Chapter Thirty: In Another Life
"I see you found him, my dear. I am so glad for you."
"It's all thanks to you, and the One, Mama." Jonah whispers, his voice soft and reverent as he stares up into his mother's dead eyes.
Matthew sits beside him, doing his best not to stare at the two of them, mother and son, together. Jonah undeniably looks like her, just as lovely. Their shared slim, wide mouths, with the perfect bow. The fine cheekbones Matt has so often traced with his fingers. Cute, buddha-lobed ears, he notes, as the apparition tucks her long, inky hair behind one. Her hands are slim, delicate, her long fingers with their almond nails, star-tipped. The willowy hands of an artist.
They're holding hands, Jonah and his mother, each of them clasped. If Regina Aickman—no, Regina Herrel—had noticed the scarring marring her child's palm, she's decided not to mention it, at least for now. She has noticed, however, the ring encircling Jonah's finger. A dainty thing, the stone malachite, in a round setting, a small round diamond nestled to its right.
"Are you wedded, my dear?"
Jonah flushes happily, a lumescent smile on his pale, vintage face.
"Not yet, Mama…this is actually my—our—reason for contacting you. Matthew and I were hoping, if you want to, and are able, if you could attend our wedding? It's late evening on Samhain. We would be so honored if—"
"Of course I will be there, my little one. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll have to be summoned, though—"
"Of course, ma'am. We've already made arrangements." Matt quietly replies, a shiver running through him as her glazed irises find and catch him.
"Matthew Campbell." Regina's voice is as thin and fleeting as onion paper, the fluttering of a Bible in the breeze. "It is good to finally meet you. I've heard a great many things."
"The honor is mine, ma'am. I have heard of you, of course, extensively. I'm endlessly grateful to you, for your son—how you raised him, how he turned out—"
The ghost laughs, an eerie, distant bell.
"I'm afraid I can't take all of the credit for how our dear Jonah has turned out. His Father had a hand in it, after all, for far more of his first life than I could influence."
Her expression warps into something almost unreadable—disgust, or regret, maybe?
"He isn't coming, is he?" She asks, her voice cutting in and out like a bad radio connection.
"No." Jonah replies, his tone firm. "He is not invited."
"Good, my dear. I don't think he would be…happy, regarding your union."
Her smile is wry, and Jonah flushes pink, all the way up to the curve of his ears.
"We are also inviting a few other spirits, if we can. People Matthew knows. And people I used to know, from…from my past life." Jonah's voice drops to a whisper at the end, and Matthew gives his shoulder a supportive, understanding squeeze.
"You should, honey, if you can."
"We're also inviting lots of living folk too, of course." Jonah continues. "Matthew's parents, his siblings, and his cousins, and their children. Some of his friends, and my friends, that I've made in this life. It should be quite a turnout."
Regina's smile, a perfect crescent, as white and beguiling as the moon.
"I'm so endlessly grateful, my love, that you've been given this second chance at life. You deserve a happy, peaceful future. Matthew Campbell…thank you, for all you have done for my son."
Matthew coughs, and nods, seemingly too overwhelmed to reply.
Jonah's mother turns his hands over, palms up. She traces the sigil on her child's left hand with a curious finger. When her gaze turns to Matthew, he offers his right hand immediately, and she studies the two sigils with an expression akin to wonder.
"Such powerful magic you two are capable of, together. I'm so proud of you, my Jonah, for what a witch you've become. And Matthew…I am glad you were able to be an equal, a partner, to my child."
She presses their carved palms together between hers, marveling at the power that immediately flows between the two living men.
"Take good care of my baby, gentle stranger." Regina Herrel orders as she begins to fade, slowly transitioning into a different plane.
"I will, ma'am. I promise. For the entirety of my life, and for what comes after."
The morning of October 31st, 2005, finds Matt waking alone in bed from a peaceful, dreamless sleep. He rises and covers his nakedness by pulling on a worn pair of sweatpants. He descends the stairs with a smile on his face—Helen Kane's voice giggles and warbles throughout Hell House, the victrola whirring quietly. The smell of fresh coffee pervades the house. Rusty, a great puddle of orange fluff, sits in front of the open back door, his tail fwipping from side to side as he observes the early birds flitting across the dull blue of the pre-dawn sky.
