Vintage
A Ghost Story
Steve Berman
Lethe Press
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
© copyright 2007 by Steve Berman.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Lethe
Press, 118 Heritage Avenue, Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018.
www.lethepressbooks.com
lethepress@aol.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 1-59021-053-0
ISBN-13 978-1-59021-053-6
_____________________________________________________
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Berman, Steve, 1968-
Vintage : a ghost story / Steve Berman.
p. cm.
Summary: A lonely seventeen-year-old who has dreamed of meeting a different and special boy desperately seeks help from his friend Trace, a Goth girl, to free him from the clutches of a handsome ghost he has met on a rural New Jersey highway.
ISBN 1-59021-053-0
[1. Ghosts--Fiction. 2. Homosexuality--Fiction. 3. Family problems--Fiction. 4.
Goth culture (Subculture)--Fiction. 5. New Jersey--Fiction. 6. Horror stories.]
I. Title.
PZ7.B45423Vin 2008
Fic]--dc22
2008001030
Arthur “Bob” Markus
You were the reader this book was meant for.
I can only hope that somehow
these words might reach you.
As this work evolved over several years, I owe thanks to many readers who shared their thoughts on drafts: Oliver Koble, who serialized an early version on a gay Goth Web site; Sharyn November, who offered excellent comments that added to the macabre tone of the book; Lawrence Schimel, for providing infallible career advice; Dianna Muzaurieta for criticism that honed the characters; and Greg Herren, who believed in my work and in me.
An author depends on more than help with manuscripts; writing would be a much lonelier and less bearable trade without the support of loved ones. I have to thank Theo Black, and my childhood best friend, Evan Cutler, for not letting me quit. I am grateful to Mike Thomas, who I met through working on the book; he helped me through bleak times and welcomed each chapter. My family encouraged my aspirations and ignored the growing stacks of books with which I filled the house. Without my nephew, A.J., I would never have remained sane during the final draft, as he helped with the last, troublesome revisions. My gratitude culminated with one person, my own personal Trace: Holly Black. No one has had a truer friend, no writer a better colleague, no soul a more welcome spirit, than hers. She coerced and cajoled me through the process and, when I finally sold the book, I called her first.
Friday
Bored that afternoon, I was thankful when Trace suggested we attend a funeral. The September weather gave the air a wonderful crispness. At any moment I expected to shiver even though I wore a thick wool suit borrowed from the vintage clothing shop where I worked. Above me, the sky was clear except for a scattering of clouds, each a tired white against the blue.
Trace sat on the headstone next to me and slipped off her shoes to wiggle black-stockinged feet. I looked at her and felt slightly envious of how beautiful she was. Her long, black hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a sable-colored velvet dress. Even her toenails were dark; I had polished them just days ago with a bottle of cheap lacquer called “Evening’s Hue.” Except for a full face and the tips of her hands hidden deep into her sleeves, she might have been a shadow.
She caught me staring at her and offered a crooked smile and whispered, “Silly boy.” I loved it when she called me that. No guy had ever mouthed such sweetness to me except in dreams.
We both turned back to the funeral, a crowded affair down at the bottom of the cemetery slope. I counted over twenty people. Now and then someone would glance over his or her shoulder, and I wondered what they thought of us. Some strange black sheep coming to pay last respects at a distance? Lost mourners?
“Nobody dies of consumption anymore.” Trace’s lips pouted.
“They call it TB these days,” I said.
Trace nodded. “Yeah, but that doesn’t carry the same… I don’t know, weight. All the cool medical terms have been left behind. ‘Ague.’ ‘Dropsy.’” She stretched her arms wide, threatening to unbalance herself. “Doesn’t that sound delicious? ‘Dropsy.’”
“What did he die from?” I gestured toward the coffin below.
Trace looked at the funeral and chewed on her lower lip. Looking for a good show, she would scan the obituaries like others read the movie section. Though she mentioned this service to me yesterday, for some reason I couldn’t remember how the man had died.
She shrugged and muttered, “Something modern.” Her disappointment was obvious.
A leaf, gone brown and desiccated a few weeks early, blew against the old loafers I wore. I gingerly ground it underfoot. I always loved the soft crackle of autumn leaves. Every month should be filled with large piles of ochre and chocolate and rust waiting to be pounced upon.
“I never asked if you were a pine or mahogany sort of guy.”
“What?” I was still distracted by thoughts of autumn.
Trace sighed in mock annoyance. “Would you want to be laid out in a plain pine wood box or something like mahogany? Elegant with brass rails and all.”
I had never given my coffin much thought. Weird for someone who’s often called morbid. How many seventeen-year-olds spend their time visiting graveyards? And yet I’d never envisioned my own funeral.
She let me think for a few moments—she always knew exactly how much time I needed.
“I don’t suppose they make them out of glass? They could lay me out like a fairy-tale prince.”
She giggled. I mock sighed as if insulted. We must have been some sight, there by the headstones, laughing loud enough to break the somber mood down below.
As the mourners walked away to their boring sedans, I stood up and stretched. Another leaf, drifting on the breeze, blew past and when I turned to follow its slow flight I caught sight of a middle-aged man, dressed as somberly as the rest. He stood at the far corner of the cemetery, by the old mausoleums. Even at a distance, I could feel his eyes staring hard at me.
When Trace took my arm, I jumped, then smiled, embarrassed. We headed down the hill, and I glanced over my shoulder. The strange man had disappeared, probably heading home himself.
Trace’s battered Stanza waited for us on the street outside the cemetery gates. Stickers once covered the rear, but a few weeks ago, Trace grew bored with all the bands, sayings, and thoughts of the past year, and had me spray paint over them. The black paint stood out like a bruise against the gray primer of the rest of the car.
“Today was very quiet.” She unlocked my door first.
