Red Curtains

by Leanna Sain

  I did it! Snaked it right out of Davidson’s hands, too. This must be what Superman feels like. Invincible. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. My boss had just handed me the world’s greatest gift: a chance. It was up to me to shine, to show him and my family that I was a real writer, not just some hack, typing out boring drivel that no one even read.

  The exhilaration was a lot to absorb. I floated down the hall to my cubicle and sank into my desk chair—a supposedly ergonomically correct one, according to the memo they’d sent out. It didn’t feel any different than any other chair to me, though. I tilted back in it and stared at my silent computer screen saver; a cartoon little man aimlessly wandered around his tiny cartoon island. It usually had sound, but I’d had to mute the volume several weeks back because of dumb ol’ Davidson, in the next cubicle over. Seems Mr. High-and-Mighty complained about the character’s whistling. Claimed he couldn’t write because it “broke his concentration.” Yeah, right. I’d like to break more than his concentration. Always on my case about something. If he couldn’t find anything legitimate to complain about, he’d send me for coffee and then gripe about it.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Three creams, two sugars, Holmes,” he’d say. “I could train a monkey to get it right!”

  I wanted to yell, Get your own coffee. Then, if it’s wrong, you have no one to blame but yourself. If he’d drink it black—like a man—instead of all girly with all the creams and sugars, it wouldn’t be a big deal. I couldn’t say anything, though. He claimed to be buddy-buddy with the boss. I couldn’t take that chance, but it was hard. I had to bite my tongue sometimes. Hmmm. Maybe they weren’t as “tight” as he claimed. I was able to change McMillan’s mind, wasn’t I? He’d given me the go-ahead, not Davidson. The thought made me smile. Even so, it was probably in my best interest to try to stay on Davidson’s good side. There was a reason for the adage, “last one hired; first one fired.”

  “Holmes!”

  Speak of the devil. “Yes?”

  Silence.

  Ha! I’d surprised him. I usually jumped when he called. “You’re late,” he complained, his voice sounding disgruntled. “Guess I’m gonna have to mention this to Joel.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. He knows,” I replied, making my voice sound light and airy. “That’s who I was with. We had a meeting this morning.”

  Silence, again. Two in a row. I grinned, checking the childish desire to peek over the wall that separated our desks. I wished I could see his face.

  A whisper of sound came, then Taylor strolled around the partition and leaned against the doorjamb, studying his cuticles. “Meeting, huh. What about?”

  “Pitched him an idea for a story.”

  He looked up, and gave me a pitying smile. “Aww…shot you down, didn’t he? Don’t feel bad, Holmes. Happens to the best of us.”

  Acting as if I were hard at work on something that needed to be done yesterday, I started typing the lyrics to “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” at hyper-drive speed. My fingers flew over the keyboard. Han Solo’s Millennium Falcon couldn’t have kept up. I paused at the end of the second stanza and glanced up. “What d’ya mean, bad? He gave me the green light. I’m doing the story.”

  I’d have given a million bucks for a photo of the look on his face.

  “Oh.” For someone who made his living with words, he seemed woefully at a loss. After several seconds, he finally added, “Well, you seem busy. I’ll leave you with it.” Without another sound, he spun around and headed back to his office.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Suddenly, all the weeks of verbal abuse I had endured since being there floated away.

  I kept my fingers tappity-tapping, but my mind outpaced them. This story was going to open doors for me, take me to heights I could only dream about. Maybe I’d even write a book…sign with one of the big publishers. My name would be as commonplace as John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Stephen King. First the book, then Hollywood would be clamoring to turn it into a movie.

  But how? A little voice inside me whispered, and my speeding fingers faltered. Although my gut was telling me that the three homeless men found floating in the river were connected, it was being very silent about where to start. Did I go to the police? Ask them? Would they even tell me anything?

