How do I begin this? Great tales of legend and heroes always have a hook, right? A first sentence that draws you in and captures you and refuses to let you go until you’ve finished. Well…I don’t have one of those, but I guess I should introduce myself? Okay. My name is Beauregard Shade. Don’t laugh at it, trust me.

You might regret it.

See, I’m a medium, which makes me sort of a…courier for the dead, if you will. When they have messages to send to the living, they come to me. I make it possible. And let me tell you, some days I really hate this job.

Which is how I ended up outside the residence of one Hank McCoy, in one of the middle-class-but-still-too-expensive neighborhoods of Brooklyn, in the rain. But that’s okay, it’s always raining on days I have to work. Just the universe’s little way of kicking me in the shins. I pulled the collar of my thick beige trenchcoat higher up around my neck and braced myself, raised a finger and pushed the little button next to the name ‘McCoy.’ This part of the job never was very fun. So I waited, in the rain. It must’ve taken him fifteen minutes to finally answer.

“Yes?” his electronic voice came through the callbox, and even through the distortion I could hear the hesitancy and heartbreak in his voice.

I took a deep breath and forced the words out of my lungs. “Mr. McCoy, my name is Beauregard Shade. I was wondering if I might be able to have a word with you?” Yeah, soul of professional courtesy, that’s me.

“I…I’m sorry, but…I’m afraid I can’t take any callers at this time.” Poor guy. I could imagine how he must feel. But this couldn’t wait.

“It’s about your wife, Mr. McCoy, and believe me, you want to hear this.”

There was another pause, and I could almost hear him struggling with himself internally. Then, finally:

“I’ll be right down.”

No buzzing me up, I noticed. Smart man.

When Hank McCoy opened the door, I really had no preconceived notions of what he might look like, but I was still a little taken aback. Mr. Henry “Hank” McCoy was a tiny little fella with thin hair that still kept its ginger roots and big bright blue eyes behind thick spectacles that magnified them by at least ten times. The overall effect was, to say the least, startling. I liked him already.

“Hi,” I said brightly, but he just continued staring. I’m not a very interesting guy to look at, but I guess I wasn’t what he expected. Between my permanently mussed dark brown hair and my bright green eyes, coupled with the two small silver rings in my left earlobe and the square silver spectacles, I must’ve looked a little out of place in the white button-down dress shirt, tie, and black slacks.

Mr. McCoy blinked at my tie for a moment. I couldn’t really understand what had him so fascinated with it; it was just a plain black tie. Oh, maybe it was the piano keys…

I fumbled in one of the pockets of my coat and finally came up with a business card that looked like it had been through World War II, Vietnam, and Thanksgiving with my family collectively. “Like I said before, Mr. McCoy, my name is Beauregard Shade, and I need to speak with you on behalf of your wife.”

And suddenly his attention was back on me. He’d moved from staring at my tie to staring at my shoes in either horror or fascination, I couldn’t tell which. But, to be fair, red high-top Converses are just about the sexiest shoes ever made.

“My wife is dead,” Hank said flatly.

I didn’t say anything; I just offered him the card again. He took it and glanced at it, then back up at me, then back to the card, before finally settling back on me. He raised an eyebrow.

“Psychic medium?”

“That’s two separate titles, actually,” I said smoothly. “I’m a psychic and a medium.”

“What’s the difference?”

“About six letters,” I answered, flashing him my most charming smile. “Would you mind if I came in?”

He ignored my question, his eyebrows kitting in consternation. “What exactly are you trying to sell me here, Mr. Shade?”

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, Mr. McCoy, I’m just here to do my job.”

“And what, exactly, is that?

I sighed. “Here’s the thing, Hank. May I call you Hank?” He nodded. “Here’s the thing, Hank. Your wife’s got something to tell you. Something that can not wait. And I’m the lucky duck who gets to deliver it. Here. At your apartment. In the rain.”

He missed the hint. Again. “I’m sorry, son, but I’m afraid I just don’t have the money for-”

“Oh, no,” I interrupted, laughing a little softly. “It won’t cost you a thing. Like I said, this is my job. I don’t accept tips.”

