Covering the Fare

I’m not a bad guy. I just have a bad job.

When people die, I am there. I reap their souls—not with a scythe; that equipment was retired long ago. A clipboard is a lot less intimidating.

Souls are not always easy to soothe, but when they are ready to pass, I take them to the ferry on the River Styx where they pay to board. We haven’t gotten a card reader yet, but we’ve moved past Charon’s obol and on to five dollars in each Soul’s respective currency, so progress is happening. Souls don’t always have the fare, especially if they die outside the home, so I keep sufficient funds with me to pay their way if need be.

At the moment, I am picking up a Soul in a little, rural community, the kind that will be reaped clean in another decade or so. She is sitting before me, on the edge of the bed just a few feet from her body. Her gray hair is short, her body frail. She died before going to sleep and taking off her glasses, so they remain perched at the end of her spectral nose. I think I see her smile, but that’s wrong. A Soul that knows what’s happening doesn’t smile.

“I thought you’d be wearing a black cloak with a hood that covers your face,” she says. Her voice is neutral and calm and unnerving.

“That’s the old uniform. We replaced it with a suit and tie around 100 years ago.” I give the same answer to every Soul that asks. There’s an FAQ underneath my schedule on the clipboard, but I bring it more out of habit than a need for reference material.

“Are you ready to go, Mrs. …” I pause to check the clipboard. “Bridgers? If you don’t have five dollars on your spirit I can—” I reach into the right infinite pocket of my trousers, then the left. After checking my jacket and double checking each pocket again, I must accept what is true. I have no money on me. Nothing in any currency that’s in my jurisdiction. How did this happen? Three millenia I’ve been doing this job and not once have I ever not had sufficient funds to pay the fare. And I’ve got 300 more souls to reap before my shift is over. How many of them will afford passage over the River Styx?

“Um …” I start before the Soul lifts her palm in the air.

“Needing something, son?” she asks.

“This is highly unusual, I assure you, but do you have five dollars on you?”

“Five dollars in my pocketless night dress? Can’t say that I do.”

I’m trying to think of a solution. Without the fare, tonight’s Souls could stay on the shore until I can bring them the money, but there’s no guarantee they’ll stay where I leave them.

“I didn’t realize you still had to worry about money in the afterlife,” the Soul quips.

“Just five dollars in your respective currency. Usually I cover the fare anyway.”

“Fare?”

I nod. “To cross the River Styx on the ferry.”

“Does it have to be on the person when they die?”

“For Souls, yes. But reapers can convert earthly items into spectral ones.”

“And you do this for everyone?”

“If I need to, which is often.”

“In that case, no need to fret. I’ve got $20,000 and no children to leave it to. That should more be than enough, and it’s yours if you do something for me first.”

I scoff. “This game has been played before and with much more believable stakes. Listen, I’m just here to guide you to the afterlife. I can’t bring you back to life or—”

“You should’ve learned to listen before you learned to talk. I don’t want that. I just need you to read something to me.”

I wouldn’t expect a Soul as meek-seeming as this one to have such a strong tone against a Reaper, so I take whatever bait she is dangling. “How do I know you are being truthful?”

“I won’t show you where the money is, if that’s what you’re asking. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“I don’t trust.”

“Then I suppose I’ll stay here and be a ghost. Surely that’ll look good on you.”

It would almost certainly lead to a demerit. “You could very well be setting me up for something that would take hours, days even.”

The Soul leans forward and says, “I’m not asking you to read the Holy Bible backwards. It’s just a few letters. They’re in the notebook on my nightstand.”

Agitation only partly masks her anxiety. She desperately wants me to agree.

I sigh and rub my eyes. A reaper cannot take an unwilling soul without losing a tremendous amount of energy, and she’ll be unwilling until I humor her.

“I’ll need to see the letters first. I wonder what makes them worth $20,000.”

I find the notebook easily. It’s a small black one, but it’s decades old, and the age shows with yellowed pages and the leather cover darkening and taking on a sheen where it’s been touched the most.

Tucked in between the pages are five letters, each one about four pages long. The handwriting is quite small, and I suspect the Soul struggled too much with her eyes in her last years to be able to read it very well.

“Just these?” I confirm while holding up the letters. I should be able to get through these soon enough.

The Soul nods, and I begin.

“‘My dearest Clarice. I long for the days I can wrap you in my embrace. I’m miserable when I’m awake because I cannot dream of—’ what exactly am I reading here?”

“They’re love letters. From my late husband while he was away at war. Please, continue. Please. I really do want to hear them one last time,” she says, desperation seeping through her voice.

Because this is what I agreed to, and because $20,000 is allegedly the reward—and because, maybe just a little bit, I’m moved by her last request—I do as she asks.

As I read the letters to her, the world melts away. I feel a sense of wonder and awe at the emotions Souls can feel. It doesn’t make me jealous, but I am, perhaps, lonelier. It only hurts to peer into the love and lives of the Souls, whether I’m the one reaping them or not.

My voice softens, trying to match the sweet tone of the words. After the second letter, I ask how long they were together before he was deployed. They were newlyweds but had known each other since elementary school. After the third letter, I ask why they wanted to go to the beach so badly. She says it wasn’t about the beach; it was about taking a trip together, and the beach was the least expensive.

I have another question after the fourth letter, and I fear the answer. It isn’t until the final letter has been read and we are sitting in silence that I finally ask.

“What happened? After this last letter, I mean.”

“He came home because of an injury. We never did go to the beach, but like I said, it wasn’t about the beach itself, it was about taking a trip together. And driving across the country to a job on the East Coast that his friend helped him get was enough of a trip for us. We were happily married for fifty-two years.” She takes a deep breath and stares at her hands before continuing. “He passed away six years ago.”

After another pause, she turns back to me. “I wonder, were you there that night?”

Did I reap her husband’s Soul?

“I might have been,” I say.

“Will I see him again?”

“I really hope so.” She’ll be reborn, just as her husband was, so it’s not impossible. Just not likely.

“I hope so, too.” She squeezes her hands together, then sighs. “Right then. The money is right here.” She pats a hand on the bed.

“I hope ‘here’ isn’t where I think it is.”

“It’s under the mattress, of course! I never did trust banks, you know. And it’s better for you that I didn’t.” She beams at me.

I’m as gentle as I can be getting the stacks of bills from under her mattress so as not to disturb her body. It takes some supernatural prowess, but it’s not a fruitless endeavor.

With my funds replenished, I open an entrance to the afterlife. I extend an arm and escort Mrs. Bridgers to the boat, passing the fare to Charon. After boarding, Mrs. Bridgers turns to me and waves.

“Goodbye dear, and thank you again. Truly.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Bridgers. You’re welcome.” I wave back.