Title: Memento Mori - for the Celebrating 5 Challenge
Chapter: 1/1
Author:
dukesfreers aka
iansmomesqCharacters: Mick St. John, Beth Turner
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Epsiode 101 through Episode 105, if any, and any inconsistencies thereafter are unintentional.
Disclaimer: Mick and Beth are the brainchildren of some amazing writers formerly employed at CBS, writers who are currently on strike, fighting for the recompense they so rightly deserve.
Summary: Reminders of death, reminders of life.
For
bipagan, my co-mod and brains behind this operation, with my love. She wanted to know what the deal was with those ugly ass paintings in Mick's corridor. Well, here you go. :) Sorry, but I couldn't bring myself to shorten it. :)
"Hey, Mick?" Beth's voice caught my attention, as always. She was running her fingers along the edge of one of the paintings in my hallway. "Where did you get these?" She looked from one to the other, as if scrutinizing a crime scene. "Are they a matched set or something?"
I grinned, and let a single chuckle erupt from deep within my chest. "Yeah, Beth, they're a matched set." Always curious, that Beth Turner. Always the journalist. Always probing.
She scrunched up her nose and tilted her head at the one closest to my door. I stood behind her, my hand on her shoulder, and tried to see the art -- the painting of a whithered and wrinkled old man -- as she had seen it, with fresh, new eyes, and without all of the history and sorrow I felt as I took in the dark, scrawly lines and wiry texture.
"So, tell me," Beth turned and craned her face up to mine. "Where did you get them?"
"Beth," I sighed with false resignation, "it's a...."
"It's a long story." She finished my sentence for me. "I know, I know."
"Come in. I have something to show you."
********************
You know damn well I hate talking about myself. It's true, I do. When I really think about it, think about my life, what I've been... what I've done... it simply hurts. It's the slow, methodical peeling away of layers of skin and flesh and meat and humanity and life and -- Christ, that's torture. With Beth, however -- it's not so painful.
Let me explain more.
Relationships can be problematic. Well, that goes without saying. Take Beth and me. I can't help but harbor this strange guilt complex over the distinct advantage I have over her. Not the vampire thing, that's not what I mean -- it goes deeper. I wouldn't call that an advantage, anyway. What I mean is, I know more about her -- about her life, what makes her tick -- than she knows about me. Much more.
In fact, I know everything there is to know about Beth Turner. That's the problem. So, while I'm normally cagey about discussing my past, for Beth -- the book of Mick St. John is wide open.
*****************
"Those paintings? They're called, Memento Mori," I explained, fishing in my, what I call, "public," refrigerator for a Coke. I strode toward Beth, who sat perched on the edge of my couch.
She took the can with a slight smile and a muttered thanks. "Memento what? It sounds like some kind of breath mint."
I laughed, and then coughed, doing not so good a job of hiding my amusement. No, amazement. Beth amazed me. I often wondered how such a professional, hard-nosed reporter could ask such innocent, endearing questions. "No, Beth, not Mentos. Not the Freshmaker. Mori. Memento Mori. That's the title."
She mumbled the words to herself, as if tossing them back and forth in her mind. "Memento....reminders, right?... Of mori.... mortality? Death?"
"Yes, reminders of death," I replied, instructively, "like the Renaissance Italians used to display skulls on their mantelpiece as a fashion accessory, or the Mexicans make papier-mache skeletons to celebrate El Dia De Los Muertos... things that keep you aware that death is inevitable." I settled on the couch beside her, and set my own drink on the coffee table. I couldn't help but notice Beth cringe in an attempt to hide her disgust at my selection of beverage. "Sorry."
"No," Beth waved her hand dismissively, "it's okay. I've got to... well... get used to it, I suppose." She scratched her head and took a bracing swig of the caffienated stuff. "So, why are they called Memento Mori?"
"Come on," I said, grasping Beth's hand, "to answer that, we need to go upstairs."
**********************
I rarely ventured up into the loft area of my apartment. In fact, I think my cleaning lady's been up there more times than I have. Don't worry, though, she's discreet, and she doesn't speak a word of English, nor I of whatever Eastern European language she speaks, so she probably just thinks me eccentric. On the other hand, she came by recommendation from Josef, so she probably just cleans for a lot of vamps and knows how to keep her mouth shut. Either way, it didn't matter.