He glanced over his shoulder once and turned back to me. “Well…okay, go on then.”

“It’s…just a bit more complicated then that, Mr. McCoy.”

He frowned. It didn’t suite him. “How much more complicated?”

“Well, I’ll need to set up. Then I’ll have to get in contact with Death and negotiate the terms, and then-”

“Listen…I…don’t know about this,” Hank McCoy cut in, fidgeting nervously.

I could tell I was going to have to sell him. I leaned closer to the little guy and he flinched back ever so slightly.

“Your wife died two nights ago, Mr. McCoy. Her name was Janet Evelyn McCoy. She died in her sleep, of a brain tumor that no one knew she had. Her parents didn’t come to her funeral. In 1987 she had a miscarriage, and in 1991 she had another. The second one almost killed her. She was pronounced dead for approximately twenty minutes before the doctors were able to resuscitate her. During those twenty minutes, you smoked exactly a pack and a half of cigarettes. You were married in 1985. Her wedding vows ended ‘I love you, Hank McCoy, in this life and the next.’ It’s engraved on the inside of your wedding ring. And her favorite color,” I added as an afterthought. “Was periwinkle.”

He stared at me for a second, and then swung the door open. “First floor. Second door on the left.”

I smiled at him and stepped inside and out of the rain, but now that I could see all of him, he was even more of a wreck than I had thought. He was dressed in a cheap tuxedo, wrinkled and rumpled as if he’d been wearing it for several days. In the florescent light of the staircase, I could see his robin’s-egg-blue eyes were red and bloodshot, and they lacked something. A certain sparkle that I could tell was absent. He blinked owlishly under my scrutiny. My heart went out to him.

The apartment reflected the man living in it. Boxes and boxes of old photographs lay around, on the floor and the worn old recliner and on the tiny kitchen table. Everywhere. A half-full photo album lay open on the coffee table next to a formidable pile of used Kleenex, and a stack of old vinyl records leaned precariously next to the old record player. The apartment itself was probably very attractive thirty or forty years ago, but now the dingy windows and peeling wallpaper made it significantly less so. All the same, you could tell it had been lived in. It had that sense of security and love. It was a home.

“Uh…sorry about the mess,” Hank said, rubbing the palms of his hand against his tuxedo pants, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“its fine,” I nodded at the scrapbook. “You working on that?”

Hank nodded. “Janet…she would always take pictures, everywhere we’d go. At the supermarket, on vacations, even just out to lunch. ‘Why do you have to take so many pictures?’ I’d ask her. ‘What’re you gonna do with all of them?’ And she’d say ‘I’ll look back at them later and remember.’ But they always ended up in boxes in storage. Never stopped her, though. I guess I thought…” he shook his head. “I think I’m talking too much. Have a seat. Can I get you anything, Mr.…?”

“Call me Beau,” I told him, smiling warmly. “And a cup of tea would be great, if you have it.”

“Sure. Earl Grey?”

“Perfect.”

I settled down on the tiny, ugly, paisley sofa and closed my eyes. I listened to Hank McCoy move around the kitchen and rattle cups and plates and I slowed my breathing. The noise would be my anchor, now it was time to strike a bargain.

When I open my eyes, I am in another world. Not literally, of course, but I wont go into the theological mumbo-jumbo. Anyway, I stand on barren earth, devoid of anything even resembling scenery. No plants grow, no mountains rise up in the distance. Just dry, cracked, brown dirt, and it stretches out in all directions, as far as they eye can see. The permanently overcast sky shows everything in a grayish tint, and the amber clouds moving by overhead do so with astonishing speed. It reminds me of the movies, when they try to signify a time change, only here, time never changes. It’s one of three other worlds I’ve visited, and sadly enough, I think it’s the most attractive. All its missing is the sign. ‘Welcome to scenic Limbo, please enjoy your stay.’

“Well, well, well,” a deep, raspy voice says from behind me. “Beauregard Shade. How now, spirit? Wither wander thee?”

I sigh and turn around. “Come on, Death, drop the Reaper routine already.”

