A Most Pleasant Corpse

I have ended every story ever told. Except one.

Over the millennia, I have been many things — sword and fire, plague and famine, that inevitable conclusion to every story ever told. A grape, in its simplicity, had always been my signature charm.

And yet here I am — telling you a story. Which should give you some indication of how thoroughly Charles Thomas Bigsby upended six thousand years of perfectly reliable service.

Millennia passed without resistance. Efficient as ever. Not a single soul requiring a second visit.

Until one did.

Several visits, if I am being precise.

It began, as my finest work often does, in a basement. In a bag.

****

“Please don’t zip that yet,” a voice whispered from inside a dark bag in the basement of a morgue. “At least, not yet. If you do not mind.”

Mr. Anderson was paid to move bodies, not question them. Bigsby was dead by every measurable standard. His name was on the paperwork. There was a date, a signature. He was on the correct stretcher, bound for the mortuary cooler as intended.

I do take pride in my settings. The basement morgue is a particular favorite — fluorescent lights flickering to give the scene effect, the clean bite of refrigerated air, the beautiful silence of a room that asks nothing of the living except that they leave the dead. I had arranged it all very nicely. The cooler hummed. The bag was zipped to the chin. It was, I felt, one of my better efforts.

And then.

Mr. Anderson told himself he hadn’t heard anything. He drew the zipper back a fraction.

“My teeth are in that cup,” the voice said. “Would you be so kind as to bring them to me?”

I have tried falling objects. Electrocution by a fryer. Once, and I am not proud of this, a puddle in his backyard. Today I employed that most reliable of ancient devices — the grape. Small. Discreet. Lodges with lethal proficiency. It has been the tried and true.

Charles Thomas Bigsby slept for six hours and thirty-one minutes — with that grape. Ariousios, if you're curious. I have always preferred the classics.

And then he asked for his teeth.

Mr. Anderson’s eyes dropped to the paperwork. “Sir,” he said carefully, “you were pronounced dead at 03:35 a.m.”

“How strange,” Bigsby said pleasantly, sitting up. “I feel very much alive.” He paused, considering. “In fact I think this is the best sleep I’ve had in years. All that noise before, constant, irritating. Dreadful, really.”

He called my work irritating and dreadful. My thoughts of him exactly.

Bigsby paused again. “I do appreciate your hospitality. Would you be so kind as to fetch me some tea, young man?”

Mr. Anderson went blank. Nothing in all his morgue attendant days provided any suggestion for such a moment. So he found a cup and located something warm from a nearby kettle.

“There you are. Charles Bigsby — is that your name?”

“You are a very pleasant man. I do appreciate your kindness.” He accepted the cup with both hands. “And yes, that is my name. Or so I am told.” He added this last part with a childish toothless grin.

Steam curled upward from the cup.

I have always preferred the honeyed-wine at a Greek Symposium — endings softened by indulgence and conversation.

Mr. Anderson cleared his throat. “Sir, there has been a grave misunderstanding.”

“How so?” Bigsby said, with genuine concern. “Is there any way I can help?”

“I have never had to do this before.” Mr. Anderson steadied himself. “But sir, you are supposed to be dead.”

“Dead!” Bigsby considered this with honest sincerity. “How extraordinary. I don’t feel dead. Though I confess I’ve never done it before, so I wouldn’t know the sensation.”

Mr. Anderson produced the paperwork and held it forward with his most bureaucratic posture. “It says so right here, sir. In writing.”

Bigsby accepted the document graciously. He studied it for a moment, then looked up.

“You have excellent handwriting, by the way. The cursive — one rarely sees it anymore. A dying art, you know.”

Of course. Of course he did that. Always the connoisseur.

“I — well.” Mr. Anderson blinked. “It is not often I am complimented on such a thing. Thank you.” He shook his head, aware he had been derailed. “Sir. The paperwork.”

Bigsby returned his attention to the document, considered it thoughtfully, then handed it back with a small nod.

“Yes, that does appear to be my name. And that does appear to be today’s date.” He lifted his tea and took a slow, considered sip. “Most thorough.”

A pause settled between them.

“Is there a problem then,” Bigsby asked most politely, “with the paperwork?”

The paperwork was their problem. Mine was this — that heart was still beating. I could hear it from where I stood. Sixty-eight even beats per minute. Their instruments heard nothing. Mine told a different story.

“Will you excuse me,” Mr. Anderson said. “I need to consult with someone who has been in this business far longer than I.” No one at that hospital has been in this business longer than I.