The loft was my, for lack of a better term, memory room. In any person's lifetime there are keepsakes and mementos and simple objects a person feels compelled to save, to hold on to, to preserve -- and, well, when that person is an 85-year-old vampire who is somewhat still hung up on the vestiges of his humanity, those keepsakes and objects and mementos tend to build up over time.
So, for the first time, I intentionally and purposefully brought a human... a mortal... a woman... up there to see my life as I'd seen it over the years. I was nervous as hell showing this stuff to Beth, but bless her, she took it in like a pro -- like she'd expected to see the sheet music, the wing-tip shoes, the leather jacket, the old 78's, the turntables, the beads, the pressed flowers, the guitar, the old schoolbooks, the concert tickets and posters, that horrible white suit hanging in the closet (okay, she had a good laugh over that one) and the flare-bottom jeans.
I just stood back, leaning in the door, letting her pick her way through the detritus of my life. I watched as her eyes grew wide and her smile beamed to rival the sunlight. She asked me questions, giggled under her hand, and told me countless times that I could make a fortune selling this on eBay or could donate that to a museum.
Then... she reached the item I'd been looking for. It was tucked in the back of the closet, wrapped in an olive drab canvas suit bag, stamped with "US ARMY" on one side, and "ST. JOHN, M." on the other. She unhooked the hanger, and pulled the item out with such care, such reverence, such awe, that it made my heart melt. "What is this?" she asked, a look of shock crossing her features.
"It's..." I stammered, "it was my uniform."
"Oh my god," Beth breathed, "were you in... did you fight....?"
"World War Two," I responded, averting my eyes, "1942 through 1944. I was in the Ardennes Offensive for the end of it."
"The Battle of the Bulge," Beth confirmed. I nodded.
Beth held the still-wrapped uniform away from her as if it were made of crepe paper, as if it would fall to pieces if she opened it. I pushed off the door frame and crossed to her, lifting the burden from her arms. "Here, let me." I unzipped the garment bag and peeled it back, exposing the uniform. It was all there -- the creased and cuffed trousers, the overseas cap, the Ike jacket -- Sergeant's stripes on the sleeve, name on the pocket, the European Theater medal and Bronze Star clinking at the breast. The texture of the material, the very smell of it brought unwanted flashes of memory to my mind.
Unwanted, yes. Believe me, those memories were not happy ones. Freezing cold, snow, mud, the endless winter nights, the tang and burn of gun powder, thunders of artillery, bursts of flame, shrapnel cutting, digging, burrowing into my flesh... and the screams... the screams of the dying men... the screams of my buddy as the field medic sawed through his muscle and his bone while I held him down... Christ! The images pummeling my brain made my stomach turn and my lip curl. I know I was shaking with it -- I heard it in my chest, felt my body shudder against Beth's hand, heard the concern in her voice.
"Mick? Mick, are you okay?" I nodded, releasing a held breath. "Mick, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I didn't mean for this to upset...."
I stopped her with a gentle hand on hers. I couldn't believe myself. Sixty some odd years later -- that frozen trench, that nightmarish battle -- it still jarred me, still frayed my nerves just like when I first came home in 1945. "No, it's okay. I'm glad you found this, actually. It's... what I was looking for. It helps answer the question about the paintings downstairs."
Beth just stared at me, confused. In an effort to lighten the mood, I lifted the cap and set it jauntily on my head. With my unruly shag of hair, the thing didn't quite fit as well it did when I was a proverbial jarhead back in the day. In fact, it kind of just sat on top, not really making contact with my head at all. Beth laughed again, her face brightening.
That's my girl.
"A regular doughboy," she said, adjusting the bicorne cap, "it suits you." She took a step backwards, admiring her handiwork.
I blushed, and pulled the cap off. "Not anymore." I carefully replaced the uniform in the bag and hung it back in the closet. "It was... it was a long time ago."
"So, tell me," Beth sat on the edge of the bed, "what does that have to do with those paintings?"
"The artist was a buddy of mine -- a corporal in the 505th." I perched next to her, careful to move a box of of 45's and 8-Tracks out of the way. "His name was John Rand... great guy. Kind of quiet, really, not a lot of friends in the unit, so, you know, he had me. I was mortal then," I added, "scared shitless half the time, trying to be a funny guy the other half, so John and I kind of hit it off."
"I can't imagine you trying to be a funny guy," Beth said, sardonically.
I did a double take. "I have a great sense of humor, you should know that by now."
Beth raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly, as if to say, "sure you do...."
