The Good Thing About Living in Pleasantville is You’re Never Really Dead

Ainsely Verloren politely shakes the hand of another stranger, who quietly utters, “Sorry for your loss.”

“I didn’t know Missy had made so many friends,” Ainsely says to Cutter Klein, one of his few acquaintances.

Judging by the turnout, most of the 428 residents in Pleasantville, Iowa, have come to pay their respects.

“While you were designing houses, Missy was helping out at the bake sale, volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club, and serving on the Beautification Committee. She really seemed to like it here.”

Ainsely holds back his tears, pretending to clean his glasses. “It’s a shame she only got to live in Pleasantville for three months. We finally had it all, a beautiful two-family house, with a bedroom for each of the daughters we were going to have. We had a nice nest egg, and seemingly… we had our health... All she had was some nausea and headaches. Missy was only thirty-four. We both believed she could fight her way through it. She was gone practically overnight.”

“An aneurysm can be like that,” Cutter says.

“Missy would have appreciated the turnout. You know what she would have said about funerals?”

“That they’re grave affairs?” Cutter replies.

Ainsely smirks. “Good one. She’d also say if she were cremated it would be her last hope for a smokin’ hot body.”

Cutter pats Ainsely on the back, hugging him. “Remember her kind heart and her punny sense of humor, and you’ll get through this.”

The mourners file out as the funeral home staff and the pallbearers prepare to move Missy’s casket into the hearse.

A tall, distinguished-looking man wearing a cape with a mane of silver hair and kindly, soft brown eyes approaches Ainsely.

His deep voice is melodic and soothing. “Missy was a treasure and a delight. She had a pun for every occasion.”

“We already covered the funeral puns, Doc,” Cutter says.

“Right. She was a pretty woman with dark eyes like fathomless pools and had a contagious laugh. Missy made a lot of people happy.”

“…Especially me… Thanks for coming,,,”

“This is Doc Carrion,” Cutter says. “He’s not only a great country doctor, he’s also Mayor of Pleasantville for life and the most important man in town.”

Doc Carrion nudges Cutter, nearly knocking the younger, smaller man over. “I’m not that important and I’m semi-retired, so I’m not much of a doctor anymore. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mister Verloren. But Missy will always be with us because she was loved. The good thing about living in Pleasantville is you’re never really dead. You should come and see me some time.”

“Seems like a very nice man,” Ainsley says, watching Doc Carrion walk away.

“Can you believe he’s eighty-eight?”

“He’s in better shape than you or me. What kind of doctor is he?”

“He was a psychiatrist. He’s helped a lot of people get well.”

“Hmm. Maybe he can help one more.”

Ainsley sits in his car in the driveway, listening to the engine idle, wondering why, after a month, he still finds it so difficult to face an empty house.

Groaning from grief and exhaustion, Ainsely pulls himself out of his SUV. Hearing a spirited, mumbling conversation between an approaching pair of men, Ainsely scans the street.

Doc Carrion approaches, towering over a second man. Wearing a Newsboy Hat, the second man swings a pocket watch in rhythm to his short stride, his two-tone Oxford black and white wingtip shoes accentuated by the streetlights.

As the men pass, all Ainsely can think of is how stylish yet out-of-date the second man’s clothes look.

Standing at his mailbox the next morning, Ainsley marvels at the amount of junk mail Missy still gets. The new mail carrier has also mistakenly left several letters intended for his neighbor across the street.

Ainsley looks up to see Millicent Mirren heading inside her house.

Crossing the street, Skip bangs on Millicent’s door.

“Mrs. Mirren? I have some letters for you. I could have left them in the mailbox, but I thought I’d do the neighborly thing and deliver them.”

Caught off guard but impressed with Ainsley’s polite zeal, the slightly stooped, white-haired centenarian’s cloudy eyes brighten behind her glasses.

“C’mon, in, Ainsley. How are you doing these days?”

“It’s hard. But work helps fill the time.”

