Here at Defector we are laser focused on serving readers Bill and everything related to Bill. At first, I had a hard time with this mandate—I could not think of anything "newsy" related to Bill—until I remembered that in the 1979 television miniseries Salem's Lot, there is a scene in which a guy yells "Bill!" a bunch of times. What could be more salient to the interests of Defector readers than that, I ask you—nothing!
Picture it! A small Maine hamlet in the year 1979. Beneath a sheet on a morgue gurney lays one Marjorie Glick, mother of Danny and Ralphie Glick, dead. Dr. Norton examines Mrs. Glick's corpse, then steps out of the room to call home. Across the room sits good-looking novelist Ben Mears, crafting a cross out of wooden tongue depressors and medical tape. Is it for a wholesome crafts fair? That is the mystery of this scene.
Ben checks the clock, glances at the sheet-covered dead body across the room, then returns to his cross. The tape makes crinkly sounds as he squeezes the cross. He is using too much tape! That is the suspense in this scenario. What if he uses up all the tape? Then there will be none left for whatever a morgue would use medical tape for, other than crafting crosses out of tongue depressors (also perhaps a weird thing for a morgue to have, I don't know, I am not a coroner).
"Bless this cross," Ben mumbles grimly to his cross. "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost." Ben is blond and thus probably Lutheran, I guess. Catholics say Holy Spirit, but you must admit that Ghost is scarier. And this is a scary scene, concerning the reckless waste of medical supplies for crafts projects of uncertain intention.
"No atheists in foxholes," Ben says, still gazing at his cross. Maybe that is why he (foxy) is making the cross: He will hang it over the entrance to his foxhole, and it will repel atheists. It's certainly a clue in any case.
A light crinkling sound comes from the direction of the gurney with poor Mrs. Glick's dead body on it. "The Lord is my shepherd," Ben mumbles, looking pretty freaked out, "I shall not want."
Hm. The sheet over Mrs. Glick seems like it is maybe in motion now.
"He maketh me ... he maketh me to lie down in still—beside still waters," Ben says, struggling with and lightly mangling Psalm 23. The Lord does not maketh you to lie down beside still waters, Ben! Why would a shepherd want his sheep to lie down beside still waters? Moreover why would the sheep be grateful to the shepherd for that? Still waters, as all sheep know, are a breeding ground for mosquitos. The Lord maketh you to lie down in green pastures—a nice place to have a nap, compared to other options such as rocky cliffs, or pits of lava, or next to a puddle. He leadeth you to still waters so that you can have a drink; do not lay down beside them.
"He maketh me to lie down," Ben says, squeezing his eyes tightly closed. "He maketh me, he maketh me to lie down in green pastures." Yes. Now he's got it. Mrs. Glick's sheet is definitely moving now; it sort of looks as though there's a faint breeze blowing under it. The danger is that this will distract Ben from his crafts-and-prayer activity. That is why he clamped his eyes shut!
"He restoreth my soul," Ben recites, now staring raptly at the sheet as eerie music begins to play in the background. Oh no! As I feared, this distraction has caused him to skip right past the still waters part of the Psalm.
Mrs. Glick's leg moves, under the sheet.
"Bill," Ben says, kind of snapping the word out in the tight, clipped way you'd say "Mom" or "Dad" when you were scared in your bedroom at night as a kid and were afraid that by calling for for them you might also catch the attention of the monster peering at you from the shadows behind your closet door. He needs Dr. Norton to get back in here pronto—to deal with whatever is going on with Mrs. Glick's corpse, so that he can get back to reciting the Psalm, which he resumes immediately.
"He ... leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake," Ben says, lurching to his feet and backing toward the corner of the room. Unfortunately there are no quiet booths back there—not even a room divider. This is not a public library, Ben! It is a morgue. For this precise reason it is not a great place to construct religious-themed knickknacks and recite biblical passages: Because what if a corpse starts flopping around or whatever.
So far, this is not much of a Bill-themed scene. But it is about to become somewhat more Bill-focused.
Mrs. Glick's foot twitches under the sheet. "Bill!" Ben shouts, urgent and kind of pissed off, the I don't want to have to deal with this shit way you would yell your neighbor's name if you discovered their cat ripping open a bag of garbage on the curb. Ben is not a doctor! He should not have to deal with twitching corpses while he is trying to make crosses and recite scripture! That is doctor business.
"Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil," Ben yells, now doing pretty well with the Psalm, all things considered. He is not even looking at the cross anymore, but he is rattling the hell out of it, like it is a maraca and he is the least-essential member of a son cubano band. Presumably that is a Lutheran thing. In any case, the big reveal here is that Ben did, in fact, need all of that tape, lest the cross fall apart when he started shaking it. Way to think ahead, Ben!
Mrs. Glick now appears to be arching her back over there beneath the sheet. Either she is speed-running several decompositional steps or someone's diagnostic skills are in grave (ha!) need of a touch-up. "Bill!!!" Ben screams, as Mrs. Glick's hand flies out from under the sheet, accompanied by some bone-chilling throaty hissing and gasping noises. Honestly, where the hell is Bill. He has a lot to answer for right now.
Mrs. Glick's hand is flopping around and flexing like crazy. At this point, you begin to wonder whether maybe she is not actually dead. And whether Dr. Norton's first name might in fact be "Fred."
"I will fear no evil!" Ben yells, as Mrs. Glick fully sits up on the gurney. She still has the sheet over her face. Ben is freaking out hardcore, but his biblical reference memory seems fully jogged. "Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me!" he squawks. His commitment to this activity is formidable. If the novel game doesn't pan out, he should consider the monkly life.
Now Mrs. Glick says, "Danny," and reaches to pull the sheet from her face. As a depiction of cadaveric spasm, this would be highly unrealistic. I am forced—forced!—to conclude that Marjorie has not died, and that this may in fact be a matter for the courts. In 2014, a 45-year-old Greek woman was found to have died inside her coffin, of asphyxia, several hours after her funeral; nearby children heard a voice calling for help from the ground, but by the time the grave could be exhumed, it, uh, no longer needed to be. Whoops! That could have been Mrs. Glick!
"Where are you, Danny darling?" Mrs. Glick asks, peeling the sheet away from her face. Whoa! She looks quite unwell. I can see why Dr. Norton thought she was dead. I feel that he still could have done more to confirm it.
The background music is fucking flipping out at this point, which I regard as weird. It should be celebratory! Mrs. Glick is not dead, but rather alive and eager to see one of her two sons! (Sucks to be Ralphie, I guess.)
"Bill!" Ben yelps as Mrs. Glick looks around slowly, desperation squeezing his voice like the neck of a balloon—"Bill! Biiill!!" This whole activity is going to hell right now. This was supposed to be a quiet place for crafting, and now there is some confused lady in it looking for her preferred son. I sympathize, but only up to a point. He could simply go somewhere else. Like Dr. Norton did! Probably he is out in the street in front of the morgue, declaring various passersby dead.
At this point Mrs. Glick turns to Ben and gets super duper mad at him. Presumably because while she is trying to call her son, he is much more loudly calling for a whole other guy, and she is sick of it. Fair enough!