Laughing, I continued. "Not to mention I was cocky as hell, you know, to cover up the fear. I always told John that as long as he was with me he'd make it through anything. I was even stupid enough to promise him that." I shook my head and crooked a wry grin. "Well, he liked to spend the time... and we had a lot of time to spend, believe me, sketching things in a book. I'm sure if you look hard enough there's a sketch of me from 1944 floating around in a book on a shelf somewhere, because he liked to draw people."
Beth nodded, encouraging me.
"John, like a lot of guys there, got frostbite, and the medic had to chop off his foot right there in the field. Happened on Christmas day, of all days. Wasn't until two weeks later that we got the hell out of there and he got sent home, while I got sent over to Germany with the rest of the unit to finish things off. A year later, and I get back to LA, only to get a call from his wife a week after that. I guess he asked her to get in touch with me before... before he died."
"The leg?" Beth asked.
"Yeah," I replied, "the leg. Apparently when he got stateside it went bad again, and there was only so much penicillin to go around back then, especially in rural areas like Nebraska -- Nebraska, that's where he was from. Well, needless to say, he wasn't one of the lucky ones."
"I'm sorry," she said, placing her hand on my knee and squeezing. I smiled wanly. Strange, but I'd forgotten over the decades how that very gesture could be so comforting.
"Fast forward to 1953," I said, "Coraline had already... she'd... well...."
"Turned you?"
"Yeah," I mumbled, sheepishly, "turned me a year earlier, and I was still trying to come to terms with... with...you know."
"What you were?"
"What I'd become. What I was becoming, what I was doing," Fuck me, but there were tears in my eyes. I scrubbed at them with the heels of my hands and blinked at Beth. "Just as things seemed that they couldn't get worse, I got this letter from a lawyer. Turns out John's estate had been entangled in probate for some time, and they just sorted out who got what, and over his wife's objection, John left me...."
"Those two paintings?"
"Yes," I nodded. "Come back down with me, I want to show you something else."
********************
I lifted the first painting from the hanger, turned it, placed it on the floor, and leaned it against the wall. "Here," I pointed.
Beth knelt down level with the inverted canvas and began reading the fading inscription there.
"For Sgt. Mickey St. John..." she chuckled, "Mickey?"
"It was the 1940's, Beth. The name, Mickey -- it was the cat's meow back then, okay? Just read it. Out loud."
"These were the first paintings I did after I came home from that hell we lived through called the Ardennes. As much as Miriam hated it, I gabbed of the war often. It calmed me, made me feel like the man I was. Yet, yarning to her about Billy Boy's arm and Davey's eye, and how Jimmy got blown up two days before Christmas, well, it made me ponder on you. I reckoned something good happened to that punk Sarge from California who thought nothing or nobody could hurt him, who thought he'd never die. I hope it did, but I have to say this, Mickey boy. Someday, some dame's going to break your heart. Someday, you will get sick. Someday you will die. I know, these paintings are downright ugly, I'll own up, but they remind me of you. I'm darn sorry for that, but they do. They remind me that you need to get it through your damn thick skull that life is short, that men grow old, and their bodies whither and die, like mine is, whithering and dying. I can feel it even now as I write this, Mick. I feel death. It's coming, it can't be avoided. Don't you forget it. I only say this because I'll always love you, my brother, my pal, my comrade. My sergeant -- I salute you. Cpl. John Rand, December 25, 1951."
When she finished reading, she looked up at me, her chin quivering, and her face streaked with wet. "Memento mori," she whispered.
"Yeah," I knelt down beside her and gingerly shooed the tears with my thumbs, "reminders of death." I sighed, resigned. "Pretty appropriate given the circumstances. Or not, depends on how you look at it."
Beth stayed quiet for a long time. "And what about me?" Her expression, if at all possible, became even more despondent. "You realize that I'll die someday, too."
I blinked, puzzled. "Yes, I understand that... so?"
"Someday, I'll be older and I'll look all wrinkly and ugly and ancient like those paintings."
"You can never be ugly..." I began, but Beth interrupted me.
"Is... that.... what I am?" she stammered between sobs, the tears flowing anew. "A skull on your fireplace? Am I just... just... another reminder of your.... your... m-mortality, or lack of it... of some sick, twisted wish for death?"
I swallowed and shook my head. I gently tightened my grip on her face, leaned into her, and brushed my lips against hers.
"No, Beth, you remind me of life."