“Don’t just go through the motions, Ainsley. Pleasantville may be small but there’s a lot you can do here. Missy told me you used to like to build model ships when you were a boy. You should do that again; it might help you relax. There’s a hobby shop in town. You can join the flag football team, help the neighborhood watch…”

“Speaking of which, I saw somebody who raised my suspicions last night. I’m nearsighted, but I know I saw a man walking with Doc Carrion who looked like he’d stepped out of the 1930s.”

“That was probably Butch Gunn. He runs a vintage clothes shop. He comes to town a few times every month to see his cousin.”

Ainsley offers a faint smile. “I should have known it would be something like that.”

“You look stressed.”

“I miss her silly puns, her twittering laugh, her love of old movies. I can’t get her out of my head, Mrs. Mirren.”

Millicent pats Ainsley on his hand. “You should go and see Doc Carrion.”

“Nice suit,” Cookie Klein says to Ainsley, weighing out a pound of provolone on the deli’s scale. Turning to Cutter, his zaftig wife says, “Would it hurt you to dress up once in a while?”

“Sure. I’ll cut up some bloody steaks, clean the toilets, and bring in the carriages in my white Giorgio Armani suit.”

“You know what I mean.”

“How about I bring along a few smoking jackets when we go to Italy?”

“We’re going to Italy? You can still surprise me once in a while, old man! Okay, I’ll hold off on the divorce until we get back,” Cookie says, playfully mussing Cutter’s bright red hair.

“That’s what I miss the most,” Ainsley says mournfully. “The kidding, the inside jokes.”

Cookie and Cutter glance at Ainsley with concern.

Cookie wraps up the provolone. “You know, man cannot live on provolone alone.”

“You’re right. How about a pound of Genoa Salami to go with it?”

Cutter huffs. “Why don’t you just invite him to dinner, Cookie? She’s concerned you’re working too hard and not eating right. She’d like to throw a feast for you this Saturday.”

“Let me think about it,” Ainsley replies.

Cookie throws her hands up. “What’s to think about? You’ll be out of cold cuts by then.”

A cacophonous crash behind the store commands their attention. Cookie and Cutter rush toward the back door, followed by a curious Ainsley.

Ainsley sees a man with shoulder-length, matted brown hair, high-water jeans, and an ill-fitting checkered shirt rummaging through the store’s bins of bottles and cans.

Shaking his fist at the man, Cutter screams, “Kurt! How many times have I told you to ask first!”

Kurt gives Cutter a child-like smile. “But I like shiny things!”

Kurt begins putting cans in a shopping cart.

“Is he homeless?” Ainsley asks. “I can buy him something if he’s hungry.”

“Kurt’s got more money than you and me put together,” Cutter says. “He recycles cans, metal, rubber, and anything else people leave outside. You stand close enough to the curb and he’ll turn you in for a few cents.”

Kurt picks up an empty can of Coca-Cola, dancing a jig.

“So shiny!”

“What’s with his fascination with shiny objects?”

“They remind him of the sun reflecting off the water,” Cookie answers. “It was his last pleasant memory before he lost his wife and kid.”

Another late night at the office finds Ainsley sitting in his car in his driveway at ten p.m., dreading going inside his house. Taking off his glasses, he blows on them until they steam up, then wipes them clean with his handkerchief.

Looking at the loveseat on the porch, he remembers the day before Missy collapsed.

“How do you make holy water?” Missy asks.

“Don’t keep me is suspense.”

“You boil the hell out of it.”

Ainsley groans.

“My skeleton puns are more humerus.”

Missy’s wide grin dissipates. Ainsley puts his arm around her, drawing her close.

“Headache?”

“No thanks, I already have one.”

“Why did the window go to the doctor?” Ainsley asks.

“I don’t know.”

“It had a lot of pane. And you do too. Tomorrow we’re going to the doctor. But for now, you should go upstairs and lie down.”

“I don’t trust stairs because they’re always up to something. So why don’t you come along?”

