If you missed yesterday’s interview with the author, Shannon Mawhiney, go check it out. Here’s a snippet from her book, The Death of Torberta Turchin.
Charlie was more than happy to help Torby out during her detentions. He told her stories to keep her entertained and from falling asleep, though he also had to be careful not to make her laugh or do anything else that would get her into more trouble. He’d given her a choice of topic today: either his meeting George Washington in 1947 or his trip to Australia in the same year. She’d heard both of them before, but she picked the George Washington story, then Australia if Washington didn’t take up enough time.
As soon as Torby sat down, Charlie first made a big deal of clearing his throat. “It was July of 1947,” he began, his voice coming from the floor beside her. Torby pictured him lying on his back with his arms crossed behind his head. “And it was sweltering hot, though I only knew that because all the living people were complaining about it every chance they got; I’d been dead for almost a decade by then and, of course, wasn’t affected by the heat. Anyway–”
Florian walked in the room, and Charlie stopped. Mr. Krangle indicated a seat, three desks away from Torby but still in the front row, and Florian sat down roughly, crossing his arms in front of him and staring hard at the blank dry-erase board.
Torby folded her arms on top of her desk and rested her chin on one forearm, staring at the floor in front of her.
“As I was saying,” Charlie continued. “Summer of ’47. I’d decided to go and see a jazz band perform at a bar in Los Angeles. I’d already been in the area for a little while, and a couple of guys I’d met at another bar highly recommended this band. So there I was, standing next to a wall near the stage of this nice but pretty run-down, smoky bar, waiting for the music to start, when in walks none other than the very first president of the United States of America. I recognized him from portraits I’d seen of him, in books and at the White House. And on money, I guess.
“I must’ve looked like a real idiot, staring at him like I was, but it didn’t occur to me at the time. We weren’t the sole dead guys in there though, and I wasn’t the only one who’d never met George Washington. I stayed where I was, but about every other ghost in the room crowded around the guy and started talking all at once, asking him if he really was who he was, if he’d really chopped down a cherry tree, all that kind of stuff. But what does he do? He keeps on walking, right through everyone, living and dead, like they weren’t even there. I’d imagine he was used to all that attention, and probably got annoyed by it too; but I have to give him credit for not snapping at them or glaring at them or anything. He just ignored them and just kept on going right until he reached the middle of the room, where he stopped and stood there, calm and watching the stage. Which was still void of any musicians at this point, I might add, and was starting to wear on my patience.
“Now, I didn’t want to embarrass myself and have old George catch me staring at him, so I went back to watching the empty stage myself. After a few minutes, most of Washington’s fans had stopped bugging him. Some of them obviously felt bad that he didn’t want to talk to them, some of them just looked confused, and a few were annoyed that he was ignoring them. But at least they were leaving him alone now. I can’t imagine, being bothered all the time like that.
“So, finally the band gets on stage and starts playing. I don’t remember exactly what their name was now. The… something-or-other. But they were hot, I tell you what. They had four members: a piano player, a drummer, a bass player, and a sax player, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they played like they were baring their souls through those instruments. It’s too bad their piano player died of a heart attack about a week later, because they would’ve been big.
“Anyway, so halfway through one of their faster, real toe-tapping songs, I look over at Mr. Washington again; because for awhile, I forgot he was even there, the music was that good. And what’s he doing? Tapping his hand on his thigh and bobbing his head to the beat. And he was smiling with his eyes all lit up, feeling that music, same as I was.
“After the song was over, I looked over at him again, and he looked over at me. And he was still smiling, and he gave me a nod, like he knew we were thinking the same thing: that we’d never felt so alive in all our afterlives.”
Charlie sighed happily. “After the show—”
A loud, harsh scream from the hallway got all of their attentions immediately.
If you enjoyed this sample, go check out the The Death of Torberta Turchin on Amazon.