Jonah stands five and a half feet in his filmy white drawers and undershirt, a blue-and-white pinstriped apron looped twice and tied around his thin waist. His pale, bare toes on white linoleum, pristine. His back is to Matthew as he stands at the counter, the sharp schicking sound of his whisk in a metal bowl an accompaniment to his soft humming, his quiet voice singing along—
"I wanna be loved by you…just you, and nobody else but you…"
Matt's careful not to disturb one-hundred year old forever-teen as he approaches, content to admire the other man's peace from a distance. He can't help himself, however, as he studies the pretty little point of hair at the nape of his lover's neck. He bends to kiss just beneath it, sighing reverently as he inhales his soul mate's scent. Jonah startles only slightly, a grin dawning on his face. His head tilts to the side to allow his partner access, flushing prettily as Matthew migrates to press languid, open-mouthed kisses, slick and warm, to the creamy crook of the reincarnation's neck.
"Good morning, my love."
"My darling." Matthew whispers against his skin.
The bowl of dough is forgotten, then, on the counter, as the two of them turn into each other, exchanging slow kisses in the kitchen of Hell House.
I want to be kissed by you. Just you, and nobody else but you. Helen Kane exclaims, and Jonah can't help but laugh.
"Just you." He whispers, a palm pressed to the sigil on Matthew's chest.
"It's always been you, Jonah."
Matthew has been tasked with rolling each perfectly cut, moon-round soul cake with caster sugar, before Jonah deftly and efficiently cuts crosses into each with a butter knife. The medium's hands are steadier, of course, and more practiced at making the traditional Samhain treat.
"We have all the time in the world, my love." Matt tries to soothe, smiling gently at Jonah's furrowed brows.
"Yes and no, Matthew. I meant to have these in the oven an hour ago, and I still have to make all of the food for the reception—"
"Not all of the food, goose. Remember, Mom, Wendy, and Angie are all bringing dishes—"
"I know, I know, but I still have to make the roast, and the stew, and the bread—"
"A culinary endeavor I have seen you complete in three hours or less, on many an occasion, including cook time."
Jonah's expression of worry softens, finally soothed by Matt's placations. He reaches out a hand to squeeze Matthew's noting—
"Love, you should take off your ring, it's gonna get all crusty."
"Not a chance, silly goose. I'm never taking it off. They won't be able to pry it off my cold, dead fingers—"
And then they're kissing again…honestly, they wouldn't be so far behind schedule if they didn't keep getting distracted in each other.
The cooking has been set to complete itself by just past noon, much to Jonah's delight. His stress finally alleviated, he sips a cup of coffee—they're on their second pot, by now—as he works, singing quietly to himself as he works the pedal of his sewing machine.
"You're really refusing to tell me what our costumes are?" Matthew bemoans, leaning on the doorframe of the room with the birds, arms crossed grumpily over chest.
The room has been rearranged since Jonah's rebirth day, the bed relocated to a spare room to make way for the old-fashioned sewing table the witch currently sits at. His dresser has been relocated as well, to Matthew's room, Their room. A plush art-deco chaise lounge offers a lovely spot with which to look out the window, with its own side table, complete with a radio. A cardboard box of polaroids hides beneath the chaise. A bookshelf sits full of Jonah's own texts, and an easel occupies the greatest portion of the room, surrounded by milk-crates full of art supplies.
"You'll just have to be patient, Matt. I thought you liked surprises."
"To a degree. What about you, dear heart? Do you like surprises?"
Jonah pauses in his sewing to look back at Matthew, an eyebrow raised.
"Why, do you have one for me?"
"I will, later." Matt admits. "I'm actually about to leave to go pick it up. I should be back by three. Call me if you need anything, I'll be dropping by the store."
"Don't forget Halloween candy!" Jonah hollers down the stairs at Matthew's retreating form, the professor flashing an a-okay sign as he shrugs on his winter coat.
"And you're sure he'll be happy to see me?" the elderly man asks, his deep bass voice laced with concern and rough from years of smoking.
