Death En Vogue
by Melissa Stanziale
“How are you, darling?”
Lucinda sighed, standing in the doorway with her shoulders drooping. “Healthy as ever.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Patricia, removing her Prada sunglasses and gliding past Lucinda into her luxury apartment.
Lucinda stood aside, letting her glamorous friend enter, and a combination of jasmine, lily of the valley, and rose filled the room.
“Love your perfume,” said Lucinda, closing the door.
“Thank you, it’s Quelques Fleurs.”
Patricia, tall and graceful, was dressed in a white Chanel suit with a matching purse and carried her dog, a meticulously groomed Maltese named Cherezade, in one of her thin, white hands. Her perfectly shaped lips were white as ermine, her sculpted cheekbones pointier than ever.
Pat removed her white hat, pushed a lock of blond hair behind her bony shoulder, and sat down on the grey Bomboca sofa. “You don’t have it yet?”
Lucinda shook her head. “No, my doctor said I’m perfectly fine.”
Patricia placed Cherezade on a pillow and patted the soft calfskin cushion beside her, gesturing for Lucinda to sit. “I love this sofa. It’s like sitting on a cloud. Now, don’t be upset. I know it’s hard waiting, but it will happen.”
“I don’t know,” said Lucinda, sitting down. “Maybe I’m just not meant to catch it.”
“Don’t say stupid things. Lots of people have the sickness, and you’ll get it too.”
Lucinda shrugged. “Maybe I don’t even want it.”
“Now that’s the stupidest thing of all! Of course you want it. Everybody who is anybody has it.”
Lucinda studied Patricia. She was once a bright and vivacious person. Now, with her wasted frame, dull eyes, and yellow skin, she was about as bright and vivacious as a sagging fence. Her once-beautiful friend was a skeleton; the contemporary term was “super skeleton.”
“You look terrible,” Linda said, leaning back into the sofa and crossing her legs.
Patricia touched her gently on the arm. “Thank you, Sweety.”
Lucinda smiled.
“Now, cheer up. No more of this silliness,” Patricia said, putting her arm around her friend. “You’re going to be fine.”
Lucinda looked at her.
“I mean…you’re not going to be fine. Don’t worry. You got this. I mean…you’ll get it.”
The sickness was everywhere, an epidemic, but it did not touch Lucinda Welleston. She went everywhere. To every restaurant, coffee shop, store, library, and park she could think of, but she was not infected, and she didn’t know why. It was all well and good to be healthy, but not when everyone else was so fabulously ill. Somehow, dying had become the most fashionable thing since Andy Warhol.
And they were everywhere, the ill, flaunting their alarmingly thin bodies, dull eyes surrounded by black circles, thin, pointy faces, sallow skin. They already looked dead, but they weren’t. They were in the process of dying, and it was faboo!
“Are you in pain?” Lucinda asked her cousin, Sage, one afternoon at the Blasé Tea House. He sat there, not answering, holding his stomach. Lucinda picked up a square-shaped cucumber sandwich and took a bite, savoring the richness of the Irish butter and the satisfying crunch of the cucumber.
“Um, occasionally,” Sage said, vomiting a little on the table.
Lucinda put the sandwich down.
“But I’ve lost so much weight.”
One of the waitresses rushed over to wipe the table. Sage thanked her and slowly lifted himself.
Lucinda leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You look so thin. I’m jealous.”
“Thank you, darling,” Sage said, beaming. “Before I got the sickness, I was trying to subsist on air and a little bit of water, but now I can eat whatever I want and not gain a pound.”
Lucinda looked down. “Yes, you look great.”
“Don’t let it get you down,” Sage said, trying to lift his tea cup. “You’ll be next! I know it.”
Linda went to the cemetery the next day to visit her sister’s grave. Her sister, Marilyn, always did everything first. She learned to walk, and then Lucinda followed. She learned to use the toilet, and then Lucinda followed. She dyed her hair, and then Lucinda followed. Marilyn caught the sickness and died, and then…well, there was still hope.