  Doubtful. The police tended to get their nose out of joint when they felt like the press was horning in on their investigation. I’d probably just get the run-around. They’d pass on the least possible information they could get away with, pat me on my head, and send me on my way. Right now, all I really knew was that those men had been homeless and that they’d drowned. Had it been suicide? Again, doubtful. One, yeah, but three? I guess it was possible, but not very likely. Okay, then…foul play? There’d been no buzz either way. Maybe no on knew for sure, or if they did, they weren’t saying. As far as I’d heard, the authorities hadn’t even been able to notify next of kin because the men hadn’t been carrying ID. Apparently, no one knew who these guys were. They’d died without identities, no one to mourn their passing. The thought depressed me.

  No! Someone had to know who they were. They must’ve had some friends, some other homeless guys they hung around with…

  Yes! That was it! I’d sleuth around town and interview other homeless people. Surely, one of them could shed some light on what had happened to these guys. At the very least, I could find out who they were, put a name on the graves.

  It wasn’t much, but at least I had a plan.

  ****

  Some plan! I was ready to give up. I’d just spent the most frustrating week imaginable. I’d had no idea how tightlipped and unapproachable homeless people could be. Oh, some of them seemed happy to strike up a conversation, but as soon as I started asking questions, they clammed up tighter than…well…a clam. It was like they all belonged to some private club and I didn’t know the double-secret password to get in. These people definitely looked out for each other. I guess that was both good and bad at the same time. Good for them; bad for me. I was going to have to rethink; come up with some other way to infiltrate their tight little group. That was the only way I’d ever get my story. But how?

  Chapter Three

  Lily

  That girl’s following me. She thinks I don’t notice her trying to blend in with the crowd, but she’s wrong. Hunh. More like sticking out like a sore thumb. Stay alert…that’s the rule. She doesn’t know it, ’cause she’s not homeless. Stay alert…we have to live by that. If we don’t, we wind up dead; like the fella they just pulled out of the river. He’s the third one who didn’t remember the rule. Doesn’t matter if it’s New York City or Mayberry; rule stays the same. Me? I’m always alert. Even at night…especially at night. Sometimes you see things…bad things. He didn’t see me, though…I hope.

  Why is she following me? What does she want? Doesn’t look like one of the mean ones who hurt Big Jim. All that blood…mmm. They beat him up so badly, he landed in the hospital…in a coma. Finally got out of there, but he’s not the same.

  Three men in the river. Media should be all over that. Not, though. Like to sweep that sort of thing under the rug. Been keeping an eye on the papers at the library. If it’s mentioned at all, it’s only a sentence, maybe two, buried in the back with tire sale and palm reading ads. Not surprised. The men were homeless. Homeless people were unimportant unless it involved a cop shooting; not like the moneyed crowd.

  Pfft. I know how they think. Three homeless men in the river meant three less nasty derelicts hanging around the squares. A person isn’t important unless he has an address.

  Hmph. Street person is just as much a person as someone who lives in one of those fine, fancy houses; they’re just desperate. Being desperate makes him a sitting duck, ready and willing for bad people to use. Flash a little money under their nose and they’ll do ’bout anything. They’re willing and expendable. That’s the scary truth of it.

  Well, not me! I stay alert. Keep my eyes and ears open like I h
ave for years.

  I was walking past a large SUV parked beside an expired parking meter. Its mirror-like dark windows reflected an image of a wiry old woman wearing layered shabby clothes and a jester hat. Sunshine sparked off the little bells dangling at the pointy ends. The vision stopped me in my tracks.

  Was that me? I looked so old. Made sense. I was old. Sixty-eight my last birthday. Forty-eight since the day my life changed…the day my sister, Rose, died.

  Almost half a century and I can still remember it like it was yesterday. It had been Rose’s birthday. I’d planned a party for her at her favorite Mexican restaurant, Sol y Luna. Lots of friends. Lots of laughter. Lots of doting on her, which she loved. While she said her goodbyes, I’d loaded the car with her gifts. We had just left.

  “I wish you could’ve seen yourself in that gigantic sombrero,” I said as I backed my car out of the parking space. “I didn’t know they made hats that big. A family of four could live under that thing!”

  “I would’ve liked a tiara better,” she sniffed. “But it was a Mexican restaurant. Sombreros kind of go with the territory.” Then she grinned. “I probably made even that ratty thing look good. You got pictures, didn’t you? Let’s stop by the drug store. They have one-hour developing there. We could kill an hour shopping and swing back by to pick them up. What do you say?”