I guess she hadn’t noticed the man staring at us. I slouched in the passenger’s seat, but quickly sat upright after remembering my suit was over forty years old and expensive. I ran my hand down the trousers that I had carefully ironed hours ago.
“Not the funeral. The whole day has felt subdued. Worn out.” She checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Still perfect, her lips crimson, outlined by careful strokes of ebony liner. “Something has to happen.”
“Then make it happen,” I said.
“You’re better at that. Remember the burial we went to back in August?”
I closed my eyes and summoned up the memory. “Was that the sweltering day when I thought I’d melt?”
“Yes. You brought along the parasol you made.” She laughed. “I loved it! The black and purple lace you stitched on was mean. We drew so many stares.”
“They were jealous,” I said with a chuckle. But I knew no one really was jealous of me. Trace earned their attention, not me.
On the ride back to Trace’s house, I kept my window open and let my hand feel the rush of the passing air. Her car threatened to stall at stoplights, so she never slowed at yellow lights and sped through intersections. She bragged about the points she’d accrued for speeding, like misbehaving behind the wheel was a game.
Her small house sat along a side street that in a few years would be overtaken by the “bad part of town.” For now, it remained in suburban limbo, with a lawn blemished by brown patches and fallen shingles.
She unlocked the front door and said under her breath, “We’re home, Mike.” Trace believed her house was haunted. If the ghost of her older brother did exist, he had yet to answer back.
The day’s mail littered the worn carpet. We walked through the sparse living room and past the kitchen to Trace’s room in the back. On her door hung a beaten copper hand, a good-luck charm she picked up at some witchcraft store. In the center of the palm was an eye, the pupil an irregular piece of polished turquoise. Supposedly, it attracted good luck.
Inside, a queen-sized waterbed dominated the room and both of us fell onto the comforter and bounced, hearing the heavy smack of the water underneath. Atop the headboard I spotted a dog-eared paperback of Tithe, a gilded lighter, and a pack of her favorite bidi cigarettes: chocolate-flavored. They were hard to come by—she had to drive into Philadelphia for them, so she rationed them out, a couple each day.
She reached for the pack and shook out two of the small, leaf-wrapped cigarettes. I grabbed the lighter. The cheap metal felt cool in my hand.
“What are you doing tonight?” I took simple pleasure in lighting the bidi she put in her mouth, then touched mine to hers. The tips glowed a cheerful orange. With my first inhale, decadent sweet smoke blackened my throat and lungs. The warning on the pack comforted my masochistic streak.
She puffed with gentle pulls, sending scented wisps into the air. “I loaned out my copy of the latest Weird NJ to Kim and now she’s dying to explore.”
“Pass.” Normally, the thought of wandering around abandoned buildings and deserted highways looking for a cheap scare would have been exciting, but I was tired of Kim’s bitchy antics. She drained the fun out of everything. “Let’s just hang out, sip cider, and talk.”
Her lips turned down. “You have too many quiet nights. You need to get laid.”
I didn’t need to be reminded of my loserdom, having yet to go out on one single date or even kiss another boy. “Hunting down urban legends won’t find me a boy.” I drew deeply on the bidi, making the end flare for a second before turning to ash, but the taste had grown sour on my tongue. “Besides, none of the local guys would want me.” She’d heard this complaint countless times.
“That’s not true. You’re pretty.” She lightly tugged at my red-tipped bangs.
The compliment made me uncomfortable. As my best friend, she had to lie.
Trace finished her bidi—“baby joints,” she once called them—and twisted back to grind the remains into the ceramic ashtray shaped like a Halloween cat’s head. Mine followed a moment later.
“Stop by the shop tomorrow,” I said, rising from the bed. “You can tell me how you wasted your night.”
She rolled her eyes and blew me a kiss good-bye.
Passing the kitchen, I saw Trace’s younger brother sitting by the table in the dark. He seemed lost in a trance, just staring into space with a forgotten sandwich on a plate in front of him.
The “second Mike” was an odd kid. Maybe being named after your dead older brother did that. Or wearing so many of his hand-me-downs. He wasn’t a bad kid, but he had the knack of being annoying and underfoot.
My foot creaked on the linoleum floor and broke his spell. Second Mike turned suddenly to see me standing in the doorway. I nodded, feeling oddly embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze. Instead of his usual chatter, he lifted a hand and waved slightly. The gesture, so devoid of emotion, made me shudder.
I would have gone back to my aunt’s house but my hungry stomach demanded attention and Aunt Jan’s cooking was notorious. The diner a couple of miles from Trace’s place was cheap—the few dollars I had left from my last paycheck would more than buy me dinner—and I savored the chance to walk for hours along a quiet highway.
The temperature dropped as the autumn sun began to set behind the trees, and by the time I reached the diner, I had decided to become a basement recluse-savant by age thirty, surrounded by stacks of newspapers with crazed penciled notes in the margins. I wanted to celebrate my fate by warming my hands around a cup of coffee.
By the time I finished a feta omelet, some toast, and my second cup, I had changed my mind. Maybe I’d reach thirty-three and then make a spectacular end with a bandolier of fireworks. On the walk back, I’d glance up at the clear night sky and imagine the explosions. Very purple blasts came to mind.
The summer when I was ten, I spent hours lying in my folks’ backyard, staring up at the stars and making up new names for the constellations. I wish I could remember them.
I reached where the highway cuts through the woodlands. A light wind rustled branches. I kicked aside a beer bottle, sending it rolling to the other side of the road.
It came rolling back.
I stopped. Shivering, I looked around and noticed for the first time how ominous the woods on either side looked. The wind, I told myself. Just the wind. If Trace was with me, she’d laugh at how shaken I was. I had turned down the chance to see the secret mysteries of Jersey only to find myself all alone in the perfect setting for any number of horror movies.