Marilyn had looked splendid in hospice with her lank, lifeless hair spread over the perfectly arranged pillows. She lay there, a withered lily, who occasionally smiled, showing a set of yellow teeth, and—oops, one or two fell out. There was such a peaceful smile on her face as she slept the sleep of the almost dead, waiting impatiently for the dark angel. It was no surprise when the editor of Vogue called in a frenzy, begging to do a photo shoot before she expired.
“Oh, Sis,” Lucinda said, placing a bouquet of lilies at the foot of the tombstone. “You were perfect; you even died perfectly. How can I ever compare?”
A gentle wind blew, stirring up the scent of autumn leaves and swaying the branches of a Black Oak tree, whose leaves had turned as orange as Halloween itself. Lucinda wondered if that was a message from her sister, who had loved fall, but she didn’t know what the message could be.
Later that day, Lucinda visited her grandmother, whom she hadn’t seen in a few weeks, at her mansion on the Upper East Side. They sat together before a warm fire in a couple of red Victorian button-back chairs. Gran was dressed in her usual pink sweatsuit and wrapped in an ugly brown crocheted blanket. Her grey hair, freshly done, was permed and teased to perfection. The scent of Ben Gay lingered in the air between their seats.
“I love these chairs,” Lucinda said, touching the cool mahogany-carved, rolled arms. “They’re gorgeous.”
“And they cost me a mint,” Gran said, pushing her black-framed glasses back on her long nose.
Lucinda smiled, knowing that a “mint” was nothing to Gran; she just liked to complain. The old woman was rich as a raja and had lived in her exquisite mansion for as long as Lucinda could remember, for as long as anyone could remember. She was well-known for her wisdom, wit, and wealth.
“Well, what do you want? Money?” Gran asked, grinning.
Lucinda frowned, insulted. “No, gran. Why do you always ask that? You know I have my own money.”
“Sorry, I’m just used to people asking me for things, especially money. But, just to be clear, the money you have is not yours, it’s the money your parents give you.”
“Are you finished with the money talk?"
“Yes, yes, I’m done. You know I have to say what’s on my mind or I’ll explode like an old boiler. Want some milk and cookies?”
Lucinda always said yes to the offers of milk and cookies, even though she was twenty-two. She wouldn’t touch anything, of course, but her acceptance of it appeased the old matriarch.
“Where are your parents?”
“I don’t know,” Lucinda said, shrugging. “I think they’re somewhere in Europe.”
“Mmm. I suppose they needed to get away after your sister died.” Gran reached for the Kleenex on the marble table between them and blew her nose.
“I guess so.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Gran asked, wiping the tip of her nose.
“I’m depressed because I can’t catch the sickness.”
Gran screwed her wrinkled face into an expression of disgust. “So, you’re an idiot like the rest of them?”
Lucinda sighed. Why did she go there? She knew what kind of reception her “depression” would get, but, for some reason, she was still drawn to the old woman and her cozy fireside.
“Everyone’s dying, Gran. It’s the new thing.”
“I think idiocy is the new thing!” Gran said, shaking her fist.
“My friend Pat said she can’t wait to die.”
“Well, she’s an idiot, too. Can’t wait to die. I’ve never heard such stupidity in my life. I’m seventy-five, and I would give anything to be twenty-five again. What I wouldn’t do if I had a second chance to live my life, and here are these masses of morons dying to be dead.”
Linda knew there was no point in arguing with her grandmother, but the defiance of the young against the old forced her to defend her position. “But think about it, no one knows what comes after life. It’s a mystery. Aren’t you curious to find out? I can’t wait either.”
The old woman lunged forward as far as her old body would allow her. “Don’t be a stupid little snot! As human beings, we are meant to crave life and fear death. You and your friends are all fouled up.”
“But, Gran—”
“But nothing! I don’t want to hear any more about this.”
The next day, Lucinda went for her weekly massage at the exclusive Masque spa.
“There she is!” said Nola, proprietor of the spa, kissing one of Lucinda’s cheeks. “We haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?”
Lucinda returned the kiss. “I’ve been around…ruminating, I guess.”
Nola sensed what was wrong. “Don’t worry, Sweety. I haven’t got it yet either.” Lucinda’s brown eyebrows shot up in amazement. Nola was one of the most chic people she knew. For a moment, she felt less alone, not being the only New York socialite who couldn’t catch her death.
“You haven’t got it? I don’t believe it.”
