Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

“Maybe that was Newt — Newt had to have a past life. Or Ross Perot! Al Gore?”

“As punishment for my stubbornness, I was forced into a house of prostitution…”

“ Now we’re getting somewhere. You know, I believe in past lives, I really do. I knew a guy who sold used cars. Always called them ‘chariots.’ Sweet guy, name of Benjamin — Benjamin Hur . But all his friends called him—”

“Donny, just listen!” The agent grew sullen and fidgety. “The only person who would help me was a boy who ran errands for the madam—”

“Right! The new boyfriend — your hero . I’m happy for you, Ursula. Maybe you can rule the trailer park together. But let me ask you something: does Mahatma Junior share the same little recovered memory? I mean, does he at least get the chance to rebut ? You know: ‘Hey, I don’t remember that! That’s not one of my past lives! I was King of the Zulus!’”

“Sometimes it takes a while to bring those memories from the Inner to the Outer. And Taj is very new — as am I.”

“Taj?”

“He needs to come by it himself, and he will . If he lets the Mahanta guide him.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it Wiedlin ? What’s he look like?”

“I don’t see why that’s important.”

“You’re right,” he said, nodding at the waiter for the check. “Nothing’s important. Including the fact you are out of your fucking mind.”

Why did she even bother? She was grateful for all he’d done, especially for Tiffany. She wanted to release him, because Ursula knew her love had been overbearing. But to release him meant sharing the found vision of her passion play: smell of wet stones and burning wood, sting of incense, bordello voices (they seemed like Latin or maybe Italian, though she spoke neither).

She hadn’t yet mentioned to Sara or Phylliss what girlhood memories and a trip to the downtown library had confirmed. When she was Tiffany’s age, an aunt bought her a Dictionary of Saints . There was a painting of an ecstatic girl, implements of torture scattered at her feet. A man in a shirt with puffed sleeves held a sword to her neck. The story said she’d been forced into prostitution for refusing a rich politician; this hapless blonde, found on the Inner — who was Ursula, sad whorehouse girl exhumed from a dream — was none but St. Agatha herself. Now that her life made sense, she wanted to tell Donny everything, but how could he listen? Agatha had rejected the senator as Ursula had her father and his rough friends. Agatha consecrated her virginity to Jesus Christ; Ursula would make her vows to the Mahanta Sri Harold Klemp, the Living ECK Master. She must have known all this even as a tiny girl (it made her think of the Motorcycle Man at the potluck). Ursula was mildly embarrassed at the “bride of Mahanta” aspect, because she knew that wasn’t at all something ECKists encouraged. Maybe it was inappropriate. She’d talk to Phyll about it. Phyll would set her straight.

Tiffany was coloring her book with a child’s fierce attention. Occasionally, she glanced up at Fraggle Rock .

A woman came looking for Ursula. Taj saw her through the curtain; he knew Phylliss from ICM days and didn’t feel like an encounter. He slunk to the bedroom.

For a few weeks, he’d been crashing there, unbothered, leaving in the early morning hours — but it seemed that the truth about Taj Wiedlin would soon out. Maybe it was time to call his sister for airfare home. He hadn’t spoken to the family since Zev let him go. His mom was probably worried near to death.

When the coast was clear, he returned to the living room with a milkless bowl of Cheerios.

“Why did you hide?” asked Tiffany.

“I didn’t hide.”

“You’re weird,” she said, going back to her routine.

Taj couldn’t believe he was offended by the little girl’s dismissal. She shook her head, curling her lip in disgust as she drew. Taj began an “I’m weird” dance to break the tension, but her rejection congealed.

“When’s Mama coming home?”

“I don’t know, Crabby,” Taj said, doing his goofy jig. “Come on and smile.”

“I am not crabby and stop it.”

“Crabby Tabby.”

“You’re bothering me,” whined Tiffany. “You don’t even live here.”

“Ground control to Major Crab! Have a Cheerio and do the ‘weird’ dance. You’ll feel better.”

“I hate you.” She didn’t really, but now she’d said so.

“A little over the top, don’t you think? And rude.”

“ You’re rude.” Less emphatic now.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Because you’re weird .”

“You mean I’m weird because I fuck your mother between the legs?”

Tiffany stood, agitated. “Be quiet!”

He started a “Be quiet!” dance, and she pushed him. Taj grabbed her head and held it fast so they were nose to nose, like player and ref. He made creepy, guttural sounds and Tiffany shook, squealing in terror. He screamed all over the surface of her head as if it were the earth, his cries satellite signals covering land, sea and polar cap. He dug nails into her chest and yelled at the top of his lungs in her ears, making funny kung fu faces as he butted Tiffany’s head and yanked out a slim broomful of hair.

He dialed Zev’s office, pounding her stomach while they had him on hold. “Hello? Are you casting yet for Dead Souls ?”

He left her there, receiver propped to bloody mouth and ear.

Rachel Krohn

It was almost midnight when the old woman called.

Someone had died. Could Rachel make it to the chevra the next morning, say, eight-fifteen? The taharah would take an hour, maybe more. Birdie said it was a child and asked if that might be too upsetting. Rachel wasn’t sure. She asked if it was an accident, and Birdie said the girl had been murdered. Was there blood? Birdie didn’t know.

Rachel skimmed a handbook for grievers she’d picked up at the Jewish bookstore. It said mourners should cover mirrors and overturn beds. She turned out the lights and thought of the furnitureless mansion of her father’s memorial park. She drifted to an ocean of bobbing canopy beds, each with wide-eyed child marooned. The beds bellied-up in the water until all that was left were their periscope-legs. She woke up drowning just after three and never got back to sleep.

Ursula Sedgwick

Donny argued with Phylliss and Sara, who were pushing for an ECK memorial, with readings from “The Golden Heart” and “Stranger by the River.”

When his mother died, the rabbi explained how the human being was often compared to a Torah scroll, the parchment equivalent to the body; the divine names written thereon, the soul. The agent thought that beautiful. Serena’s pilgrimage beneath the house had left her filthy, and Donny loved the idea of pious, level-headed strangers ceremonially scrubbing her down — wiping the pages clean — for the Journey. When he suggested the taharah would be a good thing, Ursula didn’t speak. She smiled, grateful he was there at all — that anyone was who could help her Tiffany.

Donny called the rabbi and said Ursula was a Jew, and that is how her daughter was buried.

Rachel Krohn

Rachel was early. The girl’s mother had been there all night with friends while the shomer sat with the body. The police arrested the boyfriend, Birdie said.