I gave the bottle a savage kick, sending it off the road. The sound patched my fear. Then I heard the footfalls, so light I had to stand still and listen hard, while hoping I heard wrong. But no, they came closer. Telling myself I was all alone, that no one else would be dumb enough to be walking back to town all by themselves, I turned around. I was wrong.
The guy walked with his head down as if mindful of the wind. He looked a year or two older than me, maybe still in high school. His hands were in his pants pockets and his sweater didn’t look warm enough. Even when he came closer, he kept his gaze down.
He must have been walking to or from a costume party, an early one as Halloween was weeks away. His sweater was quite the find: a green and rust-brown wool button-down with a white appliqué C. You rarely see letter sweaters anymore. His athletic build screamed I earned this. The pants and shoes matched the decade too, slightly worn khakis that ended in actual penny loafers.
Since he still ignored me, I guessed he must be in a foul mood. I was tempted to ask where he’d bought the clothes. But bothering a total stranger out in the middle of nowhere would be stupid. I didn’t relish the thought of getting gay bashed.
When he walked past me, I saw his face. I wanted to run after him and catch another glimpse. He was breathtaking: smooth good looks and a sharp, upturned nose, and his crew-cut blond hair left me wondering how it would feel if my fingers brushed over the top of his head.
He acted oblivious to my existence.
I don’t know why I called out to him, “Cool clothes.” I had never before been courageous enough around guys I thought half as beautiful as he was. Maybe the risk of provoking him was too much to resist.
The wind made my voice too loud. He stopped. I came close to running away. I thought he’d keep walking. But he turned around.
Encouraged, I took a few steps closer. I could not look away from him “It’s cold out.” I hugged myself for emphasis.
He nodded. The strong silent type made me nervous. Boys made me nervous. I did not know what to say, so I focused on something I knew. “I have to know. Where’d you get the clothes?”
“My clothes?” His eyes were icy blue.
“Yeah. They’re hard to find, especially in such great shape. I work at a vintage shop in town.”
“I’ve always had these.”
At the time, I didn’t even think it an odd response. I just wanted him to keep talking with me. I noticed the small, embroidered Josh in gold script on the sweater.
“Well, you should see some of the things we have down at the shop.”
He glanced at me, only briefly. “I don’t remember you from the party.”
Party? I shook my head. “Sorry, wasn’t there.” I caught a faint whiff of cologne and beer before the next gust took them away from me. His odd, not-quite-detached manner made me suspect he might be drunk.
Up ahead, near Norris Street, I saw a glow. A car turned onto the highway approaching us.
“Better move.” I walked onto the dirt shoulder. I didn’t hear footsteps follow mine. When I turned around he was gone. Gone. Confused, I looked around, but I didn’t see him. The headlights grew brighter and brighter, painful against the dark. The car streaked past.
I called out his name a couple times and wandered back and forth, sure that I had somehow missed him. Nothing. I tried to take pleasure in telling myself I had become crazy enough to imagine weird boys.
The porch light at my aunt’s house was a welcome sight. I was exhausted, confused, and still shaken over seeing someone vanish. The distant sound of the television came from the den, and I walked in on my aunt sitting on the couch working on some paperwork spread out on the coffee table before her. She turned and smiled at me. “Hey, kiddo.”
I gave a wave and went to my room. I had yet to decorate the walls and the closet and dresser seemed almost empty. At my folks’ house, my room had been a pleasing chaos: hours of nailing and gluing strings of white lights from the ceiling like fake stars; power cords crisscrossed the corners. I had scribbled over the wallpaper with charcoal and crayons when bored, gouged into the sheetrock with knives when angry
I took my keys out of the jacket’s inner pocket. They were on this cool toy I bought last October, a cheap plastic coffin with R.I.P. in raised letters on the clear top. Inside, rattled a tiny skeleton.
When I had decorated Trace’s nails, I also blackened the key to my folks’ house. It became the forbidden key, the one I’d never use again. If I hadn’t run away, my folks would have thrown me out. Keeping the key served as a bitter reminder in case I weakened and felt homesick. I hadn’t yet. The other keys, so bright and shiny, worked the locks in my aunt’s front door. She didn’t know why I left home. I made her swear not to ask my folks. I didn’t know how she’d react to learning I was gay, yet I regretted keeping secrets from her. She was my favorite relative and deserved better.
I fingered the old-fashioned key next to the ones to the shop where I worked. Trace had bought the snaggle-toothed cabinet key, all dark with age, for me at the local flea market as a “welcome to town” present this past summer.
I had tossed them onto the dresser top and hung up the jacket when my aunt knocked on the door.
“C’mon in.”
She opened it only wide enough to stick her head inside. “Did you eat dinner? I could throw something together for you.”
“No thanks, I had a bite.”
She nodded. “Okay. I’m headed out.”
“Anything interesting?”
Aunt Jan shrugged. “Maybe, if I ever dyed my hair like you do,” she said with a wink. She tugged at a loose curl, stared at the gray edges, and sighed. “No, I’m just going down to Atlantic City to lose some money.”
“Slot junkie.”
“I’m a professional.” She matched my grin with a laugh.
I put away the borrowed suit, checking the trouser cuffs for smudges and the sleeves for wear. I had to take it back to the shop the next day.
In the bathroom I washed off the dark eyeliner Trace had applied for me, and stared at myself. All bony, average skin, bleh face. Why would a boy bother with me?
Back in my room, I took out the hematite rod dangling from my left ear and opened the junk drawer of the dresser. Pushing aside the bottles of nail polish—too many black and not enough weird colors—and the pile of dark ribbons and fortune cookie slips, I found the tin in which I kept the little bit of jewelry I sometimes wore. The earring looked lonesome next to a heavy necklace shedding cheap, red enamel from every link and some 12-gauge studs.
