by Leanna Sain
Good thing I had Rose to protect me.
Having a sister who was a ghost made me privy to some juicy gossip—some of it centuries old. Made me nervous at first. What might someone do to keep some of this stuff quiet? Didn’t take long to realize regular folk think the homeless are invisible. Deaf and dumb, too. Why else would they say and do some of the things I’d heard and seen? Maybe it’s because no one would believe a homeless person anyway. No credibility. If we tried to report a crime, the police wouldn’t believe us, like there was an unwritten rule. Had to have a roof over your head to be believable. Had I acted like that before my transformation? Probably, and it made me ashamed.
Most people like me sleep beneath underpasses, or in abandoned cars, or in the woods, but I have a little place of my own. Wasn’t technically “homeless,” even though that’s how I saw myself. My tiny, airless, fifth-floor room on Oglethorpe Street was home, at least during the short winter. Rest of the year, it was cooler sleeping outside.
I was in my room that night last week. The moon was full. Bright enough to read by. That’s when the shouting started.
“Where’s the bag?”
Bag? My heartbeat quickened and I hurried to the window. The moon’s silver highlights and deep shadows made the alley behind my building look like an x-ray. I could see exactly what was happening through my red curtains.
“I’m tellin’ you…this is where I put it. Right here in this can!”
“Then that’s where it should be, but it’s not.”
“Someone must’ve took it.”
“Who’d you tell?”
“No one! I’m not an idiot.”
The bigger man grabbed the front of the other’s shirt, jerked him forward until they were nose to nose. “Who’d. You. Tell?”
They grappled around until I heard a muffled “pop.” The smaller man fell.
I froze. Couldn’t look away. The big man looked every direction, finally turned his face up to peer at the building’s windows. The moon was a spotlight on his face. I gasped in recognition and instinctively stepped back, trembling behind my thin, red shield. Had he seen me? No. My room was too dark, and the moon too bright. That didn’t make the fear go away, though. My heart pounded. I pressed a hand to my chest trying to calm it.
I understood part of the argument. That’s what had me gnawing my bottom lip. The bag…they’d been shouting about the bag. I’d been out there the night before, digging through the neighborhood trashcans. The best time for treasure hunting is at night. I’d found a garbage bag—the heavy lawn-and-leaf kind—only a third full and knotted at the top. Heavy for its size. Made me curious. I wished I hadn’t looked. Now that bag was buried in the bottom of my metal cart. A secret I couldn’t tell anyone. Tried not to think about it, but couldn’t help it. I was sure it was the bag they’d argued about. Afraid it was a link to the body of the homeless man they found in the river the next day. And the one they’d found last month, and the one before that. Was someone targeting the homeless? People no one would miss?
No! I shook my head. Stop thinking that way. It wasn’t linked. It couldn’t be. Rose was right. I worried too much. Wish Rose were here. She’d help me out of this mood, but she was out helping sad, little Alice Riley find her baby. That’s right. Think about Alice. That’ll help.
Alice was one of the strong personality ghosts. She could control whether people saw her or not. She and her husband had come to America back in the 1700’s as indentured servants. They’d been sent to work for a horrible man who mistreated them badly, making their lives a hell-on-earth. After a year of the abuse, life became intolerable, and they searched for a chance to escape. It came in the form of a bucket of water. While grooming their master, the husband held the man’s head down in the water bucket until he drowned. Alice and her husband fled for their lives, but were caught and sentenced to death. They hanged her husband first, but when it was her turn, they discovered she was pregnant. They had to wait eight months until “justice could be served.” In spite of her continual claims that she hadn’t committed the crime, they carried out her sentence in Wright Square right after the baby was born. Some folks claim that she’s the reason no Spanish moss grows around the spot of her death. Legend has it that moss won’t grow where innocent blood has been shed. Whether that was the case or not, I had no way of knowing, but there was definitely no moss dangling from a single tree in that square, and it was always eerily quiet…except, of course, when Alice showed up—screaming and crying—looking for her baby.
Today, Rose was busy helping her, so I would have to get myself out of this mood. The bag, the men arguing, and the homeless man in the river didn’t have anything to do with each other, and if they did, I couldn’t do anything about it. The identity of the man I’d seen in the moonlight made sure of that. If he was involved, then no one could be trusted. No one would believe me anyway.
“Lily Telfair-Gordon,” I whispered desperately to myself. “You just keep your head down and your mouth shut.”
****
Chippewa Square…where they filmed the bench scene from “Forrest Gump.” Right over there Tom Hanks said his famous line about life being “like a box of chocolates.” Well, not on that bench. Had to move the real one. Just like with the Bird Girl statue from that other movie—“Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.” Bench and statue were nice and safe in the Savannah History Museum. Jerks couldn’t steal them in there.
Raymond was on the bench now. He was homeless too. My only true friend. He sat there everyday, turning palm fronds into roses. Sold them to tourists. That’s where I was headed. Good place to rest. Good place to wait and see what that girl would do, too. She was still back there, pretending to read a bronze plaque.