  “You’re the birthday girl!”

  An hour later we were back on the road with Rose flipping through the stack of photos.

  “Oh, you’re right! The sombrero is huge! I look like a mushroom,” she giggled.

  “You’re right!” I had to agree. “But a very beautiful mushroom,” I hurriedly added, not wanting to ruffle her feathers. She was touchy about things like that, even if she knew you were joking.

  She shrugged as if her beauty was a given, and kept right on flipping through the stack. “Oh, here’s a good one!” she held it out for me to see.

  The traffic light had just turned green for us, and I was moving forward into the intersection, but I allowed myself a quick glance.

  Something made me look past Rose, through the passenger side window where I had a perfect view of the big, black pick-up truck rocketing past the other stopped cars, sun glinting off the heavy chrome grille, the iconic head of a ram zooming toward us.

  I stomped the gas. One thought screeched through my brain: Move! Get out of its way!

  BLAM! It hit with the ferocity of a freight train. The world tilted. My head crashed against the side glass. A kaleidoscope of flashing lights exploded in my brain. Sensory overload. The squeal and crunch of metal folding in on metal. The scent of gasoline mixed with the smell of blood. Rose’s sightless, staring eyes, her head hanging at an angle that it shouldn’t be. Screaming…endless screaming which I finally realized was coming from me.

  Not one detail had faded in all these years. I could still see the way my car was wrapped around the front of his like half of a metal inner tube. The front passenger seat, where Rose had been sitting was gone. There are some things wearing a seatbelt can’t help.

  Both the other driver and my sister had died instantly; he, from being thrown through his windshield and slamming against the side of my vehicle; Rose…well, if her neck hadn’t broken, the massive body trauma would’ve killed her. In a way, I was glad it had been quick. At least she hadn’t suffered. Why had I made it, though? I could still feel the rage and anguish and guilt that came with the knowledge that I was only one who had made it out of that crash alive.

  I fisted the blur from my eyes, not really surprised at the dampness on my hand. Even after all this time, remembering brought tears.

  Sniffing, I reached for my bag of glitter, grabbed a handful, and sprinkled it around the base of the expired meter before continuing down the street. Knew it made me look crazy. Part of the reason I did it. Helped with the image. Main reason, though, was because Rose told me the ghosts of Savannah liked the way it sparkled.

  She should know. She was one of them.

  The day after Rose’s funeral, I was still reeling from survivor’s guilt. That was its official name, what the doctors called it. My world had already been rocked by my recent breakup with my ex-fiancé, Michael, something I wouldn’t let myself think about. Then the accident. It was too much. That was the day I gave up on God. I’d always believed that He was a God of love, and that since I was His child, He would keep bad things from happening in my life. That theory, bent by the Michael-heartbreak, got damaged beyond repair by my sister’s violent death; my heart right along with it. How could God say He loved me, and let something like that happen? If that was how He showed His love, then I wanted no part of it.

  Then, without any warning, Rose was standing right in front of me.

  I gasped so hard, I choked, and spent the next several seconds coughing, while I scrambled crab-like across my mattress in wide-eyed terror from the very real-looking figment of my imagination. My back was soon pressed against my bedroom wall.

  “Surprised to see me?” the vision laughed. “You should see your face. No, you’re not crazy. You’re not having a mental breakdown, either. It’s me.”

  “Rose?” There was no way this was real “How? I saw you. You were dead. Your neck was very obviously broken.”

  “I’m still dead.” She said the impossible words matter-of-factly. She could have been discussing the weather. “I’m a ghost…one of the thousands who wander around Savannah.”

  “That’s just a tourism ploy. Ghosts aren’t real.”

  She whooshed forward and pinched me.

  “Ow!” I rubbed my arm and glared at her. “What was that for?”

  “Did that feel real enough for you?”

  ****

  Over the next few days, Rose helped me make the change. I no longer wanted to live the life that I’d always lived. I chose a path that would allow me to shut myself off from interaction with people, and at the same time, blend in. In a city full of eccentrics, I chose a way that my peers just couldn’t accept.