“No,” said Nola. “I’m healthy as a prize-winning poodle on a diamond leash. But, listen,” she said, putting her arm around Linda and pulling her close. “I’ve got a new masseuse; her name is Daria. Sick as a dog, and the poor thing has to keep working. Do you want her?”
Lucinda’s eyes sparkled like jewels at Tiffany & Co. as she nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, please.”
Lucinda inhaled the soft, delicate scent of lavender, which she had chosen for her massage, and tried to relax as Daria spread CBD oil on her back and began to knead. She (Daria) coughed hard, and then harder and harder. After a severe coughing fit, Lucinda felt warm drops of blood fall on her naked back.
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry,” Daria said, covering her mouth. “I’ll get someone else to finish.”
“No, it’s okay,” Lucinda said. “I’m hoping…well, you know.”
“I get it. Just give me a second, and I’ll wipe the blood off your back.”
“No, don’t. Leave it and work it in.”
“Pat,” Lucinda whispered, reaching for her friend’s withered hand.
Patricia turned her head and opened her eyes, and a weak smile spread over her face. “I’m so glad you’re here. How do I look?”
“You look amazing,” Lucinda said, gently holding the small, withered hand.
And she truly did, like a dying supermodel. Lucinda couldn’t help envying Pat’s look as she stood by her deathbed.
“Thank you, Sweetness,” Patricia said in a weak whisper. “I have a favor to ask. Will you take my Cherezade? I was going to leave her with my mother, but she’s also sick.”
“Yes, of course I’ll take her.”
“Thank you again, my love,” Pat said, closing her eyes.
Lucinda thought she would drift off to sleep, but after a few minutes she opened her eyes. “Everything is arranged. The service, the wake, the luncheon. The funeral planner said it will be an unforgettable experience.”
“Of course it will be,” Lucinda said, trying to repress her envy. “All the best people will be there.”
Pat smiled again, her expression one of half-dead euphoria, revealing her white gums and yellow teeth. She looks fucking fierce, Lucinda thought. I would kill for that bone structure, poking so perfectly through her thin flesh. And there she was, not even close, not even close to…
“Achew!”
“Bless you.”
“Thank y—ACHEW!”
“There now,” Pat said, making a weak attempt to squeeze her friend’s hand. “That’s how it started with me. You’re on your way now. We’ll be together in the next world, sipping champagne from Baccarat crystal goblets.”
“Well, now you’ve done it, you silly little ass,” Gran cursed into the receiver. “You’ve got it. You’re going to see my doctor.”
Lucinda exhaled into the phone and adjusted the damp facecloth on her forehead. “I don’t think so, Gran.”
“The hell you won’t! I’m not going to sit by and do nothing while my asinine grandchild lets herself die because it’s the latest fad. Have you told your parents? I’m going to tell them!”
Lucinda ended the call. Her head was blaring, and she was too exhausted to deal with Gran. It was better to lie there and let the fabulousness happen. It was just the beginning, but she was on the posh path to the afterlife. She drifted off to sleep on her luxurious sofa, listening to the purr of the vaporizer and inhaling the scent of Vicks VapoSteam, smiling gently, as she thought of Gran apprising her parents of the situation. Good, she thought, let her do it. She didn’t feel like it. However, someone had to plan the funeral. She had the name and contact information for the funeral planner Pat’s family had used.
She missed Pat, but there was no need for it. They would be together again soon enough, enjoying all the best the afterlife had to offer. And, they would learn the secrets of the universe; what a bonus!
After five weeks, Lucinda passed away, leaving behind her splendid apartment, a sizable trust fund, and a gorgeous wardrobe. She left these treasures to no one in particular, allowing her parents to take charge. Her only request was that they should find a comfortable home for poor little Cherezade, who had already been displaced once. Until she became too sick, she had a significant role in the funeral arrangements. Of course, she wanted everything to be just so. It had to exceed Pat’s funeral in every way. It had to be the event of the season, the year, the decade! Her parents spent a fortune on the finest funeral home, flowers, church, and restaurant for the much-anticipated event.
“God, I thought one day I’d be planning your wedding,” said her mother, sobbing.
