.

(c) 2007 Priscilla Rhoades