Getting out of his SUV, Ainsley hears the sound of dress shoes click-clacking against the pavement. Looking across the street, he sees Doc Carrion walking with a thin, apprehensive-looking naval officer in a dress blue uniform. Like the previous man, his wool outfit looks like a prop borrowed from a black-and-white movie.

Stopping in front of Millicent Mirren’s house, the two men turn to face one another. Doc Carrion adjusts the officer‘s tie, then straightens his hat.

The officer pensively walks up the steps to Millicent’s house, turning one last time to look at Doc Carrion. They trade salutes.

Doc Carrion whistles “Some Enchanted Evening” as he walks away, his gait as spritely as that of a teenager.

Intrigued, Ainsley crosses the street as the officer enters Millicent’s house. The officer walks across the living room floor, greeted by a woman in a monogrammed blouse with puffed shoulders, her blonde hair stacked in a pompadour.

The two throw themselves into a long embrace.

Embarrassed that he’s eavesdropping, Ainsley turns away. By the time he crosses the street, Millicent’s living room light is out.

Heading to work the following day, Ainsley spots Millicent tending to her roses.

He is surprised by her vigor.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re glowing Mrs. Mirren. You must have had a good time last night. How’d the party go?”

“Party? I was in bed by 10:30.”

“I thought you had some friends over. I didn’t mean to spy, but I saw a handsome guy in a navy uniform go into your house.”

Millicent smiles sheepishly, blushing.

“Was that your daughter’s husband?”

“I don’t have a daughter.”

“Well, there was a woman in your living room last night with the officer. I thought it was someone you knew because it looked like she had the run of the place.”

“Oh, her. I went to bed so early, I forgot. My grandniece was over for a visit. Her husband met her here.”

“Is she friends with Butch Gunn?” Ainsley asks. “They both dress in vintage clothes.”

“She’s one of his best customers.”

The officer opens the front door. Stepping halfway out he sees Ainsley, and quickly darts back inside.

“There’s the guy! I’d like to meet him and your grandniece. You mind?”

Before Millicent can say no, Ainsley runs up the steps, charging into the house.

Ainsley finds himself standing in an empty living room.

Huffing, Millicent catches up to him.

“If you weren’t a grieving spouse, I’d call the police and have you arrested for breaking and entering!”

“Something strange is going on. Why’s he hiding, Mrs. Mirren? Why’d Doc Carrion bring him here?”

“Talk to Doc Carrion. In the meantime, you should go to work.”

Ainsley sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mirren. I’ve always been too curious for my own good. You’ve been nothing but nice to me, especially after Missy’s death. I should know better than to invade your privacy.”

Ainsley turns around to leave. As he does, he catches a glimpse of a group of photographs above the mantle. The largest photo is a shot of a naval officer holding a smiling woman with a ribbon in her blonde pompadour.

Ainsley drifts toward the photo, picking it up.

“These are the two people I saw last night.”

“Nonsense. That’s an old picture from the 1940s. The people in that picture would be as old as me,” Millicent replies.

“Silly of me,” Ainsley says, noticing the monogram on Millicent’s sweater.

Ainsley knocks on Doc Carrion’s front door.

The doctor’s living room décor befits the surroundings of a busy country physician. A roll-top desk crammed with papers and letters sits in a corner. Bookcases with dog-eared medical books and Civil War histories line the walls, and leather armchairs and antique mahogany tables fill out the rest of the room.

“I’ve been dying to say this. What’s up, Doc?”

“Taking the day off?” Doc Carrion asks.

“Yes, to talk to you. I saw you walking with a Navy officer last night. He was wearing a uniform from the 1940s. The other night you were with a man who looked like he stepped out of an Edward G. Robinson gangster movie. I’m not as interested in the outfits as I am in the men. Mrs. Mirren has a picture of the officer on her mantel.”

“That’s her husband, Oliver. The other man is Cookie Klein’s grandfather.”