He'd paused at the foot of the steps up to Hell House, his hazel eyes staring up at the house's facade with an immense emotion Matt can't place. He'd helped the man sit, then, on the steps, allowing him a moment to collect himself. He'd lit his cigarette for him, too, as the man's hands shake too badly to catch a lighter, Parkinson's disease having robbed him of much of his motor controls many a decade ago.
Matt can't help but smile, as he smells the smoke, surprise raising his eyebrows. Sweet and mellow and loud, tobacco laced with Mary Jane. A big, fat spliff, rolled in a Swisher. Once a bootlegger, or a dealer, always, it seems.
"I'm absolutely sure, sir. Jo was quite distraught, when we couldn't reach you. Cried, even, for a while. He just immediately assumed you'd moved on to some plane he couldn't reach…to be honest, I thought so too. Honestly never would've guessed—"
"Guessed I'm still up and about, huh?" the elder laughs, a deep, hoarse sound. "Especially not back in Goatswood, huh?"
"So close, yet so far."
He offers the spliff to Matt, pinched between thumb and forefinger, an obvious gesture.
"Much obliged." Matthew accepts gratefully, nodding as he sits beside the man on the stoop.
The man waves a dismissive hand.
"I'm surprised you're not drunk, high, or both, kid. Most men are, on their wedding day. I was several sheets to the wind, on mine. Just couldn't wrap my head around it at the time."
"I'm not nervous." Matt states, exhaling smoke through his noise in a long draw, humming appreciatively. "Damn, this is some good ganj—"
"Ganj? Hah. He's rubbed off on you. You're starting to talk like us old fogies…you're not nervous, huh?"
"I've never been sure of anything so much in my fucking life."
The old man's smile is broad and warm, and Matt thinks it makes him look at least fifty years younger. He'd been handsome, once. It's obvious in his facial structure, no matter how wrinkled and sagged it had become. His eyes are still beautiful. As Matthew looks into them, he recalls what Jonah had shown him, and he can see the young man lost to time. The first man Jonah had ever really loved.
"That's very good to hear. Jonah deserves the world, understand? No one deserves some lovin' handlin' like that boy."
"I agree, sir."
"Stop with all this sir this, sir that—"
"With all due respect, sir…you're almost a hundred years old. I'd say you deserve the title."
He laughs again.
"I see why Joey likes you."
The two men sit in comfortable silence for a moment, passing the spliff between hands, one dark and wrinkled, the other tan and scarred.
After the third or fourth hit, Matt realizes suddenly how grateful he is for the smoke, the weed settling his thoughts into a comfortable, orderly stream—a far cry from the disordered litany it had been the whole drive over to pick up the old man. To say he'd been nervous to meet him would be the understatement of the century. Matthew tells the man as much, and the man nods in response.
"You don't even know how fucking floored I was to get your call, man. It's a lot to wrap this old head around…I still don't even know how I feel about it, to be honest."
The old man's voice wavers, and he looks vulnerable, his weather face slowly sinking into a mask of contemplation.
"I know I'm nervous as a jar of bees, at least."
"That's understandable…it's been what, eighty years?"
"Yessir. Damn, it has…I'm a different man now, and I'm sure he is, too. A lot's happened, for both of us, in eighty fuckin' years. I never fuckin' thought I'd ever see him again, have a chance—have a chance to say goodbye, or nothin—"
Matt remains quiet, looking away respectfully, his heart aching at the tears wavering, barely contained, in the elderly man's gruff voice.
"Well, Mr. Booker. He's just inside, whenever you're ready, and however long that takes."
Jonah's excitement swells at the sound of the front door opening, giggling to himself as he hurriedly pulls his costume over his head, rearranging the sheet, making sure his eyes peer through the perfectly round, embroidery-edged eyeholes of the old-fashioned ghost costume. He's careful not to stain it as he hurries to finish the French 75s he'd made for himself and Matt, hoping to calm his own nerves, and Matthew's if his intended has any—
"Right this way, sir." Jonah's hears Matthew whisper down the hallway, and something in Jonah's chest seizes in sudden trepidation. Guests, already? This early?
