Body Donor

by Charles C. Cole

Crispin Wetherby held the exit door open, biting his lips, as two private white-uniformed orderlies rolled his badly brain-damaged son out to the waiting transportation. But for the boating accident, Brandon would have started his senior year of college in the fall.

The floor nurse stood beside Wetherby, holding a hand tight against her chest. “We did all we could,” she offered. “If only they’d found him sooner...”

“For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost,” said Wetherby.

“I’m sorry to ask you this, but his driver’s license: he’s an adult and he wished to be an organ donor...”

“I’ve made up my mind,” said Wetherby. “Thank the staff for their efforts.”

The ambulance arrived at the Wetherby estate in the middle of a rainy evening, crushed stone crackling beneath the tires as they pulled up to the imposing front door.

A tall, gaunt servant met them with a large silver-and-gold umbrella as they stepped out. “Everything is ready, sir,” he said.

The grim orderlies rolled Brandon Wetherby down the hall and into the prepared billiard room. The room was empty except for another hospital bed where a ten-year old boy in gray pajamas lay strapped down, staring at the ceiling lights with wide eyes, his mouth taped shut. The orderlies put Brandon’s portable cot against the other and set the brakes.

A tearful woman lingered in a far corner as if afraid of the child, holding her arms across her chest.

The orderlies quickly snugged straps to Brandon’s wrists and ankles.

“That will do,” said Wetherby. “You may go. Close the door behind you.” They did. The woman stood immediately. Wetherby looped a black cloth mask over his ears and covered his mouth, handing the woman another, pausing until hers was secure. There was a simple white crucifix sewed into the center of each. They clasped hands and approached the child.

“When it’s all done, one of them will be walking away,” said Wetherby.

The boy watched, visibly stiffening.

“You know Hilton’s mother,” said Wetherby. “You’ve taunted her for weeks.”

The boy snickered, his eyes brightened.

“I’m also a parent. We parents will do almost anything for our children, even behave irrationally.” Wetherby glanced over at his pale-faced, glassy-eyed son on the other gurney.

“Hear me clearly, demon aggressor,” announced Wetherby. “I bring you an unexpected opportunity. Last month you possessed young Hilton Bosley as easily as slipping on a pair of loose galoshes. He and his friends found a book of spells on the top shelf of a private library. In their little, shaking hands, it might as well have been a loaded shotgun in a toybox.

“You were one obscure demon in a crowded hell, looking for a way out. And then these children commanded you into our world. How giddy you must have felt. They were beyond reckless to call you forth. It was a game of chicken to them, until you made it deadly serious.

“You must know you have broken the heart of this mother, who just wants her innocent child back. I have heard of your long hours of vile torment. But possessing a child has its limitations. They will call him sick in the mind and lock you up and throw away the key. And you, my foul fiend, will miss the luxury of the life you left.

“So, I have brought you an alternative: my son, my beloved Brandon. Modern medicine considers him, too, beyond repair, the whole worth less than the parts. But I bet my fortune he’ll be the perfect flesh puppet for the likes of you.

“Why would I do this? To have my son back, a simulacrum of his former self, true, but the closest thing that circumstances allow. I’ll be honest, I’m desperate. And, as my heir, you will of course have access to all my privileges, present and future. I will treat you - God help me - as my own blood. Think of the power. Do we have a deal? Nod your head if you agree, then we’ll allow you to leave one for the other. We’ve only to tear off the tape.”

The young boy assessed the more mature model beside him. He drummed his fingers in the air excitedly. Then he nodded slowly, tentatively. Wetherby stepped between mother and child, offering some modest protection, ripping off the tape. Hilton, or the consciousness that resided there, made a long, obscene wolf-whistle. He smiled.

“I approve, your Lordship. Quite an appetizing upgrade.” It was an adult’s voice, nasal with the accent of a working-class Brit. “Slide him closer and turn our faces toward each other, like we’re old friends copping a feel.”

Wetherby did as he was asked, gently sweeping Brandon’s long dark bangs to the side of his face. “I love you,” he whispered. “You’re doing a good thing.”

“Hold his mouth open. Let’s move things along,” said the demon. “No takesies backsies. I’m gonna fill him like a water balloon.”

The entity that was inside Hilton stiffened. He stretched the toes of one bare foot, then the other. “Okay, then.” He breathed long and deep, inhaling and exhaling over and over, like he was loosening his attachment. Then, rather suddenly, a thick black, sulfurous smoke rose out of Hilton’s open mouth and sank into Brandon’s mouth.

Hilton’s mother stepped closer, entranced, and grabbed Wetherby above his left elbow for support.

Brandon shuddered, head to foot, as if in a seizure. His eyes opened wide, and then he burst into dark, enthusiastic laughter. “Hot damn! Roomy like a stretch limo. A little bit of resistance, at first, but we’re all aboard the Brandon Train.” It was the demon’s voice. He glanced at the adults in the room expectantly. “What are you waiting for, Big Papa? Get these damn straps off of me.”

Wetherby reached under the cot for some pre-measured duct tape. He stroked his son’s face. Before the demon could shake his head in resistance, Wetherby taped Brandon’s mouth shut tight. Then he used a second piece of tape for good measure.

“Mommy,” called Hilton, coming to, “where am I?”

“I’ll explain in the car,” said his mother, undoing his straps. “It’s so good to have you back.”

“It was so dark and cold, like at the bottom of a well. I yelled for you, but you didn’t come.”

“I’m here now.”

Wetherby covered his mouth. He could feel tears rolling over his hands.

“Where was I?” asked Hilton. “Why is that man crying?”

“He’s crying because he’s happy for us. Let’s go home. Thank you, Mr. Wetherby.” Hilton’s mother picked him up and carried him away.

When they were alone, the demon glared mutely at Wetherby. Wetherby looked away before speaking. “You’re not Brandon. Brandon died. I wanted him back, but like it was before. If I’d let you live his life, eventually you’d have poisoned everything he stood for. So, you’ll stay here. Well-cared for, but locked away from those you could harm.”

The demon struggled. He pushed his wrists and chest against the straps holding him in place, a nugatory and pointless gesture.

“I didn’t tell you, this room was once a chapel,” continued Wetherby. “Can you feel the history? Maybe we should bring back the old traditions. I could have a priest come by and start every morning with a prayer and a blessing. Maybe I’ll make it such a holy house, eventually, you’ll be begging me to leave.”

Wetherby closed his eyes and kissed “Brandon” high on his forehead. “We’ll make this work,” he said, “because these are the cards we’ve been dealt. We’ll adjust. Maybe, eventually, we’ll even grow to respect each other. Stranger things have happened.”