James Gardner: Reaper

“Don’t try to con me.” He laughed. “You’ve got the salami blues for Little Arfing Annie, and you want to be there to sweep her into your big strong arms when she croaks. That’s cool, I don’t mind. She’s yours.”

I had my mouth open to protest, but I closed it quickly. Let him believe what he wanted; I knew the truth.

The day continued badly for Louis. His model for the afternoon shooting session had too many ideas of her own. The two of them quarreled about poses, lighting, and the use of props. He finally threw the woman out of the studio, then spent an hour venting his anger on Anne: Anne couldn’t cook, he said; Anne had botched developing the latest batch of prints; Anne should go get a real life instead of sponging off him. Of course, she made no effort to argue — she let him rage for a time, then left him alone.

Without a target to strike at, Louis struck at himself. To be precise, he began to drink. Hooch egged him on. “Come on, Louis, belt back that gin. Be a man, make it a double. Yeah, a beer chaser, go for it!” As Hooch cheered, he stood with his scythe pressed to his cheek, his fingers avidly fondling the handle.

Near midnight, Louis got the urge to work in the darkroom. “I’ll show that bitch how to develop photographs,” he muttered. I looked at the sand in the hourglass; it had almost run out.

Inside the darkroom, Louis fumbled with the chemicals and spilled them several times. His hands were shaking and clumsy. When he lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, Hooch and I exchanged smiles.

“Gonna have a hot time in the old town tonight,” said Hooch.

“I’ll see to the lady,” I told him, and started up to her bedroom.

The explosion was less violent than I expected — we have all grown too accustomed to Hollywood’s excess. From Anne’s bedroom, the noise was barely audible: an airy whump that didn’t disturb her sleep. When I stuck my head out the door, however, I could see flames racing down the hall like unruly children, tearing through the aged building with hot glee. It was easy to see that brother and sister might well have died simultaneously.

I went back to Anne and sat on the edge of her bed. As the wood of the door frame began to smolder, I fondly stroked her hair. “Behold, I am with you,” I told her. “While I am here, you shall not perish but have eternal life.”

Before the end, the roaring of the fire awoke her. She reacted unwisely: stood up, tried to run to the door. The smoke filled her lungs almost immediately and doubled her over with a wrenching spasm of coughing. She felt very dear to me then: so human and vulnerable, with the desperation of a lost child. When she succumbed to the fumes and crumpled to the ground, she looked as innocent as a baby waiting for my baptism.

Her hourglass emptied. I did not Reap her.

Her body burned with fire, yet she was not consumed.

In the course of time, the fire department arrived. Looking at her, they could not understand how she still lived. They sped her away in an ambulance.

Soon after, Louis’s now-dead spirit burst into the room with Hooch on his heels. When the boy caught sight of me, he began to sing, “Fire’s burning, fire’s burning, draw nearer, draw nearer...”

Louis grabbed my elbow and shouted over the crackling and hissing, “Where’s my sister?”

“She’s been taken to hospital.”

“Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”

I didn’t correct him.

Suddenly Louis howled and began dragging me toward the door. “My negatives! We have to save them!”

“He still hasn’t figured out he’s dead.” Hooch laughed, prancing in the flames. I caught sight of the hourglass bouncing where it was tethered to his belt. Anne’s hourglass. It was full. I felt a surge of triumph.

Hooch noticed the direction of my gaze and looked at his hourglass in surprise. “That’s weird, isn’t it? Hey, what did you do with the bimbo’s soul?”

“I didn’t Reap her.”

He gave a low whistle and backed away from me. “You’re in trouble, man.”

“I’m not in trouble. She was your Charge.”

“Help me get the damned negatives!” Louis shouted, but neither Hooch nor I paid attention. Reapers are Reapers; Louis was merely another dead man.

With narrowed eyes, Hooch raised his scythe high, holding it as a weapon. He came slowly toward me. “You suck, man. You really suck.”

I laughed at his monumental arrogance.

Whether he would have struck me, whether it would have hurt, I do not know. I could feel sudden warmth in the air, smell the breath of roses. The glorious hand of an angel materialized between us and Hooch lowered his scythe slowly.

“Good-bye, Hooch,” I said. “Enjoy the wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

But the hand reached out for me.

In a place of darkness, I asked, “Am I in hell?”

A voice said, “Should you be?”

I didn’t answer.

After a while, I said, “I did it for Anne.”

The voice asked, “Did you?”

I didn’t answer.

Much later I said, “I understand now. You make people Reapers to test them. We’re supposed to care so much for a Charge that we risk our own souls for their lives.”

The voice asked, “Did you risk your own soul?”

I didn’t answer.

In 1989, I attended the Clarion West Science Fiction workshop. Each student was required to write a story a week. This was my first story of the workshop, written longhand in the depths of Seattle.

I’d had the idea of Reapers for some time before, but had never made a serious attempt to write a story about them. At first I thought the central character was going to be a brash teenager like the Hooch character; but after a page or two, I realized it wasn’t working. That’s when I switched to the current despicable narrator... and the story practically wrote itself.