I wheeled my cart behind the bench and plopped down next to my friend with a sigh. “H’lo, Raymond.”
He didn’t answer. He had good days and bad days. On his bad days, he just sat and scribbled in a notebook. He was working and not scribbling, so this wasn’t a bad day, but maybe he just didn’t feel like talking. Or maybe he sensed the girl easing toward the bench and figured he had a potential customer. Saw him reach for a new length of palm leaf and knew he was about to begin his spiel. Soft voice kept time with nimble fingers as they performed their magic.
“Come on closer. You can’t see back there. That’s right. You know, many folks has tried all sorts of substitutes over the years to make these fine roses, but my granny say you can only use palmetto leaves to make it a work of art. Oh, yeah, folks has tried to use other leaves, but nothing beats palmetto fer makin’ a perfect rose. That’s what my granny always tole me.”
I’d close my eyes and just listen, except I wanted to keep an eye on the girl. I loved the way his voice emphasized certain syllables. Made his sentences ebb and flow like the tide. He rolled the long, folded section, tightly at first, then looser as he reached the outer portion of the rose. Saw him do it a million times. Still mesmerized me.
Selecting another thin strand, he wrapped it around and around the base of the flower, knotting it and pulling it tight after every couple of wraps. “Some folks ’round here—I ain’t namin’ no names, now—but some folks do shoddy work…real shoddy. Not like this here. This here be art. My granny say, Raymond—that be my name—she say, Raymond, “You gots to wrap and tie, son; wrap and tie.” If you don’t, when it dry, it all come undone on you. If you wrap and tie it enough, it’ll stay nice and tight. And then…” he leaned forward and whispered confidentially. “…this be my secret—you tell your customer to dip it in polyurethane to pertect it. It’ll stay perfect…just like this!” He presented his completed rose with a flourish, grinning from ear to ear, exposing several places he should’ve had teeth.
“How much?” the girl asked.
He squinted and pretended to think hard about it. “Mmmm…most folks give ol’ Raymond five dollars ’cause they be “art,” and they last.”
“Five dollars it is, then. I’ll trade you.” They exchanged m
oney for rose, then she turned slightly toward me, acting as if she’d just noticed me. “Oh, hello there.” Her voice sounded nervous.
I just nodded, making the bells on my hat jingle. She was a cute little thing, friendly smile, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and the most unusual eyes I’d ever seen. About the same color as a turquoise brooch I used to have. “A girl without freckles is like a night without stars.”
She jumped like I’d stuck her with a pin and her eyes went wide. She looked to Raymond for help.
He chuckled. “Don’t mind Miz Lily, none. She always talk like that.”
“Oh.”
The girl struggled for something else to say, opening and closing her mouth several times. Looked like a fish. Finally, she sort of squared her shoulders, and with a determined look on her face, said, “Lily? Oh, I love flower names.”
“Birth name is Calla Lily. Go by Lily,” I blurted. “Mother liked flowers.” Now, why’d I tell her that? I never told anyone before. Not even Raymond.
She held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Lily.”
Why was she so nervous? Her hand was actually trembling. She was forcing herself to maintain eye contact, too. I could tell. Her nervousness was rubbing off on me. No time for that.
I slowly got to my feet and stepped forward until my nose was almost touching hers. Had to give her credit. She didn’t step back. Looked like she wanted to, but she didn’t. I grabbed her hand, clamping it tightly, and asked, “What’s your name, girl?”
“C-c-cleo,” she stammered.
Over her shoulder, I could see I’d surprised Raymond. His eyes were so wide, I could see the whites all the way around his brown irises, and his mouth was gaped open. He’d never seen me interact with anybody, other than spout one of my quotes. That had always been my safety net. He knew my motto: “If they can’t get close, they can’t hurt you.”
I dropped her hand like it was a hot coal and spun around so I could grab my cart, then barked, “C’mon.”
When she hurried to catch up with me, it felt like someone poured warm honey over my head. That scared me.
What was I doing?
Chapter Four
Cleo
How old is this woman, anyway? I panted. She sure moves fast for her age. I can barely keep up with her. And where the heck are we going?
There was no time to ask her, and I wouldn’t have the breath to do it even if there was. Thank goodness it was December and not July when the heat and humidity would be sucking the life right out of me, melting me into a puddle of sweat.
If we’d slow down some, I could savor my favorite thing about Savannah: its squares. They were tucked here and there, all around the historical part of the city. The first four were laid out by James Oglethorpe way back in 1733. That’s when he founded both the colony of Georgia and the city of Savannah. As the city grew, more squares were added, each one honoring specific members from Georgia’s history books. There’d been twenty-four of them all together, but three were demolished back in the 1900’s for the sake of “progress.” A few years back, though, they’d reclaimed one of the “lost squares.” That was Ellis—one of the four original ones. They’d made a huge deal over it; lots of hoopla at the official unveiling. Now we had a grand total of twenty-two little green oases, plus Forsyth and Emmett. Savannah has a thing for parks.
Jeez! What is she? A robot? Where does she get her stamina? Weathering Savannah summers must’ve toughened her up. Tougher than me; that’s for sure.