As I slipped under the covers, my thoughts strayed back to that empty highway and the strange but beautiful boy I had met that night. Ghosts aren’t real. So then what happened? Try as I might to stay awake and think of an answer, I could not resist sleep.
Chapter 2
Saturday
I spent the morning walk to work trying to convince myself I could not have met a ghost last night. But though crazy, no other explanation made sense. I wanted the guy to be a ghost. To be different. Otherwise, I’d be afraid to talk to him again; a ghost I could handle, not someone attractive and normal.
Malvern’s Olde Clothing rests near the very end of Scarborough Street. Few people ever come in to browse. Back when I started working there, the front windows were so grimy, it was hard to tell what the shop sold. Sadly, it seemed that few people in town shared my eye for vintage clothes.
As soon as I entered the shop, an eager Malvern rose to greet me. My boss reserved his afternoons for meeting chums over drinks with names like Dusty Gibson, Rob Roy, or Pisco Sour. He never looked unkempt, never staggered or acted ill-tempered like storybook drunks. My aunt once referred to him as “that dashing old boss of yours.” I pieced together through brief chats that he had inherited a fortune from his family, who once owned a good portion of the town. The shop was leftover from those days, once a trendy boutique run by his mother. Malvern never needed to sell any of the stock; I think he kept the shop running more for the fond memories and something to do when not drinking highball lunches and single-malt dinners.
“Did you impress her?” Malvern pointed at the suit I carried in on a hanger.
“Who?” I asked.
“That pretty girl you’re always with.” He gave an exaggerated wink.
Embarrassed, I turned away. “She still looked better.” Few in town knew I was gay and they were all Trace’s friends. Though I’d never heard a single homophobic remark from him, men of his generation never accepted “fags.” I didn’t dare lose the first job I ever liked. He sipped from a mug. I doubted there was much, if any, coffee inside. “Well, there’s always next time. If that 1901 suit with the rounded collar ever comes in, that’ll do it. ’Course, the damned widow up in Boston could be just teasing me with it…”
“Do any business?” My asking was part of our daily routine. If I saw one or two customers a week it was a shock. I hoped Malvern would mention selling 50’s clothes to a kid for a costume.
He offered the usual response, “Nothing,” with a shake of his head. He put down the mug and wiped at his oiled gray mustache with a silken handkerchief. Then he puttered about for a moment, looking around, patting at the sides of his vest, before finally grabbing his fedora and beige topcoat from the wrought-iron coat rack, another antique.
“There are some new boxes the UPS fellow brought upstairs. I think they’re cheap percale frocks that the college may want for some play. Best take a look. I don’t really trust the dealer. Once he sent me some wool and worsted. In great shape he said, but I found moths had attacked nearly all. If they’re good, unpack them and I’ll price them tomorrow.”
Disappointed at failing to uncover who the mystery boy was, I muttered, “I’ll take care of it.” Malvern must have thought it griping. I started climbing the steps, careful not to snag the suit I carried on any stray banister nails. “Should I come in early on Monday?” I tried to sound eager, so he would know how much the shop mattered to me.
“Not before ten.” He tipped his hat at me and left.
On the second floor, Malvern kept the more expensive garments. A rack with clothes from the 1950s reminded me of the boy from last night.
Regretful, I returned the wool suit to the oak armoire where I kept clothes I ached to buy: a pair of elbow-length black gloves I wanted to give to Trace for her birthday; the matched set of tie and handkerchief that had my monogrammed initials; and, best of all, a bone-colored summer suit, unlined and tropical.
A sound like a swarm of giant wasps came from downstairs. The electric buzzer from the front door.
Trace balanced a black bowler on her head and looked in the floor-length mirror. “You missed a grand séance last night.”
“Oh?”
“No, not really. “ She returned the hat to its spot on the shelf. “Liz brought an old Ouija board on our outing. She loves to play Occultism 101.”
She wasn’t the only one. Anything dark and mysterious caught Trace’s attention. “She should know better than to invite the expert.” Books on ghosts, spirits, and even mortuary science filled my best friend’s shelves. I’m not sure where she got those last few, but they’re great reading when you’re wasted.
Trace mock bowed, accepting the compliment. “All we found was a twisted dead tree. ‘Supposed’ suicide-pact lovers had carved initials all along the trunk. Dull, dull, dull. Stopping Kim from spray painting ‘Lame’ across the tree was more exciting than watching Liz and Maggie hand flirt over the board.”
“Ah, young love.” I sighed dramatically. “Any messages from Beyond for you?”
She shook her head. “The marker kept returning to the R every time.”
I could imagine her frustration. “Perhaps you contacted a spirit that stutters?”
Trace met my grin. “Or R stood for revenant? So,” she leaned over the counter and rubbed my arm. “Did you end up curled around your pillow the entire night?”
My turn. I fought the urge to rush through what had happened and appear nonchalant. “I think I saw a ghost last night.”
Her eyes widened. “Do tell.”
I smirked a little. While she stood there all expectant, I removed a crinkled twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. “Let’s do take out. I’ll buy if you pick up. Chicken with garlic and… hmmm… egg drop soup?”
She considered a moment, then snatched the money and returned my grin with one of her own. “Eel and California rolls for me.”
Trace and I actually met over a Tim Burton film. I had been in town for just a few days when I stopped to check out the video store: A small place with much too much “family viewing” and barely anything good. I had reached out to grab Sleepy Hollow when someone’s sigh made me turn. The girl had painted eyes. She wore this black glass-beaded choker above an old black silk nightgown. A black leather jacket shielded her from stares.
“A new boy in town. Who would have imagined? And I’m lucky to find him.” She moved closer to me. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” When she reached out, I thought she intended to grab my arm, but she slipped past my shoulder and took the videotape from the shelf. “Not fair.” I tugged at the tape in her hand. “Don’t you like to share?”