“Funny, Cookie’s never mentioned him. I heard you were good, Doc, but how do you get hundred-year-old men to look like they’re in their twenties?” Ainsley asks.

“A better question is how they’re even alive. Cookie’s grandfather was murdered by gangsters in 1933. Oliver Mirren was killed eleven years later during the Battle of Leyte Gulf.”

“So, they’re ghosts?”

“More like the wishes of old and lonesome loved ones come to life.”

“Are you a doctor or a sorcerer?”

“More of the latter. The people of Pleasantville who have lost their loved ones and want to see them again come to me to make that happen.”

“And you bring them back to life. How?”

Doc Carrion gestures toward a full-length floor mirror in the corner of the room. Its hand-carved wood frame is festooned with symbols of the sun and moon.

Ainsley studies his reflection. “Okay, so I look a little thinner. A fun house mirror can do that.”

“Touch the glass.”

Ainsley’s hand disappears inside the mirror. Gasping, he quickly pulls it back out.

“It’s a time portal. I can bring anyone whose deceased into the present.”

“Anyone?” Ainsley asks.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Doc Carrion says earnestly, his brown eyes darkening. “I can’t bring back anyone who hasn’t been dead for less than ten years. House rules.”

“And who runs the house?”

“A committee of comprised of Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, and other religions. One of the rules is that this is a one-way mirror. People can only come out, and they can only stay for a week at a time. But they can’t go in.”

“There has to be a way for the living to join the dead.”

“Sure. Die.”

“Has anyone ever entered the mirror and come back?”

“Me,” a voice says.

Ainsley turns to see Kurt standing in the doorway holding an empty can of Coca-Cola.

“Shiny,” he says. Whimpering, he crushes the can.

“Go upstairs, Kurt,” Doc Carrion says. “Kurt’s wife was depressed after she gave birth to their son. He thought a vacation at Lake Kickapoo would be good for Jenny. He went to town for supplies. When Kurt came back, he saw Jenny out in a boat on the lake. He said the way the sun hit the water made it look like a painting. It was shiny… beautiful. Then Jenny tipped the boat over… I asked the Committee to let Kurt see his wife and daughter. Unfortunately, another rule is that people who commit suicide can’t come back. Two years ago, I came home in time to see Kurt enter the mirror. Since it wasn’t his time to die, the Committee sent him back. But returning from the land of the dead was too much for him. So, Kurt is our example, a warning of what can happen if you defy the Committee’s rules.”

“Given his loss, their punishment was excessive.”

“They feel they must be severe so that knowledge of their existence doesn’t go beyond Pleasantville. I begged them to be more lenient with Kurt. The Committee told me to stop making demands and do my job or I wouldn’t see my sons anymore. I’ve been doing this job for a long time, and the people of Pleasantville have come to rely on me to bring their loved ones safely back to them, even if only for a week at a time.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Since 1863, when my boys died at the Battle of Chickamauga.”

“Cutter thinks you’re eighty-eight.”

“I’m sure he said that for your benefit. Everyone, and now that includes you, knows I’m ageless, and what my purpose for being here is.”

“Well, I’m asking you to do your duty. I want my wife back,” Ainsley says. “You know what she’d say about this situation? … That your mirror was making me take a good look at myself. I have to see her again, Doc.”

“There are thousands of souls on the other side. You might never find each other.”

“There’s a bond between us that goes beyond puns and old movies. I know we can find each other.”

“You try to pull her out of the mirror, she could still have the tumor and die again,” Doc Carrion cautions. “She could be disfigured, or worse, she might not know who you are. You go in, you’ll have to face the Committee’s judgment.”

Ainsley approaches the mirror.

“I know you’re watching over me, Missy, that you can hear me. I want us to be together again.”

Ainsley stares into the mirror.

“Please, Missy… For our sake.”

A hand juts out of the mirror, beckoning Ainsley.

“No committee is stronger than love, Doc.”

Ainsley takes Missy’s hand, disappearing inside the mirror.