Death wears a long, flowing black robe that seems to suck ambient light into its depths and covers his entire body, except for the skeletal hands that stick out from the ends of the sleeves and the bony toes that protrude from the hemline. A deep hood casts an impenetrable shadow over his entire face and makes it impossible to see his features. However, two crimson lights glow from the depths, and they cast just enough light to see the bleached bone eye sockets that house them. Yet even as I watch, Death throws back the hood and all of that melts away.

Death’s true form is that of a young man no older than twenty-five. Tall and whiplash thin, with short black hair that meets in a small mohawk in the middle of his head, a close-cut beard and goatee, and silver-rimmed square eyeglasses over plain dark brown eyes. His robe has vanished, to reveal a Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt that says, in big electric blue letters, ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ a pair of plain faded blue jeans, and sandals.

“Dammit, Beau,” Death says angrily. “Why, man? Why do you have to mess up my G-A-M-E? Why do you have to ruin my image? Seriously, I’m freaking Death, man! Can’t we show just a little respect to the Reaper of Souls?”

“Not if the Reaper of Souls is going to keep referring to himself in the third person.”

Death sighs and hangs his head in defeat. “What do you want, dude?”

“Standard stuff,” I say cheerily, looking around. “Where’s your scythe?”

Death scoffs “It’s the 21^st century, bro. I upgraded,” and, from seemingly nowhere, produces a sleek black palm-pilot. On the back, engraved and inlayed with silver, is the image of a scythe blade.

“Nice. Very classy.”

“Why, thank you,” he says, and whips out the small black stylus with a flourish. He makes a show of going to hit a button, but then stopping. I roll my eyes. This waltz is tedious, but it’s necessary. Death is big on proper channels.

So from inside my coat, I produce a plain brown paper sack and toss it to him. He grabs it greedily and opens it, riffling through its contents.

“It’s all there,” I assure him. “I had a little trouble finding the Hellboys, apparently the store around the corner from me doesn’t save the back issues, but the Punishers came through just fine.”

“Doesn’t save the back issues…I tell ya, Beau, the living get less and less taste every year,” Death says, shaking his head sadly, and suddenly, the bag is gone. He hits a button on his Scythe 2.0. “So, who do you need?”

“Janet Evelyn McCoy. She came through two nights ago.”

“Janet Evelyn McCoy,” Death says thoughtfully, scrolling through a list. “Yeah, here she is…oh, sorry dude, I sent her on already.”

“The good place or the bad place?”

“The good place, but-”

“Then you can get her back.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Death protests. “I mean-”

“The hell it doesn’t,” I say angrily, taking a step closer and seizing him by the collar. I’d heard of embracing death, but this was ridiculous. Don’t let the bad joke fool you, though. I’m mad as heck and I’m not gonna take it anymore. Can I actually harm Death? Well…probably not. Do I care? Probably even more not. “I’ve got an old man back in his overpriced, lonely apartment making scrapbooks and wearing the same tuxedo he wore to his wife’s funeral two nights ago. I told him he had to talk to his wife, and no one, not you, not God, not even the fucking devil, is going to keep me from giving him that tiny little moment of comfort.”

Death stands silent for a second, then. I can tell what’s going through his head. He knows I don’t have the kind of power it would take to really make good on my threat, especially not here in neutral territory. I can see him weighing his options in his head, calculating exactly how much power he would need to crush me like an insect. But instead, all he says is “it won’t be easy.”

I exhale. “Thank you.”

“Or cheap. I mean, I’m gonna have to call in some serious favors, and-“

“I’d owe you one, Death.”

“Pssh. You owe me too many to count as it is, Shade.”

“How long?” I ask in relief.

“Right…about…now,” he says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest.

And just like that, a woman is suddenly standing next to me. She’s about as tall as me, with the type of plain, wholesome good looks that mean she was a beauty in her younger days. Her hair is a very dignified brown, shot through with sparse strands of iron grey, and her clear green eyes hold obvious warmth. She looks around in confusion, and finally settles her eyes on me.

“You heard me,” she whispers in disbelief, and she takes a step forward, brushing her fingertips against my now-dry coat as if to make sure I’m really there. It’s the same tone of voice her husband used when he first spoke to me, but it sounds better coming from her. “You came.”