“Share?” Her giggles could intoxicate. “I love to.”
I followed Trace back home; I was a puppy happy to have a new master. That afternoon, we sat close together on the shag rug in her den and watched the movie. We gorged on popcorn she had drenched in melted butter and encrusted with sugar and salt. I remember struggling over whether to comment on Johnny Depp’s inherent hotness—for some silly reason I worried that Trace might think we were on a date—but I kept quiet. Weeks later she asked if I liked manga or vamp boys and I realized she had known I was gay all along.
The Palace served the best Chinese and Japanese food. Open take-out boxes, torn packets of hot mustard, and Styrofoam plates and cups crowded the counter at Malvern’s. Watching Trace eat Asian food was better than television. She always kept a pair of lacquered chopsticks in her purse. Twin sticks of dark cherry wood with a stained-glasslike pattern at the end. She lifted grains of rice, bits of wasabi, and sliced ginger with a jeweler’s precision. Smooth, neat, effortless.
I made do with the supplied plastic fork and still managed to spill enough to embarrass myself. “So I was walking back last night—”
She dunked a sushi roll twice into a tiny bowl of soy sauce converted from a lid. She didn’t spill a drop. “I told you to come out with us.”
“If I had I would never have seen him.”
“True. So what happened?”
“I was coming back from the diner out on Route 47, when I heard footsteps behind me.”
She lifted a hand and tapped her chin with one fingernail. “Right, it would have to be on 47…”
“Why?” Her casual reaction surprised me. Somehow, she had swiped my momentum. “What do you know?”
“No, no.” Trace shook her head. “You finish first.”
I hesitated but she gave me a crooked smile. “All right.” I took a sip of green tea to wet my throat. “So there I was walking along an empty road when I hear someone behind me. I turn around and there’s this young guy also there.”
“Handsome?”
“Oh yes.” My memory drifted back to every detail of his face.
“Hmmm…” I could not guess the sentiment behind her slight smile. “I’ve been wondering who you’d finally fall for.”
“I’m not falling for him. Am I?” I pushed my food away. I wanted to talk about ghosts, not love. “He wore these awesome clothes from the ’50s. I thought maybe Malvern had sold him the stuff or he found it online.
“So I wasn’t sure if I should talk to him. Part of me worried how he might react. But it was late and he looked so damn cute, I had to say something.”
“You’re gloating.”
I blushed. “He didn’t seem to mind.”
Trace’s eyes widened. “He spoke to you?” I nodded, a bit confused. She stepped back from the counter. “Delicious!” She began to pace back and forth excitedly. “Just delicious!”
“Enough. You’re obviously holding something back. Tell me.”
“I know your ghost.” She laughed. “Well not know him, but know of him. As soon as you mentioned 47. It’s an old urban legend around here.”
“I didn’t think this ’burb was big enough to qualify as urban.”
“Now, now. So what did he say?”
I shrugged, pretending to be apathetic. “Not much.” In truth, I couldn’t recall all he said and it drove me crazy. “Something about a party and being late, I think.”
She nodded several times. “Makes sense.”
I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Tell me.”
“Well, over forty years ago a kid was killed out on that stretch of road. Run down.” She lowered her voice to seem dramatic. “Some say accident. Some say not.
“Since then… well, every kid in town knows that his ghost keeps trying to get home. We all want a glimpse. Last time I was out there looking for him was back in junior high with some friends and we all hid in the woods. I fell asleep.” The regret in her voice was very evident. “Still, some say they’ve seen him. A lot of the time they’re truckers out late and pass a lonesome guy on the road. He’s not in their rearview mirror. Or some lost couple stops and asks him for directions. He never speaks though. And he never reaches home.” She shivered in delight at her story.
“He disappeared on me. Not long after we were talking. I turned around and he had vanished.” I turned toward the shop’s windows but saw only that empty highway. “I didn’t want him to go.”
She patted me on the arm. “Don’t worry. Tonight may be different.”
“Tonight?” I cracked open a fortune cookie. Good to begin well, better to end well. When had they stopped making actual predictions and become pithy sayings?
“Of course. We’re both going back there.” Trace took great care in wiping her chopsticks clean on a paper napkin. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”
Instinctively, I looked at the old grandmother clock Malvern insisted on winding every other day. So many hours until then. “Okay. Well before the witching hour.”
She was already at the door, stopping only to blow me a kiss. I could almost hear her thoughts, turning like gears. No doubt she’d dash home and go through all her books, preparing for tonight. I think Trace had been waiting for something like this all her life—proof that the world is not a sorry piece of shit. She wanted to know there was mystery out there.
As for me, I had been waiting my whole life to meet a boy different from the rest. Someone special. I closed my eyes, recalling last night. An afterlife spent walking the same stretch of road night after night seemed so lonely. What would it be like to be haunted?
I stared at the old clock. The hands had not even moved. It would be a long day and I wanted to see my ghost.
Trace stood by the roadside. The wind sifted through her long black hair and lifted the edges of her dark trench coat. She seemed ready to take flight at any moment.
I huddled in my worn duster sitting on the hood of the car, holding a flashlight she brought from home. With batteries near death, the beam had shrunk to a weak glow, barely more effective than the sliver of moon above.
So far, everything had been quiet and I wondered when she would lose her patience. Twice she had me shine the beam on her watch so she could see the time. I considered asking if the books ever mentioned ghosts being late but she looked so serious I didn’t dare.
A yawn, sounding loud in the middle of nowhere, escaped my mouth. The caffeine from the coffee we’d drank hours ago had left my blood and I felt the first tinges of lassitude.
“Worried he might not show?” she asked, still looking out along the road.
I shook my head, unsure if she was really asking herself the question. “No; more worried I might have imagined the whole thing.” I tried to suppress my growing doubt and the new guilt at bringing Trace out here for nothing.