“Take your time, take your time. I might even take a nap, would you mind?” Bigsby asked kindly.

“Uh, sure. Yeah. Do that. Please.” Anderson said, with a frown.

I watched him humming quietly to himself, circling his finger around his cup of tea.

If only I had thought to bring arsenic.

The man who walked in next was dressed with impeccable taste. The hospital’s lawyer. He moved through the doorway with the particular arrogance of someone accustomed to being the most important person in any room.

“My, sir, you look splendid!” Bigsby announced. “Dashing. You certainly do look the part.”

Whatever healthy color the lawyer possessed drained from his face like water through a sieve. This was the case that could end his career. He began to sweat.

“Come over here, son.” Bigsby gestured toward the refrigeration units with genuine concern. “It’s much cooler near the fridges. The air flows nicely down in these parts. You look like a man standing in the full heat of summer. Do you have a fever?”

I knew it. A man who must be preparing himself to enjoy Dante’s inferno.

The lawyer turned and looked savagely at Anderson.

“Other than it being the most pleasant corpse in medical history,” he said, “why the hell is it talking?”

Anderson looked at his shoes while Bigsby looked up from adjusting his hospital gown. "That is very kind of you to say," he said warmly.

Jones had begun without courtesy and corrected himself immediately, as though remembering his profession.

“I am the hospital’s main attorney. Those who are pronounced dead, my kind sir, they are supposed to stay dead. I recognize this may be inconvenient. The hospital extends its deepest sympathies for any confusion, alleged suffering, or unsanctioned continuation of life you may or may not have experienced as a result.”

Brilliant. Truly. I had nonetheless been informed that Dante’s ninth circle knew this man by name.

He produced a clipboard with a pen and extended it toward Mr. Bigsby. “Would you be so kind as to sign this, a waiver confirming the hospital bears no liability for the aforementioned circumstances?”

Bigsby accepted the clipboard with both hands and examined the forms with genuine interest. He picked up the pen, tested it once against his thumb with a look of sincere approval, then paused.

“I’ll sign these gladly.” He looked up with his eyes sparkling. “Just one small question — this line here, where it asks for the signature of the patient.” He tapped it with the pen. “Should I sign it as a living man, or as a dead one? I only ask because the pen seems to be working rather well and I’d hate to do it incorrectly.”

He lowered the clipboard slightly — not without wit, I observed.

“Forgive my manners, what is your name, man in such a lovely suit?” Bigsby inquired.

The papers Jones was holding had begun to turn damp. “I — my name is Jones.” He loosened his collar by a fraction. “That is a very good question.” He said it quietly, almost to himself. “How can a dead man sign.”

Bigsby was now fifty-seven beats per minute. He was actually more relaxed than he had ever been.

The room remained very silent.

Anderson was still looking at his shoes. Jones looked at no one. I looked at a man who looked very comfortable in a hospital morgue. One person I should have just let be.

And Mr. Bigsby sat with the pen poised thoughtfully above the paper, tapping it lightly, perfectly willing to sign, waiting only for the small matter of his existence to be resolved.

The door swung open.

In came the forensic pathologist — he had always been my hospital favorite. He carried an entire set of tools on a cart meant to perform all manner of work on Mr. Bigsby. He was looking down, nodding to music only he could hear, entirely oblivious to everyone and everything in the room.

He stopped mid-motion. Face to face, with clear unmistakable eye contact with the deceased. The music continued in his ears but he did not move.

What drew him out of his paralysis was that toothless smile. The same one that had haunted me since 03:35 a.m. And of all things — he was holding a grape.

“Well, hello there,” Bigsby said warmly. “You look like a very capable young man. I do hope we haven’t interrupted anything important.” He paused. “I have always loved music too.” He then popped the grape into his mouth and smiled.

The pathologist said nothing. He removed one earbud slowly. Looked at Anderson. Looked at Jones, still holding damp paperwork. Looked back at Bigsby, who gave him a small encouraging nod.

Then he backed up and stood in line with the others.

I had orchestrated the Black Death with fewer complications. I looked forward to that perfectly arranged show the pathologist was about to perform. The flickering lights would have made it sensational.

Mr. Bigsby frowned at the knives, scissors, rib shears and the brand new bone saw.

“Oh my.” A faint flicker of disapproval crossed his face.

He reached over and held up the bone saw, turning it admiringly in the light. “Such a fine, fine tool of precision.” He smiled warmly at the others, as if inviting them to share in his appreciation.

