Wallace stared after him, a lump in his throat.
CHAPTER
11
On the thirteenth day of Wallace Price’s stay at Charon’s Crossing, two things of note happened.
The first was unexpected.
The second was as well, though the chaos that followed could firmly be placed upon Mei and no one could convince Wallace otherwise, even if it was mostly his own fault.
* * *
Early morning. Alarm clocks would be going off soon, another day beginning at the tea shop. Hugo and Mei were asleep.
And Wallace wished he was anywhere but where he was.
“Would you stop hitting me?” he snarled, rubbing his arm where he’d been struck with the cane for what felt like the hundredth time.
“You’re not doing it right,” Nelson said. “You don’t seem like a man who loves to fail, so why are you so good at it?”
Apollo woofed quietly as if in agreement, watching Wallace with a tilt to his head, ears perked.
“I’m going to make myself a cane and then hit you with it. See how you like it.”
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Nelson said. “Go ahead. Make a cane out of nothing. It’d certainly be better than standing here waiting for you to figure out how to change your clothes. At least something would happen that way.” He sighed dramatically. “Such a waste. And here I was thinking you’d be different. I guess the chair was just a fluke.”
Wallace bit back a sharp retort when the bottoms of his feet began to tingle. He looked down. The flip-flops were gone.
“Whoa,” he whispered. “How did I…？”
“You seem to react to anger more than anything else,” Nelson said cheerfully. “Odd, that, but who am I to judge? I can hit you again if you’d think it’d help.”
Wallace said, “No, don’t. Just … hold on a minute.” He frowned at his feet. He could feel the floor against his heels. There was a cookie crumb between his toes. He imagined his pair of Berluti Scritto’s, the leather ones that cost more than many people made in a month.
They didn’t appear.
Instead, he was suddenly wearing ballet slippers.
“Huh,” Nelson said, also peering down at Wallace’s feet. “That’s certainly … different. Didn’t know you were a dancer.” He looked up, squinting at Wallace. “You’ve got the legs for it, I guess.”
“What is it with you people and my legs?” Wallace snapped. Then, without waiting for an answer, “I don’t know what happened.”
“Right. Just like you don’t know how the bikini happened. I believe you completely.”
Wallace growled at him, but then the ballet slippers disappeared, replaced by a pair of old sneakers. And then slippers. And then flip-flops again. And then cowboy boots, complete with spurs. And then, much to his horror, brown sandals with blue socks.
He began to panic, hopping from one foot to the other as Apollo danced around him, yipping excitedly. “Oh my god, how do I make it stop? Why isn’t it stopping?”
Nelson frowned at his feet just as the sandals and socks gave way to high heels better suited for an exotic dancer on a stage, making it rain. He shot up four inches, and then dropped back down as the heels were replaced by yellow rubber boots with ducks on the side. “Here,” Nelson said. “Let me help.”
He smacked Wallace’s shins with his cane.
“Ow,” Wallace cried, bending over to rub his legs. “You didn’t have to—”
“Stopped it, didn’t I?”
He had. Wallace now wore … soccer cleats? He’d never played soccer in his life, and therefore had never worn cleats before. Granted, he’d never worn stiletto heels or a bikini, but still. It was an odd choice, though Wallace wasn’t sure choice was the right word.
“This is ridiculous,” Wallace muttered as Apollo sniffed the cleats before sneezing obnoxiously.
“It is,” Nelson agreed. “Who knew you were so eclectic. Perhaps these are simply manifestations of what your heart truly desires.”
“I doubt that immensely.” Wallace took a tentative step, the cleats unfamiliar. He waited for them to disappear, to change into something different. They didn’t. He breathed a sigh of relief as he closed his eyes. “I think it’s over.”
“Um,” Nelson said. “About that.”
That didn’t sound good. Wallace opened his eyes again.
The sweats were gone.
The Rolling Stones shirt was gone.
Oh, the cleats were still there, so he could be thankful for small favors, but he now wore a spandex jumpsuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. To make matters worse, it wasn’t an ordinary spandex jumpsuit; no, because Wallace’s afterlife was apparently an utter farce, the jumpsuit was imprinted with the outline of a skeleton on it, like a Halloween costume, though it was the end of March.
It was then that Wallace realized everything was terrible. He said as much to Nelson, sounding forlorn as he pulled at the spandex, watching it stretch. He shooed Apollo away when the dog tried to grab onto the material and rip it off.
“It could be worse,” Nelson said, eyeing him up and down in a way that Wallace was sure was illegal in at least fifteen states. “Though, I will say congratulations on your business downstairs. Size doesn’t matter of course, but it doesn’t seem like you have to worry about that.”
“Thank you,” Wallace said distractedly as Apollo tried to squeeze through his legs, tongue lolling, a goofy expression of joy on his face. Then, “Wait, what?”
By the time Hugo and Mei came down, Wallace was in a state of panic, seeing as how he was now wearing only brightly colored briefs and pleather thigh-high boots. Nelson was slowly losing his composure as Wallace stumbled around, making promises to whoever would listen that he’d never complain about sweats and flip-flops again. He stopped when he saw the new arrivals staring blearily at him.
“I can explain,” Wallace said, covering himself as best he could. Apollo apparently decided that wouldn’t do, biting Wallace’s hand gently and tugging.
“It’s too early for this,” Mei muttered, but that didn’t seem to stop her from getting an eyeful as she made her way to the kitchen.
“You’ve had a busy night,” Hugo said mildly.
Wallace glared at him. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Hugo shrugged as Apollo circled his legs. “That’s fair, seeing as how I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like in the first place.”
“Puts my Easter suit to shame,” Nelson said, wiping his eyes.
Wallace blanched when Hugo stepped closer to him, fingers twitching at his sides. He waited for Hugo to mock him, but it never came.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” he said. “It’s not easy, or so I’m told, but I think you’ll figure it out.” He frowned as he cocked his head. He started to reach for Wallace but stopped himself. “Depending on how much longer you’re here, that is.” He smiled tightly.
There it was. This thing that Wallace had been studiously avoiding. Aside from the first few days he’d been here, there’d been no further discussion of crossings or doors or what lay beyond the half-life Wallace was living in the tea shop. He’d been grateful, though wary, sure that Hugo was going to push. He hadn’t, and Wallace had almost convinced himself that he’d forgotten. Of course Hugo hadn’t. It was his job. This wasn’t permanent. It never was, and Wallace was foolish to think otherwise.