Then I caught a glimpse of someone walking down the highway and I pointed. “There.”
Trace turned so fast she bumped her knee on the grill of the car.
As the figure came nearer, my eyes began tearing from the growing wind and cold. We both remained quiet. I had never before felt so on edge. This was different from last night. Then, I had spoken to what I believed was just some other boy. Now I knew better. Trace must have been a storm inside, eager to prove her dreams right. One of her hands reached out and gripped my shoulder tightly. I’m not sure which of us needed steadying more.
Like a video replayed, the guy had the same stride, the same movements as last night. I think he might have walked right past us without realizing we even existed, if I hadn’t slipped in front of him, blocking his way. He stopped and lifted his gaze from the road to me as if suddenly awake.
“Hey,” I said, shivering all of a sudden. Maybe from the cold.
His face brightened and then he smiled. He remembered me! A sense of relief filled me and, for a brief moment, I relaxed, basking in a boy’s attention. No vapor escaped his mouth when he breathed and I suddenly remembered that this boy had been dead for decades. I struggled to keep calm.
“I had to see you again,” I said. Something moved on my left. Both of us turned and I saw Trace drawing closer, staring at the ghost. I had actually forgotten she was there. “It’s okay, she’s a friend of mine.”
“Where are you walking to?” she asked him. Her voice trembled.
He never answered her. The weight of his stare left me weak. “I didn’t see you at the party.”
“Why isn’t he talking?” Trace tugged at my arm.
I turned to her. “You can’t hear him?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s just standing there.”
I didn’t understand what was wrong, why I could talk with him and she couldn’t. I became her ventriloquist dummy, repeating his simple answers to Trace, who trembled against me.
“Ask him if he remembers reaching home.”
I thought that a cruel thing to ask but listened to her anyway.
All he said was, “Yes,” but that managed to quicken my heartbeat. Why me? Why after all these years, had he noticed me? I suppose I should have been worried but all I felt was the sudden sense of worth he gave me.
“Were you walking back from the party last night?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“Ask him if he remembers meeting you last night.”
He never answered me. Instead, he took a step back. Those beautiful eyes, a gentle blue, widened. He looked around the desolate road as if finally noticing his surroundings. He looked lost.
I took my gaze off of him for only a moment, just to chide Trace for upsetting him. When I looked back, he was gone, disappeared once more. I moaned in disgust. “We chased him away.”
“I’m sorry.” She walked over to where he had been standing. “They never realize they’re dead. That’s what the books say.” She spoke fast, almost breathless with excitement. “We saw a real ghost.”
“What happens when they do?
She turned toward me. “Hmm?”
“What happens when they discover they’re dead?”
“Oh.” Trace put a hand to her mouth a moment. “They usually fade away then.”
“So you’re saying we just killed him?” I looked around for any sign of him.
She frowned. “Hon, I didn’t mean to ruin this for you. But, honestly, did you think something could have happened between you two?”
“Maybe not thought.” My voice dropped low. “More like hoped.”
“I didn’t think he was your sort. Too… all American.”
I closed my eyes and imagined him still standing in front of me. Josh. That had been the name on the jacket. “He was different—”
“He was a ghost. An apparition.” She rubbed my back.
I turned my face so the wind would strike it. “Don’t you wonder what would it have been like to kiss him?”
“Cold, probably.”
I rubbed the wet corners of my eyes. How could I have let myself fall for a phantom? “I’m just sick and tired of having something so great happen to me and then it all falls apart.”
Our drive back was quiet. She probably thought I was upset with her for chasing him off. Maybe I really was, I don’t know. The last thing I wanted to do was talk.
“Awww...”She gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry. It’s autumn. Everything happens in the autumn. You’ll see.”
I didn’t bother with turning on the light switch in my room; there wasn’t enough stuff to trip over. I stripped off my shirt, hearing some seam tear in protest. I angrily tossed it across the room as punishment.
As I stepped out of my jeans I noticed the open window had let in a draft. My aunt must have decided to let some fresh air into the room. Perhaps she thought it would be healthy for me. Though it was only a few feet away, I felt too bothered to close it. Instead, I collapsed on the bed, feeling sorry for myself and imagining that while I slept tonight pneumonia might slowly creep into my lungs. Then I could wake with a choking cough and live only a few short days, a bitter fantasy to discover how cold death really was.
“I’m here.”
My eyes opened and I trembled at the whisper in my ear. There was more than a draft in the room with me. Or else the long hours, anticipation, and disappointment had left me exhausted and I couldn’t trust my senses or my desire to see him again. I crawled to the foot of the bed. I was afraid to speak out, worried that I might be answered.
At first my eyes saw only the gloom. But a faint glow grew in a corner until I could see a pale figure standing there. The ghost of the boy from the highway took a tentative step closer. My heart beat faster though I wasn’t sure if it was with fear or desire.
“I’m here. With you.”
“Thank you.” I could not believe I said that, even though I knew the reason he was there was because of me. For the first time in my life, I had been pursued, wanted.
I watched as he made his way to my bed. Even without much light, I could see him in detail: the sheen of Brylcreem left his hair looking wet. The way his chest filled the sweater with such promise. A slight scuff at the tips of his penny loafers. I could not stop looking at him. Knowing the risk he might suddenly disappear forced me to etch every little feature of his into my brain.
When his hand fell upon my bare arm, the feather-weight touch felt cool and set off a chain reaction of wondrous shivers through me. I fairly moaned as his fingers traced back and forth, from my elbow to my wrist.
As he touched me his voice became stronger. “I need to talk to you.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll listen, Josh.”
He took so long to speak again, I grew worried.
“Everything’s different.” He looked around my room. “This is your home?”
I nodded. It would have been too confusing to tell the truth.
