The next day I was feeling claustrophobic and needed to spend some time away from Aunt Amy. I called my friend Darryl to
see if he was free to go shopping with me, but his mother told me he was at work, so I decided to go it alone. I bundled myself
up in a wool coat and a scarf, grabbed a large black umbrella to ward off the drizzling rain, and drove my rental car into town to
shop.
Not that there’s a Macy’s or a Saks in Red Hills, mind you. Downtown Red Hills just consists of two intersecting streets with
ample slant parking. The streets are lined with maple trees, which in the warmer months give the area a nice homey feel.
Unfortunately, by late fall all the trees were stripped bare, giving a bleak look to the four blocks of small stores, especially on
such a gray day. But I figured that what stores there were would keep me busy for at least a few hours on that, the official first
day of the Christmas shopping season. While I did some quick window shopping first--sort of a warm-up
exercise--I called Darryl at work on my cell phone.
Darryl Sullivan and I have been friends ever since he moved to town when we were both in eighth grade, but Aunt Amy was
never too thrilled about our friendship, him being black and all. She was probably scared I’d end up having a mixed-race baby
or something. Fat chance of that happening, but somehow I doubt it would have eased her mind to know that Darryl was gay.
She would have just switched worries, fearing instead that he was trying to recruit me, which just goes to show you how
narrow-minded she can be--as if her opinion of zombies wasn’t proof enough. What I didn’t count on, however, was that Darryl
would end up siding with Aunt Amy on the Brett Nostrund controversy.
"Maya," he said, "I can’t believe you’re interested in this guy. At all."
I started a feeble protest, something like, "I didn’t exactly say that," but he pressed on, saying, "I mean, come on! The guy is
dead. This isn’t just someone who zones out once in a while. Girl, we’re talking dead. D-E-A-D, dead. I’ve seen deer
strapped to car hoods that looked perky by comparison."
I love Darryl to pieces, but he can be exasperating when he gets on a roll like that. I told him as patiently as I could, "Okay,
Darryl, you’ve made your point. But I spent most of last night surfing the Net with my laptop, trying to find out whatever I could
about zombies. You wouldn’t believe how much there is online about the subject. Most of it's crap, but I was able to wade
through it to find a few articles about 'The Milwaukee Sauerkraut Incident'--they actually call it that: 'The Milwaukee Sauerkraut
Incident'--and it seems there’s quite a difference of opinion on the subject.
"Some people think it’s a hoax. Some say it’s a sort of galvanic muscle response and the zombies will run out of juice sooner
or later and stop moving. There’s a guy in Chicago who says the zombies have been taken over by microscopic space aliens--
he calls them 'nano-aliens'--while a bunch of people in Nashville think they’re possessed by the devil.
"Then there’s this grad student at U.W. Madison who’s doing his Ph.D. thesis on this, and he’s convinced that zombies aren’t
really dead at all. He says they never were dead, just comatose for a few days. He says that the infection from the sauerkraut
slowly changed their entire biochemistry. That’s why they don’t need to breathe for long periods of time so they could dig
themselves out of the ground after being buried for days. He says that now they operate more like plants than animals."
Darryl said, "Oh, sure. Venus Flytraps, maybe. Did this U.W. guy say why they eat people?"
I almost shouted, "There’s no proof of that! This guy says they need some minerals and trace elements--things like that--that
they can only get from raw flesh, but ..." and here I had to rush over Darryl’s "Ah, ha!" to say, "But they can get those things from,
say, a dead squirrel or pigeon--and God knows, we’ve got enough of those to spare--and don’t need to try to kill a full-grown
man like, say, Mr. Andersen.
"And," I was quick to add, "And this U.W. guy thinks the zombies’ memories and everything are still intact, buried deep down
inside. And he says they seem to be able to communicate with each other somehow, although he can’t make any sense out
of the guttural sounds they make, so he thinks their brains are still okay."
Darryl actually laughed as he asked, "So why do they all walk around like robots whose CPU didn’t compile?" Then he added,
"Not that Brett Nostrund’s CPU ever seemed to be running bug-free software."
I told him that was pretty low, which he admitted. Then he said, "But anyway, it is weird that he can walk again now,
considering his accident and all."
I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about that! Aunt Amy had mentioned in one of her letters that Brett had been badly injured
playing football in his sophomore year at college and that he’d been paralyzed from the waist down. "Oh my God, that’s right," I
said. "He still walks with sort of a limp, but whatever made him a zombie must have cured his paralysis. Darryl, that’s great,
isn’t it!"
Darryl didn’t seem convinced. Affecting a totally bored voice, he said, "Yeah, Maya, it’s a miracle. Gives a whole new meaning
to the phrase 'dead man walking', doesn’t it?" If he’d been there in person instead of on the cell phone, he would have
affected a yawn. Not waiting for me to laugh at his so-called joke, he went on. "Come on, Maya! Bottom line is, all zombies do
is sort of stagger around and grunt and groan now and then. It’s creepy."