“Oh yes,” the forensic pathologist offered, with a little too much enthusiasm. “Cuts through bone like a hot butter knife, perfectly, without a shred of resistance.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Bigsby said. “Most excellent.” His eyes trailed quietly to the other side of the room.

I had placed considerable hope in that bone saw. As I did the grape.

Now I was reconsidering my options.

****

Anderson, Jones and the pathologist felt it before they understood it. I can’t help it.

I was done. I simply — stopped hiding.

No dramatics. No cold wind or rattling of chains. I have never been that theatrical, to be honest, or so I have always told myself. Never cared much for flair. I simply allowed myself to be present in the way I am always present, ancient, devouring and without apology.

They filed out one by one or else I would have had them dropped. Without looking at each other. Without looking at him. They made a clean exit, shutting the door.

I have stood in innumerable rooms of all shapes and sizes and never once been seen.

Mr. Bigsby turned slowly. And looked me straight in the eye.

A grin emerged on his face, his eyebrows rising in a warm V of pure delight.

“Could you pass me my teeth, good sir.” He gestured toward the cup with one gracious hand. “And would you care for some tea?” His toothless grin lowered just slightly. “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced. But I have been dying to get acquainted.”

He said it with such warm genuine feeling.

For the first time in six thousand years I had no next move. Frustratingly, I handed him his dentures. I refused the tea. I am not entirely without dignity.

“You are most kind,” he said reassuringly, clicking his teeth into place with great satisfaction.

I moved straight to business. “Why will you not die?”

“Great question,” Bigsby whispered, taking a long appreciative gulp of tea. “Thank you sincerely for asking.”

He set the cup down. Folded his hands. Looked at me the way a man looks at someone he has been waiting a long time to have a proper conversation with.

“It was like eating the same slop every day,” Mr. Bigsby said, with concern etched into his features.

To protect what remained of my pride I said, “I beg your pardon? Explain yourself.”

“You built a magnificent restaurant,” Bigsby said generously. “Truly. I hope you feel proud. The infrastructure alone, extraordinary. The plagues were a particularly ambitious period. Very creative.” He nodded with genuine admiration. “But the menu, my dear, dear friend.” He shook his head and made clicking sounds with great tenderness. “The same slop. Every day. For everyone.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing.

No soul had ever critiqued my methods with such, what is the word, warmth.

And he was not wrong.

“You could have had,” Bigsby gestured broadly at the room, at the world beyond it, at everything, “presentation. Style. A gracious note at the end. Something that said, you mattered. Something that made people feel this was handled with extreme care.”

“Oh that is,” I stopped myself.

“Actually quite good,” I admitted. Involuntarily.

I roamed the earth stripping life from all flesh, ruthless and without mercy. Not one soul had ever dared to question my craft. Not one had ever desired to expand my menu. And now it is I who is about to swallow a grape.

Some things are just chosen.

Bigsby, still cheerful, still gracious, adjusted his hospital gown and rose to both feet. He reached over and picked up the bone saw.

“Marvelous instrument, isn’t it?”

I watched him. Not with dread. The way one professional watches another finally pick up the right tool. The way a painter watches someone who has been painting badly for years suddenly understand.

He turned it on. Politely. With purpose.

I will not describe what followed in great detail. I am a professional. Professionals do not gush.

But I will say this.

In six thousand years I have never once seen it done with such flair.

He made it look, and I cannot believe I am committing this to record, rather lovely. I may have been blushing. I cannot confirm this.

When it was done, Bigsby set the saw down, wiped the red splatter across his face, and sat back. He admired the plate he had so carefully arranged.

He had watched a lot of MasterChef.

He finished his tea. Hummed a small song and then set the cup down with a satisfied click.

I have to admit, I have never been in the audience chair before a new production.

What remained of me was no longer a body, just an account. His artistry reduced me to moments, recollection, and to this story that I am now sharing.

“Phenomenal,” I said. “Stunning. Just downright exceptional,” as I floated, weightless now, somewhere outside of my body, looking down. “It was art at its finest. He even had the class to give me one last ride to the great fiery furnace.”

Bigsby looked up. Smiled.

“You are too kind, sir.”

The winds of change had arrived. And they smelled, remarkably, like the finest black tea. Golden eyebrow tea, I think it might be.

Somewhere across the city, for the first time in recorded history, three people died feeling, inexplicably, rather looked after.

Some described it stylish.