“I think… I think I haven’t been home in a long time.” He nodded once. “I remember leaving the party. Not much else. But I never seem to come home. I’m always walking. I’m always alone.” He looked straight at me, and I could see deep into his eyes, see my reflection in those ice-blue mirrors.
“I understand.” I knew loneliness, the fear of being pushed away, of being left behind, of having no one.
“I hope you do.” He stepped nearer. I moved back and he came even closer. “I want to stay with you.”
That short-circuited my mind for a few moments. All I could think of was my aunt’s reaction if I told her a ghost followed me home. And, oh yeah, we’re both hot for each other, so don’t mind any sounds you might hear behind closed doors.
I never answered, because he took one more step toward me and then vanished. A quick fade away to nothing, leaving me trembling and cold.
Chapter 3
Sunday
The air-conditioning on the dimly lit bus was broken. Sweat rolled lazily down my forehead, my back, under my arms. I tried to shift about in the seat in the hopes of finally finding the secret of being comfortable, but with the duffel bag on my lap and the person next to me leaning over more and more into my personal space, the task seemed impossible. I breathed through my mouth, disgusted at the stink of so many bodies packed tightly.
But the worst was the girl crying. I might have drifted off except for her.
She sat diagonally across from me, thin knees bent up to her chest. Her floral-print dress rode up slightly and I could see scuff marks on her knees, bruises on her shins. Her face was almost always turned toward the windows—weird because the night had made the glass into reflective mirrors—so I only caught part of her profile: thin, angular face peeking out behind limp hair. She held a tissue in a clenched fist, bringing it up to her face and down to her lap steadily.
She never stopped crying. Deep, heaving sobs that pinnacled with her shaking. High-pitched huffs and heavy groans.
I looked around the bus amazed that everyone else was fast asleep. How could they? Didn’t they hear her?
I stared hard at her, wishing many evil thoughts upon her while silently begging her to just shut up so I could sleep. I’d be in New Jersey in only a couple hours.
Her hand smacked the armrest suddenly, making me jump. She turned around to look at me. All I could see were her eyes. They bled dark mascara. Empty eyes.
I woke from the nightmare with a gasp. While the bus ride to my aunt’s town had been awful, and the one girl’s constant crying very real, she had never looked at me once the entire trip. I was just thankful she didn’t leave at the same stop. Why dream about her and not Josh?
As I stumbled out of bed, I caught a whiff of something burning. My aunt was cooking. Wearing crumpled boxers and a worn T-shirt, I made my way out into the hall, trying not to inhale the stink of something sickly sweet and charred that hung thick in the air.
In the kitchen my aunt stood by the toaster, staring at it with rapt attention. I shuffled toward her but stopped when the cool tile floor brought back the memory of Josh’s touch. Twin browned remains popping up from the toaster startled us. My aunt gingerly removed whatever she had been “cooking” and dropped it onto an already full plate.
“Hey,” I said softly.
She gave me a smile. “Good morning.” She held up the plate overloaded with different squares. Some looked too toasted, a uniform blackish brown, others multicolored and more festive than anything I wanted to see before noon.
Needless to say, my aunt was not a chef. Convenience was her favorite ingredient. The microwave received more attention than the stove. Takeout was preferred. The fact she had bothered to take the time—even two minutes per Pop-Tart, which I figured amounted to almost a half hour’s work— to make me breakfast struck me as wrong. Very wrong.
I slowly sank into one of the chairs surrounding the small kitchen table. She set the plate down right before me and the smell, a mix from some catastrophic bakery, hit me full in the face. She began rooting in the refrigerator and missed my whimper.
She brought over a carton and two glasses. I ached for coffee but a glance at the counter showed the machine sitting idle. She poured orange juice into each glass and pushed one forward. I cautiously tipped it toward me. The stuff looked too bright to be served at breakfast.
“So I thought we’d have a chat.”
Damn. Chats were bad. Adults “chatted” when they wanted to tell a kid he’d done something wrong. I grabbed a Pop-Tart and started chewing; with a mouth full, I wouldn’t be able to have this “chat.” Gagging at the sudden taste of some nameless and artificial berry, I washed it down with a gulp of juice.
I was in hell.
“At the store I wasn’t sure what flavor you’d want so I bought a variety pack. Made them all. Do you like?”
I managed to make a “Mmm” sound and forced down more of the overdone pastry.
“Try one of the chocolates.” She lifted up a square decorated with icing and sniffed it twice. “Has cinnamon in it too, I think.”
I nodded and drank more of the juice before taking the offered Tart. Maybe the acid would dissolve the crap in my stomach so I wouldn’t be too poisoned.
“So,” she said, sipping from her own glass. “We never get a chance to talk. And after last night I thought it best.”
“Last night?” Brown crumbs fell from my open mouth and into my glass. They attempted to float amid the pulp. Did she somehow know about my ghost?
“Yes and calm down before you choke. You’re always so nervous.” She casually tapped a finger on the wood. “Really, you’re not half as much trouble as I thought you’d be. Nervous and quiet. Too quiet sometimes. But I never worry there’ll be any trouble when I open the door. And so I rarely bother you. But—”
I sighed. There always seemed a “but” in my life. “You want me to leave?” I should have known just as things were becoming… interesting... something horrible would happen to me. What would life be like homeless?
She smiled a bit and shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. When you showed up at my door I said you could stay.” She reached over and squeezed my hand holding the glass.
“Thanks, Aunt Jan—”
“Let me finish. I never spoke to your folks about why you left them. That’s your affair and I’m sure, knowing my sister, you had good reason. I’m not like her, never will be or want to be. I know you’re a good kid, but I have to stress something.”
I opened my mouth to speak but when she saw I had finished two Pop-Tarts she lifted up the next one on the stack and shoved it at me. Too tired to resist, I resigned myself to bitter fate and bit down on something supposed to be apple filling.