Lucinda shook her head, dismissing the sad remark. “Don’t feel bad, Mother. No one will forget me after this fabulous funeral. I’ll be remembered forever.”
“I would rather have my daughter than her memory.”
The funeral was, in fact, amazing; everyone was talking about it for weeks after. And, of course, they remarked on how gorgeous Lucinda looked, thin, embalmed, and painted to perfection in her Louis Vuitton casket.
The dining room was silent, except for the sound of Gran removing her glasses and cleaning them. A sparkling Schonbek chandelier hung over the heads of four people seated in cushioned chairs at the high-gloss mahogany table. Candles burned in a pair of antique Dresden silver candelabra on the table.
Lucinda’s father stood up. “I want nothing to do with this.”
“Good, then leave. You’re not needed here.”
“Mother, please,” said Lucinda’s mother.
Gran scowled and, replacing her black-framed glasses on her long nose, demanded that her son-in-law be gone and the medium begin. “I thought the candles would be a nice touch. They must help you with your work, yes?”
“Well, candlelight is nice, but it’s not necessary.”
Gran waved her wrinkled hand dismissively. “Whatever, just get on with it.”
The medium, whose name was Tracey, knew it was always the same when dealing with the wealthy. They thought the spirit world was at their immediate disposal, just like everything else, as long as they put their money on the table. She didn’t enjoy serving them, especially when they heard things they didn’t like, but, like most, she had to make a living. It hadn’t been easy, as of late, with so many dying from the sickness; it was becoming increasingly difficult to connect to the innumerable rich jerks who saw death as a status symbol. She closed her eyes and tried to focus.
“Well?” Gran demanded, interrupting Tracey’s attempt to connect.
“Mother, be quiet and leave her alone.”
Tracey sat back, her eyes rolling into her head. There was a sound like the static heard when a needle is placed on a record, and then Lucinda’s distant voice came out of Tracey’s mouth. “Dark place…nothing here…labyrinth. Smells like shit, rotting meat. Big thing…black horns… hooves stomping. Help me!”
The room was filled with the pungent scent of roasting meat with sulfurous notes. “What the hell is that smell?” Gran shouted. “I can practically taste it!”
Tracey began to tremble. White foam poured out of her mouth, and she collapsed, losing the connection.
“What in the hell!” Gran roared, standing up. “What in the hell was that? Bring her back!”
Lucinda’s mother rushed to Tracey’s side, shouting for her husband and one of the servants. She lifted Tracey and looked at her blanched face. When the servant came, she asked for a glass of water and a wet cloth.
“Bring her back!”
“What happened?” Lucinda’s father came in shouting.
After a short time, Tracy recovered, and her clients informed her of what had happened.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her head with the cloth. “I couldn’t hold on to her.”
“Where is she?” Gran demanded.
Tracy paused, knowing the old woman wouldn’t like her answer. “I don’t know. All I can do is channel them; I don’t know where they are.”
“What? Well, what the shit are we paying you for? A glimpse into the abyss? That wasn’t my granddaughter. She isn’t in that place. I won’t accept that. I want you to get her for us right now.”
Tracy scowled at the overbearing old tyrant and, suddenly, she didn’t care about her fee or about making a name for herself among the overindulged elite of that cursed city.
She stood up and charged at the arrogant old matriarch at the opposite end of the table. “For God’s sake! What did you think? That she would be sipping champagne with her friends at the Elaine’s in the sky? I’m not surprised she is where she is. Seeking death because it’s stylish is the most unnatural thing I’ve ever heard of. Death is not en vogue; it’s devastating, overwhelming! Your granddaughter is fucked and so are you!”
Tracy was escorted out by Lucinda’s sobbing mother and her mortified father, both of whom apologized profusely. They expressed their gratitude and compensated her for her efforts. Tracy nodded, listened sympathetically, and tried to feel sympathy for them. The night was cold, and it was raining. A slanted curtain of rain fell, each drop plummeting to its death on the hard pavement. When she looked into the darkness, many dead white hands were reaching out to her.
Melissa Stanziale, a Professor of English residing in Rhode Island, writes fiction inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, and Ray Bradbury, among others. When she isn’t reading and writing, she explores local cemeteries, takes walks on lonely roads, and bays at the moon.