I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.
Wherever You Are
Finally Free
"-lose my license for this if it was found out, Jimmy."
"I know, Frank. But please . . ."
He swallowed thickly.
"Please help me."
Frank Glen drew a deep, sorrowful breath.
"Let's get on with it then."
The black car was a rumbling shadow as it crept down the residential street.
Jimmy sat silently in the passenger seat, the mortician at the helm beside him.
His dead wives secured in the back on a folding gurney.
"Are you absolutely sure about this, Jimmy?"
Jimmy shook his head, staring down at his hooks.
"I can't take any chances," he said quietly, swallowing back fresh grief.
The mortician waited.
"This is what they wanted. They told me. No gawkers. No inspections. Just peace. This is the only way to make sure."
And they drove on under the moonless midnight sky.
". . . Your care. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen."
"Amen," Jimmy parroted hoarsely.
Then with the older man looking on in this highly unorthodox and impromptu funeral ceremony, he leaned forward and kissed Bette's still, cool forehead.
Walked around the contraption on which they lay.
And kissed Dot's as well.
His wives were dead.
Dead and gone.
One on her own as they lay sleeping.
And the other by his own hand (hand, what a joke) as a promise kept to those whom he loved most.
He was dead inside himself now.
Numb. And hollow.
He nodded mutely at the dour man who cared for the dead.
That man who spoke now, one last supplication.
"Jimmy, are you sure? We can still make other arrangements."
He gazed down at the human remains of his beautiful, unique, precious, darling wives one final time.
He had to say it.
Give his consent.
Take the last step.
For them.
For his dead darlings.
So he spoke.
"I'm sure."
Jimmy watched as the mortician unwrapped his folded hands.
Watched him place the small metal identifying tags . . .
"Sure you want two?" he had asked earlier.
Watery-eyed chuckle as even in the face of Death, Jimmy'd found a moment of sentimental mirth.
"Yeah, yeah."
Sniff.
"Bette'd want her own too. Give me a earful otherwise."
Accommodating nod.
. . . over each heart in the conjoined chest.
And now as Jimmy watched, The Keeper of the Dead folded up the sides of the cardboard box on which Dot and Bette lay.
Deftly adjusted the lid.
A formality.
A nicety.
A gentle, last shielding of the living eyes.
From the bon appetite of the eager fire to human flesh.
Jimmy let it happen.
No.
He chose for it to happen.
Meet the man's final gaze.
Force the nod.
And watched him press the button.
The conveyor belt rumbled to life.
Transferring the deceased body of Dorothy Jean and Elizabeth Ann Tattler Darling Walker slowly into the flames of the funeral home's incinerator.
He watched the whole time, the box entering the brick and cement-lined primary chamber.
Watched the metal door close with a final thud.
I love you, Dot.
I love you, Bette.
I love you two so much.
He watched.
He had to.
Until it was done.
His responsibility.
Take care of them.
Protect them.
Save them.
Always.
"The process will take an hour or two," his accomplice told him.
Jimmy did not shift.
"Okay."
A gentle hand touched down unobtrusively on his shoulder.
"Come on. I've got a pot on upstairs."
Statue Jimmy.
"I . . . can't leave them. I can't leave them alone."
Quiet voice, sincere tone.
"They're not alone, Jimmy. They're together. They're safe. Nothing and no one is going to hurt them anymore. We are the only two here tonight. The doors are locked. The windows are latched. It's just us."
The slightest pressure of fingers.
"Come on, son."
And Jimmy, slowly and painfully . . .
Is it okay, Bette? Is it okay, Dot? Is it okay?
. . . went.
"They sure seemed like special ladies."
"They were. They were the best."
"Mind telling me how you met?"
Ancient, dimpled grin.
So long ago, so far away.
He felt ancient now.
"Oh. Well, uh, they were bein' threatened by a, uh, man with, uh, bad intentions. I saved 'em."
It was an amended tale to say the least.
The deed, the second deed, was done.
The remains gathered reverently into a sealed plastic bag.
Which was then placed reverently into a . . .
". . . urn. Perhaps place it on the mantle as a rememb-"
"No. I'm not going to keep them trapped up like that. They wouldn't like that."
"Alright then."
. . . holding box.
And placed reverently into . . .
"It's," a slightly baffled hint of morbid wonder. "It's so light."
. . . the arms of the remaining Walker.
"Yes, right at about nine pounds."
Nine pounds. That's all that's left. I'll be.
Jimmy paid him, cash.
"It's almost dawn. Let me give you a ride home."
And then . . .
"Alright."
. . . they went back the way they had come.
With his dead wives' ashes in his arms and his empty house at his back, Jimmy watched the mortician's tail-lights fade away until they disappeared.
Then he stood alone.
Thinking of what to do next.
What they would like.
What would make them happy.
Come on, girls, we're goin' for a ride.
Dot and Bette Tattler had, closer to the end of their extraordinary lives than the beginning, been more empowered, more capable, and more confident and content in who they were than most people had or required the courage to be.
But . . .
"We don't want to freckle."
"And don't even bother trying that 'moonbathing' malarkey on us again, Jimmy, darling. You can only get away with that once!"
Dimpled grin.
"Yes, ma'am."
. . . they never had been quite brave enough to venture onto the beach.
Jimmy had.
Long enough to bring back his teenage daughter from an existential crisis.
And then drive her away to Jupiter.
And then home again.
"Colorado? Really?"
"Yeah."
For a while, anyway.
"Okay, then. If that's what you want."
So, he figured, it was time.
Bette and Dot.
Dot and Bette.
They had never been.
"Okay, girls, we're here."
To the beach.
"Whaddya think?"
Until now.
The Tampa waves were beautiful, fresh and salty and surging.
They rolled in, they rolled out.
They washed everything away.
Bette and Dot Tattler did not deserve to be shut up in a box on a dusty mantle somewhere.
Shut away and vulnerable to prying eyes and seeking hands.
They deserved to be free.
More free than they ever had been in their real lives of constraint and encasement and acceptance.
He would not shut them away, he would not hide them.
And he would not leave them to be discovered and gawked at.
Stolen and examined and violated.
No.
The man with no hands pried open the box.
Clumsily tore open the bag with his hooks.
And stood, the wind at his back and the summer sun peeking over his shoulder.
Speckling the waves with hopeful morning rays.
And set them free.
Scattered on the wind.
To fly anywhere. Everywhere.
To any and all corners of the wide world as they so wished to venture.
Free now and unencumbered by physical form and societal stigmas.
Heartless mockery and peering eyes.
Craning necks and cruel whisperings.
He let them go.
Away from him.
But always, always with him in his broken, shattered heart.
Forever.
And he did not, as much as he wanted to . . .
I love you, girls.
. . . follow them . . .
I love you so much.
. . . into the waves.
Thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing an intense previous chapter.
You all are a resilient lot. :)
But, you know, it's not over. And I'm really interested to see what your response is to the upcoming interaction. I think I can already predict.