“I’m sorry to pull you away from paradise so soon, Mrs. McCoy, but would you still like to say good-bye to your husband?” I ask. I smile at her, and she smiles back through ghostly tears and nods. Was it worth the ass-kicking I almost received? Hell yes.

“Then good luck, dude,” Death interrupts. He raises his hands to his collar and jerks at the air there. The hood of his robe settles around him once more, and he becomes the traditional image of death again. “I shall see thee again soon, Beauregard Shade. Perhaps,” he adds, the two crimson lights narrowing at me. “Sooner than thou may think.”

I roll my eyes again. Show-off. “Take my hand, Mrs. McCoy. Let’s get you home.”

She did. Her hand is trembling, and warm. I squeeze it reassuringly, and drift back to the sound of rattling pots and pans, to a cramped little apartment in Brooklyn, with peeling wallpaper and dirty windows and a man who is currently making me a cup of tea. Mmm. Tea.

“How do you take it, with cream or sug-“

I opened my eyes to the sound of breaking china and I sighed. Hank McCoy stood in the doorway, hands still poised as if to hold a cup, but the broken pieces and spreading puddle of tea on the kitchen floor spoke to a different story. Beside me, Janet McCoy slid the half-finished photo album out of her lap and rose to her feet. She walked past her husband, who stood rooted to that spot in the doorway, the knuckles on his hands white from being clenched so hard. Janet picked up a dishtowel and a sponge and got down on her hands and knees to mop up the tea. Then she got a broom and dustpan and swept up the remains of the china cup. She placed them on the counter and leaned there heavily, her eyes closed and her back heaving with sobs. Hank watched her throughout, his eyes displaying the distrust in his heart. Hank McCoy didn’t want to believe that his wife was in their kitchen, just in case it wasn’t true.

“Hank, you idiot,” she said, turning around and smiling through her tears. “It’s me.”

“Janet? But…my God, how?” Suddenly he was across the room, and he grabbed her and pulled her into a tight embrace. “No, nevermind, I don’t care. You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

Janet McCoy shook her head sadly. “No, Hank, I’m dead. I just came back to say good-bye. And to tell you…I love you. In this life, and the next.”

“I love you, too,” Hank said, and then he kissed her. It was not a Hollywood kiss. It wasn’t chaste, it wasn’t clean, it was sloppy and passionate and it went on for probably longer than it should have. And it was beautiful.

“I have to go, Hank,” she whispered when they broke apart, touching the side of his face tenderly.

“Stay with me, Janet.”

\ “I can’t.”

“Don’t go,” he pleaded.

“I have to, Hank.”

She kissed him once more, and then she turned to me and dashed the tears from her eyes. I nodded once, and let the power slip away from me, and as I did she started to fade away. Hank pulled her closer, trying to physically hold her there. She leaned in and whispered something into his ear. I overheard.

“Live, Hank. Just…live, baby.”

And then she was gone.

“Periwinkle,” Hank said quietly, picking up one of the fragmented pieces of a tea cup that was indeed that color. “Who in the world’s favorite color is periwinkle?”

“Personally,” I said, rummaging in my coat pocket and pulling out a red and white pinwheel mint in a cellophane wrapper. The kind they have sitting in dishes next to the doors at restaurants. I squeezed it out of the plastic and popped it into my mouth, savoring the peppermint. The plant it’s named after represents rebirth and new beginnings, and that’s what it tasted like against my tongue. “It’s always looked good to me.”

Mr. Henry “Hank” McCoy looked at me then, tears running down his face, and reached into the pocket of his tux jacket as well. But what he produced was the antithesis of my mint. He pulled out a small revolver and pressed it into my hands.

“Just…get rid of it, please,” he begged me, and then he smiled through his tears, and I could see the sparkle in his eyes again. That certain something that had been missing earlier, and I wondered if he, too, could taste the peppermint. “And…thank you, Beau.”

I left.

My name is Beauregard Shade. Some days, I really hate this job.

Today isn’t one of those days.