Jodi Lee: Ante Mortem

Much has been made in the past months of editors and publishers that don’t continue and follow through on contractual obligations, or that don’t even stick around long enough to see their vision through to the end. This has become far too common-place in the last while, too many small presses or one-off groups popping up over night, and then disappearing just as fast. Sometimes, writers are lucky and retain their stories. Other times, unscrupulous people go ahead and publish the stories anyway, without contract, without payment, without permission; in the worst cases, stories are stolen outright and published in someone else’s name.

Those of us who were accepted to a particular anthology, one that did not materialize, were lucky enough to keep our rights, to keep our stories intact. While the ‘publisher’ may not have been real, using a pseudonym and drop-box to conduct business, at least for this, he was honest. All rights were returned to those who wished to retain them.

I was angry when I was first told of the deception, and while I’d stewed over it, steamed and waited for my contract to run out, I thought about the other authors, some of whom I’m proud to say are more than ‘table of contents acquaintances.’ I’m very proud to call them my friends. What of their stories? I then contacted as many as I could, with the seed of an idea.

Belfire was in its infancy, we hadn’t even released a single book yet, and I had two other projects on the go besides Belfire proper, but I didn’t care. Something about these stories and these writers thrilled me, there was a spark. Within a week, we’d germinated the seed and Ante Mortem became a reality; within a month, everything was set. The hideous project from the past would not haunt us evermore: we had turned back the clock, and re-entered pre-death.

Each of these stories has something in common. Each has either been accepted to an anthology or a magazine that subsequently, for whatever reason, did not publish the piece. For this, that we have been able to give these stories a new home, a proper home, we are very, very grateful. We all hope you enjoy the selections in our own life before death – Ante Mortem!

Isaac Bauer’s fingers twitched, looking for something to hold. He’d quit smoking a month ago, but Anne was late. Anne was never late. He shoved a hand in his pocket and rummaged for a pack of gum. The gum would have to do. The sky over Springdale faded from pale grey to granite as he waited at the corner of 15 thand Arthur, scraping the cracked sidewalk with the side of his shoes. Forty-five minutes after their planned meeting time, Isaac surrendered.

He had already left two messages, but he tried dialing her cell phone again. “Shit,” he muttered as Anne’s voicemail greeting sounded in his ear. He snapped the phone shut and breathed a long slow sigh, counting slowly in his head to steady his frustration. His nervous fingers found the small jewelry box in his jacket pocket and traced the corners and angles of its soft surface. She stood me up , he thought, and then, maybe she’s in trouble . “No. Nothing ever happens in Springdale,” he said to himself, shaking off the thought.

Before Isaac turned toward his apartment, he traced the path Anne would have taken to meet him at the corner. He walked down dark neighborhood streets and felt the closeness of the houses. He walked as far as the new playground, a slab of concrete with two looming lamps reflecting an odd orange hue from the sea of grey. A slight chill forced him to flip his collar around his neck and rubbed his hands together for warmth. Isaac surveyed the playground for a moment. He thought of Anne and felt a pit grow in his stomach. The grey air iced over, and Isaac walked home.

Isaac called Anne thirty times over the next few days. Nothing. Anne was gone. He drove to her house only to find black windows and her car in the drive. Without the car she couldn’t have gone far. His initial frustration had burned away, giving space to a solid fear, a growing unease about her safety.

“Springdale Police. Can we help you?”

“Yeah. I need to report a missing person.” Isaac’s hand trembled as he spoke. Calling the police made her disappearance serious, and that frightened Isaac.

“How long has the person been missing?”

“About three—” Isaac glanced at the calendar on his refrigerator. “She’s been gone about a week.”

“Name?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is the name of the missing person?”

“Oh… yeah. Anne. Her name is Anne.” Isaac’s neck started to burn and his stomach tightened.

“Last name?”

“Sorry. Renner.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to see Anne’s face, her smooth strands of maple hair, her green eyes, and porcelain smile. “Anne Renner…” he repeated without thinking about his words.

“Sir, are you a member of Anne’s family?”

Isaac sighed. “No, no I’m not.”

“Relationship to the missing?”

“I’m her fiancé—er, boyfriend.” Isaac slumped to his bed. “She doesn’t have any family. No close family anyway.” One hand held the phone while the fingers of the other raked through his cropped hair. His eyes scanned the room, resting on the jewelry box on the edge of his desk.

Isaac drove past Anne’s house every day after work. He walked in the evenings, sometimes taking long, meandering trips through dark, quiet neighborhoods that would lead him down Anne’s street. He placed signs bearing her photocopied picture around town—little handmade posters that included his telephone number. The signs seemed unnecessary; Springdale was a small town, and news of a missing person traveled faster than a flame across an oil slick. Isaac called the police repeatedly, usually receiving an explanation that adults pick up and leave all the time; it wasn’t a crime.

Four weeks—almost a month—burned from the calendar, and his phone rang.

“Hello,” Isaac said.

“Yeah, uh, are you the one who left the flyers up around town,” a voice said on the other line. “Uh… Isaac?”

He had dealt with pranks before, people who would call, harass him, joke about seeing Anne. “Yes,” he said.

“Look, I’ve got something for you. I’ll meet you at the bakery—you know the one downtown, Tasty Pastry. Tuesday, 7 AM. My name’s Nick.”

Isaac opened his mouth, but the line was dead.

Isaac arrived early. The late October air grew colder each day, and he was dressed in a simple blue sweater with an insulated flannel jacket. He stepped into the bakery and staggered in the warmth. Taking a seat with his back to the wall and next to the front window, he slipped from his jacket and waited.

Most of the bakery patrons were old—retirees out for coffee and socializing on a Tuesday morning. An occasional younger man or woman would rush in, exchange a pleasant but hurried exchange with some of the retirees before snapping orders at the clerks, paying quickly, and zipping from the place. The door swung open, and a young man, probably in his twenties although not a native of Springdale—Isaac didn’t recognize him from high school—stepped into the bakery and moved his head from side to side, surveying the room.

“Nick?” Isaac asked.

He turned, showing a lean, long face, pale cheekbones at contrast with almost black hair, and foggy grey eyes. The man sat in a chair opposite Isaac, almost gliding like a ghost.