I said, "Well, this U.W. guy thinks maybe they’re sort of like in a coma, except that they’re ... I don’t know ... sleepwalking or
something."
Darryl must have figured I was winging it. He said, "Or maybe they’re dead, and they’re just walking around like chickens with
their heads cut off."
I threatened to hang up on him, and he relented a little. He said, "Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But really,
Maya, let’s just say, for arguments sake, that Brett is now a sleepwalking plant-man in a coma." (Notice I didn’t say he
relented a lot.) "You can’t seriously think you could ever date someone in that condition, can you?"
I told him, "You know, I think there’s hope for Brett. He just needs some help, someone to care about him." Of course, Darryl
expressed a rather incredulous opinion of that, so I said, "I mean it, Darryl. I think maybe for once I’ve found a guy who needs
me."
He said, "Yeah, but only if you’re damn good at CPR."
I struggled to hold my temper. I said, "Look, Darryl, this U.W. guy thinks that in time a zombie brain will wake up, like people in
comas suddenly wake up sometimes."
Darryl sounded sad, almost pitying, as he said, "Maya, sweetheart, that only happens on soap operas. Coming out of a coma
is a long, slow process, if and when it does finally happen. A person in a coma doesn’t suddenly sit up, yawn, give a big
stretch, and say, 'Damn, I must have been tired. What year is this?'"
Thank you, Darryl. There was one other idea I’d come across, but I’d been reluctant to mention it, knowing Darryl might not
take it well. But if he was going to make jokes about this, well then, what the hell. I said, "There is one other thing. Seems
there’s this fundamentalist group that claims they can cure zombies."
Darryl started laughing, not quite the reaction I expected. When he caught his breath, he said, "Don’t tell me they want to start
some sort of a 'Zombies Anonymous' program. Oh, Maya, that’s rich. But I guess if anybody ever needed to be 'born again' ..."
I could always count on Darryl to make me laugh about my troubles, and that last joke of his finally did it. Of course, our
conversation didn’t help me make up my mind about Brett, but it did put my problems into perspective.
After I hung up I decided to bag the window-shopping and head for the Dairy Queen for a hot chocolate to help me forget about
zombies for a while. Unfortunately, by that time the drizzle had turned into freezing rain. As I walked past the Condor Café, I hit
a patch of ice, slipped, and would have fallen flat on my back except that, out of nowhere, a hand grabbed my elbow and
steadied me. With my heart racing on an adrenaline rush, I looked up into a pair of pale-blue eyes that seemed to stare right
through me. I gasped and said, "Well! Speak of the devil."
#
It took a bit of doing to get Brett into the Condor Café. He seemed inclined to just wander away again, but I wouldn’t let him go,
not without a proper thank you. So I dragged him into the Condor, since it was right there, and the DQ was at the other end of
town. Granted, I don’t generally consider it a major distance from one end of Red Hills to the other, but I did have a reluctant
zombie in tow, and the roads and sidewalks were getting pretty icy.
When I finally got him into the café, we were hassled by a squeaky-voiced hostess with lots of pierced body parts--like the
entire perimeter of both ears, her tongue, one nostril, one eyebrow, and who knows what else under her clothes. I couldn’t
believe it: she didn’t want to seat us. I’d begun to see that your typical Red Hills citizen didn’t like zombies, but I hadn’t
expected such blatant prejudice.
I eventually got the hostess to seat us when I told her that I’d just slipped on the icy sidewalk right in front of their café and
almost broke my neck. And no, it wasn’t sympathy that won her over; it was my veiled threat of a lawsuit.
Even so, as we slipped into the booth, she couldn’t help making a wisecrack about how lucky Brett was since the special of
the day was liver. I ignored her, and she left us alone after that, so we were able to have a great conversation.
You know how most guys are terrific listeners, as long as they’re the ones talking? Well, Brett wasn’t like that at all. He hung
on my every word, so I just about talked his ear off. I even told him all about how my parents died in a plane crash while
working with the Peace Corps in Africa. I couldn't believe I told him that; it's not something I usually like to talk about. Then I
told him, "After they died, Aunt Amy gave me a letter Daddy had written me a few years before. She told me that he'd asked her
to give it to me if anything ever happened to them."
I started to get all weepy-eyed, but Brett wasn't bothered by that. In fact, he reached across the table and put his hand on
mine. It was the coldest hand I've ever felt, but it was the warmest gesture any guy'd ever made to me, so I went ahead and
started telling him about that letter.
In it Daddy told me how much he and Mom loved me and how sorry they were that they hadn't been there for me as much as
they should have. They hoped I understood and could forgive them. I sort of laughed nervously when I told Brett that part,
because for the last few years I'd been wondering if they could forgive me.
I said, "I feel like I've let them down, just working on a career and not following in their footsteps or something." But Brett's
gentle eyes seemed to tell me it was all okay, and they reminded me of what Daddy used to say to me. He used to say, "Maya,
the only way you can change the world is one person at a time. Do what you can to help, and don't drive yourself crazy about
the rest."