  I glanced at my squeaky metal cart. Rescued it from a pile of garbage sitting at the curb. It had been in multiple pieces, then. Nothing duct tape couldn’t fix, though. Stuff could fix anything. Titanic would probably still be floating if they’d had it on board.

  My sister had helped me find my “costume.”

  “No, no!” Rose exclaimed. “It’s not just a matter of you pushing a cart around with your belongings in it. You have to look the part. Nobody will believe you, otherwise.”

  I eyed the ragged outfit she’d displayed across the bed like an ad for a clothing magazine, complete with accessories. “Where did you find these?”

  “In the dumpster behind Goodwill,” she answered happily. Too happily, in my opinion. “It’s called dumpster diving.”

  “You went in a dumpster?”

  “Well,” she shrugged. “It’s easier when you’re a ghost. You can hover…not actually get in. This…” she waved a flash of color in the air like a banner. “…is your pièce de résistance; the best part of the ensemble.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your hat.” She hurried forward, and pulled it down on my head. “One of those jester hats, complete with bells.” She flicked one with her perfectly manicured fingernail before turning me around to face the mirror. “See? Isn’t it perfect?”

  My reflection’s eyes widened. “Did you get this out of the dumpster too?”

  “No. This I found in the alley behind Kittens.”

  “The strip club?”

  She nodded with a delighted smile.

  I wrinkled my nose as I stared at the hat. “What kind of acts do they do in there?”

  “Don’t know, but their loss is your gain. Want to try on the rest of the outfit?”

  ****

  Beep-beeeep!

  The sound forced me back to the present. I’d walked right out in front of a car. My eyes met those of the angry driver who was mouthing words that were easy to understand. Hmpf. Probably a Yankee. I glanced
down at his front bumper, which was only inches away from my metal cart. Yep. New York tag. Plain as day. I shook my head, which sent the little silver bells a jingling, and kept right on walking.

  People thought I was crazy. I talked to Rose, and because they couldn’t see her, it looked like I was talking to myself. Something a crazy person would do. Randomly blurting out quotes and sayings I’d memorized over the years—another of Rose’s ideas—reinforced that opinion. Mental illness wasn’t uncommon among the homeless, so I fit the mold of public opinion. I’d done reading on the subject. If a person lived on the streets long enough, he usually ends up with some kind of chemical dependency. And if he uses long enough, he develops some type of mental illness. I’d been lucky. When I talked to Rose, I just looked crazy. The hat just reinforced that. No sane person would wear it.

  My new persona was complete. The “homeless” version of Lily Telfair-Gordon was born. People who hadn’t known me before, had no problem accepting this colorful new addition in town. People who had…well, they just pretended they didn’t know me. Like I was contagious. It wasn’t the first time in the city’s history that one of their own had fallen from the top to the bottom, and they didn’t want to get close enough to catch it.

  I stopped again to sprinkle glitter around a meter. I considered it doing my part to keep the ghosts happy. According to Rose, ghosts had mood swings. Don’t ever provoke one, she said. They have good memories and they can be mean. Hold a grudge a long time. Bad thing to get them mad at you. If glitter made them happy, I’d give them glitter. Small price to pay. Had an agreement with a nearby craft store owner. Buy it in bulk at the wholesale price. Sprinkling glitter helped my “crazy” image, too. I patted the sequined bag that hung from my waist, reassured by the bulge that I still had a ready supply.

  Savannah had more than its fair share of spirits. No one really knew why, but it was a proven fact. Ghost hunters and scientists—people who specialized in that sort of thing—were always around. Visited spots frequented by “haunts;” did tests and studies funded by various grants, then published their findings. Pictures and video footage, included. Didn’t need all that proof, though. Had all the proof I needed. Rose had introduced me to several of her friends. The ones I could see. According to my sister, only the ghosts with strong personalities before their deaths could make themselves visible afterwards. Had the ability to control whether or not they were seen. Only a few of them could do that, which meant there were many, many more out there that you couldn’t see. More than people realized. Ghosts everywhere. Moving among them in the streets, crowding into businesses, homes, churches, and schools throughout the historic part of the city. Freaked me out.