Flesh For Fantasy. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

      Dressed in a baggy sweat suit, Barbara Enright scooped the butter-and-garlic mix from the food processor and carefully spread it on the slices of French bread she had laid out on the cutting board. Meticulously she covered the bread to the edges so it would toast properly under the broiler. As she finished the second slice, she reached out and almost without looking swirled a spoon through the small pot of simmering marinara sauce. She popped the bread in the oven, then lifted a strand of spaghetti with the clawlike device and snipped off about an inch. She popped the piece in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Still just a bit too firm, she thought, remembering when she had to get it almost mushy so her mother could chew it.

      As she mused, she realized that her mother’s death didn’t hurt anymore. With almost seven months gone by, she could remember the wonderful life her mother had led before the pain.

      Barbara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, stirred the sauce and checked on the bread. She pulled one of her mother’s good Límoges plates from the closet, poured a Coke and set herself a place on the large kitchen table. With perfect timing born of years of cooking for herself and her mother, Barbara removed the bread from the oven, drained and served the spaghetti and poured sauce over the top. She flipped on the TV on the counter and watched I Love Lucy fade in from the darkness.

      “Some red wine would really go better with that.”

      Barbara jumped and tipped over her chair at the sound of the voice behind her. With one hand reaching for the phone, her fingers ready to dial 911, she turned slowly. “Who the hell…”

      “It’s okay,” the jeans-clad figure said. “It’s really okay. I’m Maggie and we’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together for a while.”

      “Get out before I call the police,” Barbara said, trying to make her quavering voice sufficiently forceful.

      “Don’t do that or you’ll look like a fool,” Maggie said, crossing the kitchen and leaning over the pot on the stove. “Nice sauce. I always loved a good marinara sauce.” She lifted a strand of spaghetti and dangled it over he mouth. Nipping off the bottom, she said, “Vermicelli. And properly al dente. Not many people know how to cook pasta correctly.”

      Barbara stood, mouth slightly open, with her hand on the phone. For some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she hadn’t lifted the receiver yet.

      “I know,” Maggie said, picking up a slice of garlic bread, “this is something of a shock, but believe me, it’s taking me a little while to adjust, too.” She took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t even know whether I can eat.” She swallowed. “I guess I can, but I’m not very hungry.” She pulled out the chair opposite Barbara’s and sat down. “Wouldn’t you know it. I can probably eat what I want and not gain weight, but I’m not hungry.”

      “Would…” Barbara cleared her throat and tried again. “Would you kindly tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

      “I’m not here to hurt you,” Maggie said, swallowing the chewed mouthful. “But before I try to explain, you’d really better sit down.”

      Barbara thought she should be afraid, but she was more baffled than frightened. This woman had arrived in her kitchen unannounced and had made herself totally at home. She shook her head, righted her chair and dropped into it. The woman had, Barbara admitted, warm, honest eyes that looked directly at you when she spoke and an open, friendly smile. Wasn’t that what made con artists so hard to resist? “Okay. Tell me what you’re doing here. And if you’re a salesman with a very peculiar way of getting my attention, I’m not buying.”

      “I’m not selling anything,” Maggie said, “but if I were, you’d be buying. I’ve actually come to change your life.”

      “Out,” Barbara said. “Get out. I don’t know how you got in here with your ‘I’m not selling anything’ sales pitch, but if you don’t leave I will call the cops.” She reached over and moved the phone from the counter to the table beside her right hand. “Now get out.”

      “Hmm. How to explain? Let me begin by introducing myself. My name’s Maggie Sullivan and I’m dead.” She reached over and flipped off the TV.

      Her mind whirling, Barbara reran all the six P.M. sales pitches she’d heard over the years. It had gotten so she didn’t answer her phone between the time she got home from work and eight P.M. Hi, they all started, my name is Maggie. She’d heard them on the phone hundreds of times. She glared. “Sure. And your next line is ‘And how are you this evening, Ms. Enright,’” she parroted as the last words of Maggie’s speech penetrated, “ and I’m calling on behalf of…’ You’re what?” Had she heard correctly?

      “I’m afraid you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’m dead.”

      “Sure and I’m Minnie Mouse.”

      “You’re not Minnie Mouse, but I am dead.” Maggie hesitated. “How can I convince you? You know, I’m really new to this and I don’t know what I can and can’t do.” She reached for the bread knife that Barbara had used earlier. “I hate this, but I think it just might work. I mean a dead person shouldn’t be able to feel pain and I shouldn’t bleed. Right?” To test the first part, Maggie pinched herself in the arm. Hard. “Well, I didn’t feel that.” She picked up the knife and held it poised over the index finger of her empty hand. “Do I really have to prove this to you? It may not be pleasant if I’m wrong.”

      Barbara raised one eyebrow. “This is certainly the most original pitch I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to see how you’ll get yourself out of this.” Strange, Barbara thought, but I actually rather like this ridiculous woman.

      “Okay then,” Maggie said. “Here goes.” She took the knife and drew it slowly across the pad of her finger. “Amazing,” she said. “I really didn’t feel that at all.” She held the finger toward Barbara. “See? No blood. And you can see I made a really deep cut.”

      Barbara could see that there was a deep cut across Maggie’s finger that wasn’t bleeding. “What’s the gimmick? Are you selling artificial limbs? And why would that interest me?”

      “Cut me some slack, will you?” Maggie said, putting the knife aside. “I’m really dead.” She stood up. “Have you got any wine? I find I need something to fortify myself.”

      Barbara motioned toward a lower cabinet, and when Maggie opened the door she saw a reasonably well-stocked wine rack. “I guess it will have to be red since white wine should really be chilled.” She pulled out a Chianti classico. “Corkscrew?” Numbly Barbara motioned to a drawer. While Maggie quickly removed the cork from the bottle, Barbara walked into the living room and returned with two glasses. Maggie quickly half filled the glasses and raised hers in silent toast.

      As Barbara watched, Maggie took a sip, swished it around her mouth and swallowed. “Not bad, but a bit harsh. It really could have breathed for an hour or two, but it’s okay.” She waved at Barbara’s glass. “Drink.”

      Barbara took a sip and swallowed. “I’m not much for wine, but my mom used to enjoy a glass with dinner.” She put her glass down and took her seat. Maggie took a few more sips, then again sat opposite Barbara. “You know,” Maggie said, “I don’t even know whether I will have to pee as the evening progresses or whether this just goes into the ether somewhere. I have no blood, so I can’t get tipsy. I wonder.”

      Without thinking, Barbara took another swallow. “Okay. You’ve been here fifteen minutes and I still have no idea why.”

      “I’m here for you. God, that sounds like a line from a bad sci-fi drama. Actually, I’m here because of your mother.”

      Barbara bristled. “What does my mother have to do with this? She died a while ago.”

      “I