I stopped then because the waterworks were starting up again, and it's not such a great idea to cry on a first date. Not that this
was exactly a date, mind you, but you know what I mean. So I changed the subject.
I told Brett what it was like being raised by an aunt whose idea of fun was doing the ironing while watching Dynasty, and then I
told him about my sanctuary, a cabin my grandfather had only half completed before he died. It was just four walls, a roof, and
a dirt floor, but I used to love to hide there, sometimes pretending to be a settler hiding from Indians, especially a mean one
named Aunt Amy.
Brett listened intently to everything I said, and I don’t even think it was because his vocal cords, zombiized as they were, didn’t
work. I did try to get him to talk, just to see if he could. I’d noticed that he still wore his class ring--no wedding ring, thank God--
which surprised me since I didn’t know where my class ring was anymore, much less wear it. But since Brett was wearing
his, I asked him if he still kept in touch with anyone from high school. He just sort of shrugged. I admit that wasn’t a good
sign, but it didn’t prove he couldn’t talk. But whether he could or not, he never took his eyes off me--which was a good sign--
and I started to understand that the lost look I’d seen in him before must have been a cry for help.
I knew right then and there that the researcher from U.W. Madison was right. Brett wasn’t dead; his humanity was just
dormant, and it was struggling to wake up. All it needed was some compassion and understanding, and I couldn’t think of
anyone more compassionate and understanding than me.
#
I know it was stupid to call Darryl the next afternoon using Aunt Amy’s telephone, but I didn’t think she would stoop to
eavesdropping on the other extension. I had planned to go over to Darryl’s house to talk to him in person, but it was getting
colder, the sky was darkening, and it looked like snow. I didn’t want to get caught outside in that kind of weather.
Anyway, it began harmlessly enough--a simple call to say, "Hi, how’s it going?" That’s all it was supposed to be. I wasn’t
going to mention the Z word at all, but Darryl brought it up. We hadn’t been talking for two minutes when he asked me, "So
how’s your boyfriend?" I said I didn’t have a boyfriend, and he said, "Oh please, Maya, you know who I mean. The cemetery
escapee. The walking corpse. Seen him lately?"
Shit. How much did he know, and how much was he just guessing? I told him about how Brett had been there to catch me
when I slipped on a patch of ice in front of the Condor Café, and he said that Brett must be stalking me. I told him it was just a
coincidence that he’d been there; it’s not like he was chasing after me or anything, so Darryl said, "Of course he’s chasing
you! He’s a zombie; it’s what they do."
I told him he was jealous because I might have a boyfriend and he didn’t, and he said, "Oh no, girl. I am so not jealous," and
he made that "um, um, um" sound he makes to emphasize a point. Then he said, "Look, Maya, I have nothing against white
guys--I’ve dated one or two in my time--but don’t you think this boy is way too white? Don’t you see there’s something not quite
right here?"
That got me mad. I wanted Darryl to see that he was all wrong about Brett, so I told him about our long talk at the café, and
Darryl just said something about Brett biding his time until he could get me alone to kill me and eat my flesh.
I said, "Ha! That’s where you’re mistaken, wise guy. See, after the café I took Brett to our cabin. You remember that old shack
by Muskrat Pond where you and me used to go sometimes to talk? Well, I wanted to take Brett someplace where he wouldn’t
have everyone staring at him. You know, people in this town can be so rude."
Darryl was quiet--I knew he wouldn’t argue with that one--so I went on. "We were all alone there, and he didn’t try to gnaw my
arm off or anything. We just talked some more. Well, mostly I talked and he listened, but I did get him to say my name! I really
do think he’s starting to come around, Darryl."
Still no reply. I wondered if Darryl had hung up, so I said, "Hello? You there?"
Darryl said yeah, he was still there, and I smiled, knowing how hard it is to talk and eat crow at the same time. "Okay. Now
what do you think?" I asked him, trying not to sound smug.
He admitted that, okay, maybe Brett’s not trying to have me for dinner. "But," he said, "he is still dead."
I started to protest, but Darryl interrupted me. He said, "Legally speaking, Maya. Legally speaking, he’s dead. That’s why him
and the rest of the Nostrunds are wandering around homeless. I mean, besides the fact that they’re zombies, so I don’t think
they know what a home is, really. But if you’re dead, you can’t own property. You can’t own anything. You don’t exist anymore."
I said, "What? Oh, that is so unfair. Just because of a minor technicality?"
Darryl said, "Um, hmm. Know what else?"
I was almost afraid to ask. "What?"
"He can’t get married either. But then, he’s not the only one." Darryl’s voice was bitter as he said that, but my mind was miles
away. After a few seconds I said, "I’ve gotta go, Darryl. Talk to you later."
He knew something was up then, and before I could hang up he said, "Maya! What’re you up to?"
I tried to evade the question, but Darryl is nothing if not persistent. Finally I figured, What the hell! Darryl’s my friend; I can tell
him. I said, "Brett’s still at the cabin. On my way out of town tomorrow morning, I’m going to pick him up and take him back to
L.A. with me."
#
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