“Lily,” I wheezed. “Don’t—you need—a breather?” Translation: I’m about to drop. Can’t we rest?
She didn’t answer, but I guess she must’ve deciphered my silent plea, because as soon as we entered Reynolds Square, she veered off toward the nearest bench, wheeled her cart to its end, and plopped down.
I sighed with relief. “You might be onto something, Lily,” I said as I tried to catch my breath, noting with dismay that she wasn’t even breathing hard. “I bet no one’s ever tried combining an aerobic workout with touring historical downtown. You’d have to get people to sign a waiver, though. So they won’t try to sue you if they collapse en route.”
She still didn’t answer. A light breeze swayed the gray clumps of Spanish moss like rags on a clothesline. It was getting colder. I shivered and pulled the collar of my jacket closer around my neck. I was glad I had it, but what about Lily? How in the world did she stay warm in the winter? Savannah has a temperate climate, generally not getting below freezing, but still… I eyed her outfit. I guess, wearing multiple layers helped make the winters bearable, but how did she cope during the long sweltering summers when it’s difficult to stay cool even with air conditioning? Minnie liked to say a person could sit—stark naked in the coolest shade he could find—and sweat like a mule eating briars. It had to be nearly unbearable with no place to escape the heat.
The sun had set, but it was still light enough to see her. Shrewd gray eyes stared at me, seeming out of place in a face made up of at least a thousand wrinkles. Her skin looked like a brown paper bag that had been wadded up, then smoothed out, over and over until it was soft. Maybe she wasn’t as old as she looked. The Savannah sun was cruel. Years of over-exposure, without the benefit of sunscreen, could fast-forward the aging process.
“Pay no mind to those who talk behind your back,” she stated without preamble. “It simply means that you are two steps ahead.”
The random, out-of-context words jolted me out of my revelry. “Uh…good one, Lily,” I responded, trying not to get freaked-out. Raymond had said not to worry about it, but normal people didn’t do that, did they? Was she schizophrenic? Was I putting myself at risk by being with her? I knew next to nothing about any kind of mental illness. I needed to Google it when I got home, just to be on the safe side. I gave a nervous laugh. “I guess you’ve been sharing these quotes for years. How many have you memorized?”
“It always seems impossible until it’s done.”
O-kaaay. Her quirky sayings would take some getting used to. There was a plus to all this, though. I hadn’t had a chance to be shy around her. I’d been too busy trying to keep up with her—both literally and figuratively. Good trade off, if you ask me.
It was the sudden silence that caught my attention. I’d already grown used to hearing the constant jingling of her hat’s bells. Not hearing them felt strange to my ears. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“Why must there be something wrong?”
I gave an unladylike snort. “Well, for one thing, you’re not jingling. But more importantly…you just answered a question with a real answer. One that makes sense. One that I didn’t have to stop and mull over and get all deep and philosophical before figuring out the relevance.”
Did I really see what I thought I saw? Was that a smile tickling the corners of her mouth? A real smile? Before I could ask her about it, her eyes hardened. “Tell me,” she demanded.
“T-tell you what?”
“What you want.”
I briefly considered pretending I didn’t know what she was talking about, but felt that would insult her intelligence. She might be crazy, but she certainly wasn’t dumb or oblivious. She’d known I was following her the whole time. I was suddenly sure of it.
I took a deep breath and blew it out. Here goes nothing… “I-I’d like you to model for me.” There was no sense beating around the bush. Lily didn’t seem like the type of person who’d appreciate that sort of thing.
She didn’t say anything, but her demeanor didn’t shut down, either. That was a good sign, right? She didn’t immediately refuse or get up in a huff and leave. Not yet, at least.
I hurried to explain. “Here’s the story. I’m a senior fine art major at SCAD and I have an important assignment to do over the holidays. The problem is…everyone has left campus, headed home for Christmas. I don’t really have anyone I could ask—”
“The only people you need in your life are the ones who need you in theirs,” she interrupted, her
eyes never breaking contact with mine.
What was that supposed to mean? That she needed me? Doubtful. That I needed her? Well, yeah…I needed her for this project, of course. Did I need her for more? No! No way! How could she know that I was a loner? That it was difficult for me to make friends because I wouldn’t open up, wouldn’t allow myself to need anyone? She couldn’t know that asking for her help with this project was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, could she?
Whoa! Get a grip, Cleo.
I was definitely reading too much into her comment. She couldn’t know that. For heaven’s sake, I’d never even seen her before today, though how I could’ve missed that hat around town was a mystery to me. I pressed my lips together into a straight line and studied her through narrowed eyes. Her expression gave nothing away. Could she really be that astute? I shook my head. No. Impossible. It was just a coincidence that her quote was so insightful.
I cleared my throat and curved my stiff lips into a smile. “Like I was saying, I’d love it if you could help me out. I could pay you if you’d like. You’d make the perfect model—fun to paint and all—and I’m sure we could come up with a story that you could tell. What do you say?”
“If Plan A fails, remember that you have twenty-five letters left.”