Christmas Ghost by Mike Renick (ed)

Author:Mike Renick (ed)
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-04-28T16:00:00+00:00

THE RIVER LETHE IS MADE OF TEARS

by

John Gregory Betancourt

John Betancourt is a successful science fiction writer and anthologist, and is the editor/publisher of Wild-side Press.

Keith was playing sad, half-familiar little riffs on his guitar when I walked into his room at the Radisson New York. The melody was soft and simple and rather haunting, which wasn't like him. Soft and simple and rather haunting doesn't crack Billboard's Top Ten these days unless it's by Paul Simon, and Keith De-Vito-lead guitarist for Diabolique-was none of those things in real life.

But then it hadn't seemed like real life in a long time.

Keith put a hand over the strings before I could identify the song, and the sound quieted. "Hey, Jamie-boy," he said. His voice was hoarse, little more than a whisper. "You feeling okay?"

"Not too bad," I lied. "How about you?"

"Hey, this is me we're talking about. What do you think?" He managed a lopsided grin. It wouldn't have fooled anybody, but I let it pass without comment. Everyone copes with death differently. With Keith it was denial. If you didn't say it, if you didn't believe it, if you pretended you'd never known David Keyes, then it wouldn't matter if he was dead and buried the day before Christmas. I understood that. I wished I could be that way, too, sometimes. But David had been my brother, and we'd been through too much together for me to ever push him away like that.

We'd been to David's funeral that afternoon. Seeing David in that casket with too much makeup on his face and too much lipstick on his lips, with his mouth twisted into that slight beatific smile, had been one of the worst experiences of my life. That thing in the casket wasn't him, I wanted to say. It was some sick practical joke.

But I knew inside that it really was David. The morticians had done the best they could; he'd been a real mess when he died. At least our parents weren't alive to see it.

Just thinking about the funeral got me all choked up. It couldn't have happened, I kept thinking. But it was real, it had happened, David was dead and he wasn't coming back, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. The truth was like a sledgehammer blow to my chest. If not for Keith and Demi and Mary, I might have cried for the first time in twenty years, it hurt so much.

That morning, before the funeral, I thought the worst had been over. It had been three days since the accident, for crying out loud. Three days of nothing but Keith and Demi and Mary sobbing on my shoulder, while I had to be strong enough for all of us. David had been my brother and I couldn't even weep for him, since the others needed me strong.

That afternoon Keith, Demi, Mary, and me-the four remaining members of Diabolique-had stood around the open grave while that damned Catholic priest droned on and on.

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