"Matthew?" Jonah calls out, gathering the drinks in his hands clumsily, turning to hopefully ask his partner who—
Both glasses immediately fall and shatter to the floor as numbness shoots through Jonah's fingers. He staggers too, leaning heavily on the kitchen counter as he clutches at his chest. His mind is a white-noise static of shock, his vision tunneling at the edges, his hearing muffled as Matthew says—
"A ghost, Jonah, really?" with a laugh and a smile, but the medium doesn't respond.
The old man says nothing either, his stare forlorn, his knuckles white and tight on his cane, observing the short little sheet ghost, its trembling evident in the ripples of white fabric. He watches as the boy underneath fumbles awkwardly, broken glass crunching over under his shoes as he steps forward, shucking off the sheet, tossing it to the side into a forgotten, careless heap.
God, he still looks entirely the same.
"Eugene?" Jonah asks, his familiar, unchanged voice trembling and thin with disbelief.
He reaches for Eugene with both hands, staggering forward with unsure steps, and Eugene struggles forward a few steps, the sound of his cane heavy on the tile.
Matthew watches silently as the old friends approach each other slowly, before Jonah suddenly lurches forward, closing the distance between himself and Eugene at a sprint's pace. He throws his arms around Eugene, who embraces Jonah just in time, staggering backward at the ferocity of the teen's hug. Matt keeps a steadying hand on the old man's back, just in case Jonah's exuberance gets the best of them.
"What the fuck." Jonah moans, muffled, his face buried in Eugene's shoulder, his arms wrapped as tight as the can around the shaking, stooped form of his best friend.
Eugene just laughs, the expression on his face one of absolute shock and disbelief as he clutches the boy to him, his cane clattering to the floor, his hands bunched into the back of Jonah's jumper, his chin resting on the top of Jonah's head.
The elderly man's body hitches suddenly, a choked gasp escaping him.
"Goddamn," he manages to utter, before the tears overtake him, great, wracking sobs threatening him to shake him off his feet as he clutches Jonah harder, threatening to bruise.
Matthew busies himself with cleaning up the broken glass and spilled alcohol, respectful ignoring the two men sobbing together. He can't even begin to imagine what the both of them are feeling. How insane it must feel, this impossible reunion. Eugene's face is buried in the teen's hair, pressed hard to the kid's skull as he gasps, lost in the throes of emotion. The way he's clutching Jonah, smelling him, gripping him in his hands—it makes tears well in Matt's own eyes, which he scrubs away silently.
"You died." The elderly man simply states, his voice raw with grief, and Matthew's heart breaks.
"I know."
"You—you fucking—the whole house, burnt up—"
"I know, Genie, I'm sorry—God, I'm so sorry, my dearest friend."
Jonah pulls away and cups Eugene's grizzled, tired face in his hands, pressing his forehead to the old man's, split into rifts of skin, wrinkles as deep as trenches. They stay like that for several long moments—hazel eyes, shifting gray, blue, and brown staring in into eerie cornflower blues.
What thoughts pass between them, unsaid, in that stare, are too immense to fathom. All their years together, and then all of the years of loss, of unknowing, stretch between them, tangible.
"You're a fucking blight on this earth, I swear to God." Eugene mutters suddenly, and Jonah's laugh is loud, and long, the two of them dissolving into fits.
"You didn't think I'd leave so easily—"
"Fuck, I'd hoped you did, you damned stubborn twit—"
And suddenly, it's like no time has passed at all, the two men slipping into conversation so natural and organic, it's clear how deep their relationship runs, how many formative years it must have spanned.
Matthew quietly arranges a tray with two new French 75s and a small plate of soul cakes.
"If you two are able, I'm thinking of setting y'all up in the living room, while I finish up preparing."
Eugene pulls a handkerchief free from his worn sportcoat with trembling hands, still chortling as he roughly dries his face. Matthew hands him his cane, and watches protectively as the elderly man begins his slow, pained hobble to the living room. Tray in hand, he's halfway out the door when Jonah grabs him roughly by the shirt, pulling the professor down, slamming their foreheads together, his left hand firmly pressed to Matt's binding sigil.
"This is the best gift you ever could give me." the reincarnation whispers fiercely, tears on his pristine face.
