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Authors: Valerie Frankel
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toward the ambulance. The cops hadn’t even covered his corpse. The indignity of it made Amanda ache from sadness.
Frank called out to the EMS guy, “Suicide?”
As he loaded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, he yelled back, “No.” Amanda felt a rush of relief. Not that her ego was so big. But the soul of a suicide was doomed to be stuck between this world and the astral plane until its natural life span was over—a horrible, tortured state of limbo.
Frank yelled again. “Accident?”
The EMS guy didn’t answer her. He pulled the doors closed and the ambulance sped off. The sisters watched it disappear down the block.
“I know what happened, Frank,” Amanda said softly.
“I don’t want to hear about your intuition right now,” said Frank.
Amanda shut up as instructed. But she felt it in her heart. As soon as she saw his body, she knew.
Chick’s death was no accident. His life had been taken, and not by God.
7
D ead bodies. Seeing one was enough for a lifetime. Frank had seen two before Chick’s. She’d been the one to discover her parents’ lifeless bodies in their apartment. Frank had described that wretched moment to Amanda as a giant squashing sensation. All the emotional security, warmth, and personal history she’d ever known shrank into a small, hard nub of bitterness—like a stale coffee bean—and implanted itself in her brain as a permanent reminder. When she was particularly lonely, Frank could feel the nub throbbing under her left eyebrow.
“You’ve never seen one before,” Frank said to her sister.
“No,” replied Amanda.
If there was a virginity for such things, Amanda’s corpse cherry was now broken. On the night Frank had discovered Mom and Dad, Amanda was on a date. Frank called her number a hundred times until Amanda finally picked up the phone to receive the worst news of her life. Thank God Frank wouldn’t have to make a call this time.
“It’s bad luck,” said Amanda.
“Yes, being dead is just about the worst luck you can have.”
“Not being dead. Seeing the dead.”
“Believe me,” said Frank, “Chick’s luck is a lot worse than ours.”
The sisters beat a swift retreat to RTB. Amanda set herself up behind the counter to grind beans, pound after pound. Frank counted the money in the cash register five times, until she was convinced she’d added correctly. Anything to block out the sight of Chick, stiff and blue, rigored in a kneeling position on that stretcher. Gruesome.
“We have to open the store,” said Frank.
“A man’s dead,” said Amanda.
“I’m very sorry about that. But we have to open the store. We can’t afford to be closed for another three days. We can’t afford to be closed for another three hours. I have no idea what we’re going to say to people when they come in here.” Frank felt slightly guilty for thinking only of herself and Romancing the Bean. Amanda was right: a man was dead. Should they sponsor a funeral service? With what money?
“We have to do something for him,” said Amanda. “I could say a few words, like a eulogy.” She cleared her throat. “Charles Peterson was a kind man, a humble man. He…uh, he had really long legs.”
Frank shook her head. “You don’t know a thing about him.”
“I still feel for him. I still mourn his lost potential,” said Amanda. “You can still care if you don’t know someone well.”
“I’m cursed, Amanda,” said Frank. “Obviously cursed. Everything I try to do fails. And I let myself get hopeful. I let myself believe. Clarissa is going to be terribly upset. And it’s all my fault.”
Amanda said, “How is it your fault? Did you kill Chick?”
“It’s my fault somehow,” said Frank. “Just wait. Somehow it’ll be revealed to be because of me.”
The sisters opened late at seven-thirty. Customers streamed in all morning, asking about Mr. Coffee and when he would make his next appearance. Not wanting to explain what had happened, Frank
Frank called out to the EMS guy, “Suicide?”
As he loaded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, he yelled back, “No.” Amanda felt a rush of relief. Not that her ego was so big. But the soul of a suicide was doomed to be stuck between this world and the astral plane until its natural life span was over—a horrible, tortured state of limbo.
Frank yelled again. “Accident?”
The EMS guy didn’t answer her. He pulled the doors closed and the ambulance sped off. The sisters watched it disappear down the block.
“I know what happened, Frank,” Amanda said softly.
“I don’t want to hear about your intuition right now,” said Frank.
Amanda shut up as instructed. But she felt it in her heart. As soon as she saw his body, she knew.
Chick’s death was no accident. His life had been taken, and not by God.
7
D ead bodies. Seeing one was enough for a lifetime. Frank had seen two before Chick’s. She’d been the one to discover her parents’ lifeless bodies in their apartment. Frank had described that wretched moment to Amanda as a giant squashing sensation. All the emotional security, warmth, and personal history she’d ever known shrank into a small, hard nub of bitterness—like a stale coffee bean—and implanted itself in her brain as a permanent reminder. When she was particularly lonely, Frank could feel the nub throbbing under her left eyebrow.
“You’ve never seen one before,” Frank said to her sister.
“No,” replied Amanda.
If there was a virginity for such things, Amanda’s corpse cherry was now broken. On the night Frank had discovered Mom and Dad, Amanda was on a date. Frank called her number a hundred times until Amanda finally picked up the phone to receive the worst news of her life. Thank God Frank wouldn’t have to make a call this time.
“It’s bad luck,” said Amanda.
“Yes, being dead is just about the worst luck you can have.”
“Not being dead. Seeing the dead.”
“Believe me,” said Frank, “Chick’s luck is a lot worse than ours.”
The sisters beat a swift retreat to RTB. Amanda set herself up behind the counter to grind beans, pound after pound. Frank counted the money in the cash register five times, until she was convinced she’d added correctly. Anything to block out the sight of Chick, stiff and blue, rigored in a kneeling position on that stretcher. Gruesome.
“We have to open the store,” said Frank.
“A man’s dead,” said Amanda.
“I’m very sorry about that. But we have to open the store. We can’t afford to be closed for another three days. We can’t afford to be closed for another three hours. I have no idea what we’re going to say to people when they come in here.” Frank felt slightly guilty for thinking only of herself and Romancing the Bean. Amanda was right: a man was dead. Should they sponsor a funeral service? With what money?
“We have to do something for him,” said Amanda. “I could say a few words, like a eulogy.” She cleared her throat. “Charles Peterson was a kind man, a humble man. He…uh, he had really long legs.”
Frank shook her head. “You don’t know a thing about him.”
“I still feel for him. I still mourn his lost potential,” said Amanda. “You can still care if you don’t know someone well.”
“I’m cursed, Amanda,” said Frank. “Obviously cursed. Everything I try to do fails. And I let myself get hopeful. I let myself believe. Clarissa is going to be terribly upset. And it’s all my fault.”
Amanda said, “How is it your fault? Did you kill Chick?”
“It’s my fault somehow,” said Frank. “Just wait. Somehow it’ll be revealed to be because of me.”
The sisters opened late at seven-thirty. Customers streamed in all morning, asking about Mr. Coffee and when he would make his next appearance. Not wanting to explain what had happened, Frank
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