“Last night. Yeah, I know, Saturday night and you’re young and there are things to do. But you’re still seventeen and I just can’t sleep at night knowing its past twelve and you’re out there. Somewhere.” She waved a hand at the window. “I need to know you’re in bed. Safely home.” She leaned back as if to give me more room. “That’s not too much to ask.”
I swallowed down the last bit of Pop-Tart. Hopefully ever. If my mother had given me a curfew, it would have been with caustic words followed by me cursing. Maybe I wasn’t awake enough to argue. Or maybe I didn’t want to spoil the good thing I had going, staying with my aunt Jan. She had taken me in when she could have easily just let me spend one night and then sent me off. That meant a lot to me, even if I couldn’t simply come out and say so. Some instincts are too hard to overcome.
I wondered if she knew what she asked. Did Trace ever fall asleep before midnight? If so, it was only accidentally. What of the late-night rendezvous with my ghost? Yet, I wanted—no, needed—someplace calm to go when everything out there weighed me down.
“One o’clock Saturdays. Midnight every other night.” I reached over and picked a garish pink pastry with sprinkles and held it out to her. “Deal?”
“Okay, deal.” She brushed my hand aside. “Ugh, can’t stand them.”
Trace would not be up for hours so there was no sense in calling her. Still craving caffeine, I made the long walk over to DeBevec’s, the only coffeehouse in town and a favorite hangout of mine. Having just opened for the day, the place was quiet.
I ordered a grandé of Nawlins blend and counted out the change, mentally squinting around the notion that payday was over a week away. The steam from the tall cup threatened to fog the horn-rimmed glasses the girl behind the counter wore.
DeBevec’s lacked chairs. Instead, the owner had ransacked every last pillow and beanbag in the state to surround a few coffee tables. Except for one couple lounging at a cheaply gilded block of mahogany, the place was empty. I went to the other end of the room, kicking aside a worn lump leaking stuffing. I sank to the carpeted floor and rested my cup in my lap.
The bite of chicory nipped my tongue on the first sip. I added another packet of sugar and burned my fingertip stirring the coffee. A giggle interrupted my second taste. I glanced over the rim of the cup at the source.
The couple across the room had entwined themselves around one another. Her shoulder-length red hair poured over the side of his shaved scalp. Her legs wrapped around his, and she had one hand behind his head, nudging him forward to drink from her mug. The many silver hoops worn around her wrist jingled as they both moved. His upper lip came back stained a pale brown.
Public displays of emotion are like chicory. Seeing too much leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth and a sour stomach. I always feel envious. Why did they have to remind me how alone I really was? The idea of romancing a ghost now seemed like a silly plot from a late-night movie.
The girl giggled again, obviously pleased with herself. I finished my cup just as they began licking hot chocolate from each other’s mouths.
You can’t bring a spectral boyfriend for a night out on the town or to a coffeehouse to share a mocha. Even if something happened between Josh and me, it would always be a secret.
That afternoon, I walked past Trace’s house but didn’t see her car parked outside. I took a chance on the town flea market. Trace enjoyed hunting for lost treasures there. I rarely went with her since the place depressed me. Everything from the food stands to the long tables of crap to the vendors themselves looked trashy and rundown.
That afternoon, a thin crowd meandered in the aisles. One old man barely had the strength to pick up a chipped plate, and a little girl no more than glanced at a bin of stripped dolls set on the tarred ground. The market was a tetanus infection’s dream with all the rusty nails poking out from old wood tables and ripped cloths.
While roaming, I caught sight of Trace beside a table of shoes. I tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around, cascading long dark hair behind her and smiling when she saw me. She wore leopard-print leggings and a fuzzy black top.
She held up a single high-heeled shoe, one toe decorated with a garish faux ruby bigger than my thumb.
“I have something better,” I said trying to keep my voice low against the excitement filling me.
One eyebrow rose. “And that would be?” She put back the shoe. The old woman behind the table never moved. I wasn’t sure she was still alive until she leaned over and spat on the ground.
“Josh.” Before I could say another word, Second Mike appeared at Trace’s side, his face grinning with excitement. Her little brother held in his hands a stack of old postcards and he held one up to show his sister. I caught a flash of faded handwriting on the back.
“They were only a quarter each!”
Trace smiled at me and took a proffered card. On one side a team of horses pulled a cart with some sort of crane. “Water Tower on Parade,” Trace read aloud.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Second Mike staring at me. He looked away when I faced him. Trace ran a hand through his short, spiky brown hair. “So what does this make? Two hundred?”
“Two twenty-nine.” He began shuffling through the cards. He unbent the corner of one.
“Want to do lunch?” I asked.
“Sure,” Second Mike answered without even looking up.
Trace laughed. “I thought you wanted to earn millions raking leaves around the neighborhood.”
Her brother made a sour face at her. “But—”
“Who wanted me to take him to the art supply store? You’re not borrowing from me.”
“Fine.”
On the car ride to Trace’s house, I felt Second Mike tug at my sleeve a moment from the backseat. I looked back and he held out one of the antique postcards. “I thought you might like this one.”
I took it. On the front was a sepia-toned photograph of an old building. A burly looking man with a thick beard stood out in front on a dirt road. The sign on the building read Grace & Sons Funeral Parlor. I smiled at the macabre image and checked the back. In small cramped writing someone named Lucinda had sought forgiveness for marrying Erlton, who was buried on a Sunday.
“You sure you want me to have this?”
He nodded emphatically. “If you like it.” He bit his lower lip a moment.
“It’s great, thanks.”
Not two seconds after Second Mike left the car and ran up to the front door, Trace put the car in gear and demanded to know who Josh was.
“The ghost.”
“What, from last night?” She was overcome with laughter. “You named him Josh?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t you see the name on his sweater?”