Matthew can only nod in response, the tray shaking in his hands as Jonah roughly enters his mind, a bull in a china shop, the witch's thoughts and emotions, a deafening cacophony ringing through Matt's skull.
The devotee doesn't have to guess, now, how his Messiah feels. Absolute, all-encompassing elation—excitement and shock, both as sharp as knives—loss, a deep bass drum—and a wall of gratitude so thick and strong, Matt's thought processes crash against it like a highway barrier.
And then Jonah is gone, following Eugene down the hallway to offer the elderly man his arm, helping him to the couch. Matthew staggers, setting the tray down as quickly as he can before he sinks to the floor, gasping as his confused, grieved tears finally escape him, muffled behind scarred, clenched fists.
Even considering the memories Jonah had shown him, after their sigil spell, of Eugene—of their friendship, what their life in Jim Crow Connecticut was like together, even of that party—Matthew hadn't known. Hadn't fully realized.
How could he?
He'd never truly lost someone like that. He hadn't ever died—wondering, alone and scared—of what the fate of the person he'd loved is, what it may or may not be. No, Matthew had lived through a similar loss, and he was blessed. Wholly, miraculously blessed, that he got to hold his dead love in his arms again.
Now, it's Jonah's turn.
Matt keeps an eye on the clock,gently observing as the hours tick by, as the two best friends catch up. They sit together, hand in hand, knees touching, completely entranced in the other—sandbox love never dies, Matthew quotes in his head, smiling at his own reference.
"I'm so glad you survived, Genie—it was meant to be—" Jonah murmurs, sounding awed.
"Me too, of course, and it was. I've always thought so. If I hadn't been drafted, and then, if I hadn't been there, on that day, I wouldn't have met Hilly. God, I wish you could've met her, Jo—you woulda loved her. Pretty and sweet as a peach, and smart as a whip."
"She must've been." Jonah asserts, smiling down into the wallet-sized photographs of Eugene's six children, several decades old now, worn around the edges and faded underneath the glossy new pictures of Eugene's twenty grandchildren.
"God, they're all beautiful. I never—gosh, I just never imagined. What a beautiful new world we live in, Genie."
"I bet it was a damned shock, huh?"
Jonah laughs, shaking his head.
"A good shock, for sure. Think of all the Hell we could've raised, Eugene, if we were born ten years ago, and not almost a hundred."
"But it was fun, though, wasn't it—"
"What, pissing off all of the race supremacists and white elites in Goatswood? Sure was, even if it was super fucking dumb—you're damn fuckin glucking you've lived this long, old man, considering how many times you've been damn near lynched—"
Eugene laughs suddenly, clapping a hand on Jonah's knee.
"I just always figured I had a guardian angel." He says, staring fondly at his deceased friend.
"Who, me?" Jonah asks with a shocked laugh, pointing to himself. "You're an idiot if you thought I'd made it to Heaven this whole time."
Eugene's smile slips from his face slowly, melting into a soft expression of loss.
"Well, Jo, I—I'd assumed there wasn't anything, after death. At all. Thought you'd just turned into ash and nothing. But then—"
Eugene suddenly looks up, meeting Matt's eyes, and the room seems to still, goosebumps rising on the cancer-survivor's scarred flush.
"But then I saw you're, uh—fiance, on the TV, all those years ago. Looking all kinds of levels of fucked up and rambling on about how a ghost named Jonah saved him. And then I realized there was something after death, and that that something could be good, or bad, or both, or neither."
"And it—" the old man continues, tears welling fresh in his eyes and voice, "it hurt, it fucking hurt a lot, realizing you were still in this damned house, after all those years. And then it hurt all over again when Matt called me yesterday, and explained that you were here again, still here, in this fucking house—"
"I am, but I'm so grateful to be." Jonah does his best to reassure, gently wiping tears from his friend's face.
"I'd rather be in this house with Matthew, than dead and floating somewhere in Heaven, or Hell, or in between. I have a brand new life, Genie, and it's a good one."
"You've got your second chance, kid."
"I have. And I'm so grateful too, that I've gotten to see you again. It's a miracle that you're still alive—"
"I haven't got long left, Jo. To be honest, I've been wondering when God'll finally let these old bones lie the fuck down and rest—but now I wonder, if he's been stringing me along, knowing you'd get here."
"I actually…Jonah, there's some shit I gotta know, and some stuff I have to say to you. I…when you died, there was nothing, no closure."
"I know." A whisper.
"What happened that night, Jonah?"
Jonah's sigh is long and low, and he shifts, scrubbing his face with his hands. He suddenly looks exhausted, like all the tears and joy have wrung him out.
"Can I…can I just show you, Genie? Would you…would you be willing, to—ah, well—let me play that night in your head? Like a memory?"
"Like a memory?"
"It won't hurt, Genie, I promise." Jonah whispers, as he leans forward, resting their foreheads together, his aquamarine eyes closing.
Matthew catches the briefest flash of fear in the elderly man's gaze before his eyes roll back into his head, his old body trembling in Jonah's grasp.
It had taken Eugene almost an hour to recover from the transmission. In that time, he and Jonah cleared three joints, almost a whole pack of cigarettes, and four French 75s between them. There had been a lot of crying. Eugene had even almost gotten sick, immediately upon regaining consciousness. Matt was entirely impressed with the man, that he'd been able to refrain from vomiting—Matthew hadn't been able to, the first time Jonah had shown him that night.
At some point during that hour, Jonah had asked Eugene what had happened with him, that day and night, considering the last time Jonah saw Eugene, the man had just been shot, and unprofessionally stitched back up by the medium's own hand. Driving off into the night in his father's black Model-T, cigarette in hand, his fine new clothes stained rich purples and reds of blood.
"I'd tried to see you the next morning, actually. I showed up at the house, threw rocks at your window. You didn't come around, of course…and now I know why. But your daddy did—he found me—and he made it very fucking clear that I was never to come near his son again."
"What did he do, Genie?" Jonah whispers, and the elderly Eugene simply motions the teen closer, bending to offer his forehead.
"I'll remember, for you, if you want to see."
Around six in the afternoon, Matthew regretfully informs the two of them that Jonah needs to start getting ready for the wedding, and that Sarah, Peter, Wendy, and her kids, had just pulled up in front of Hell House.
With the sound of Milo and Otto running up the lawn faint but fast approaching, Jonah turns to Eugene, grips the old man's hands in his.
"I have to tell you something, Eugene, before I'm too busy—"
"I know." The man states simply, a soft, sad smile splitting his face.
"I—what, you know? What do you know—"
"I know." the elderly man states again, as he raises a hand from Jonah's grip to pat the teen's cheek, a comforting gesture. "Me, too. In another life, birdie."
Jonah sucks in a gasp, his eyes widening in shock. The expression on his face, the way it crumples at Eugene's words…Matt can only describe it as devastation.
The teen turns and flees, ripping himself free of Eugene's grasp to clatter up the stairs, his feet loud on every step. Somewhere upstairs, a door slams, as the front door opens, Milo and Otis barreling inside, a tired-looking Wendy following, smiling good naturedly, and a positively radiant Sarah Campbell close behind.
There's a strange pause, then, as Matthew's family notice Eugene, and Eugene nods at them.
Milo runs right up to him of course, beaming, clinging to the elderly man's worn trousers.
"You're so old!" She exclaims, and Eugene laughs, patting the couch, inviting the little girl to sit with him a while.
"And you're so young, little one! Why, you're still a baby—"
"M'not!" She exclaims, as Otto asks:
"Well, how old are you?"
"Little man, I will be one-hundred exactly, this December."
"I know someone who's a hundred, but I think he's a vampire or something!" Otto beams.
"Where is Jonah?" Sarah asks, and Matt motions upstairs.
"He's in our room. He's, ah…he's having kind of an emotional day, so far."
Milo shrieks wordlessly at the mention of Jonah, already wiggling free of the company she's keeping with Eugene to run to the stairs, climbing up them on all fours, cackling like the gremlin she is.
The Campbells and Reynolds, and Eugene Booker, listen from downstairs as the little girl busts into Jonah and Matt's room. Their reactions vary from bittersweet, to understanding, to concern, as they hear the little girl exclaim:
"Joan! Why're you crying?"