Saturday, June 25, 1977
Saturday is here and Billy is not a bit of help with my nerves. I go over to his house in the morning, trying to distract myself from the upcoming event, but he’s not useful. He says stuff like, “Shit man, you better brace for impact” or “Shit… I mean… shit!”
It’s Billy’s usual “shit” laden phrases that just add to my sense of impending doom.
I catch him up on Lionel and tell him about Big Ed.
“How do we do it?” I ask. “I mean, how do we find out enough about this dead guy to reconstruct his life? To understand his friends. To figure out who killed him.”
Billy is silent for a long time and looks thoughtful. Hard work for him. “Maybe we don’t have to,” he finally says.
We’re in his messy room and I’ve been browsing issue 189 of the Incredible Hulk in which he battles the Mole Man. “Huh?”
“Well,” he says with a shrug. “The ghost is gone, he disappeared. Maybe all he needed was for someone to care, for someone to know he’s a ghost. Maybe that completed his mission on planet Earth and he got to go…” Billy trails off with an odd look on his face as he bites his lip.
He grabs a couple comic books and holds them up one at a time: Fantastic Four, Spiderman, Superman. “This stuff… I love it, but I know it’s not real. Radioactive spiders or gamma rays don’t impart superpowers.”
“Yeah…” I say, not having a clue where he is going.
He roots around his “treasure chest.” It’s really just a couple of cardboard banker boxes, but it’s where he keeps his collectable comic books. It’s the one area of his life where he is neat and orderly. He pulls out a copy of issue number 2 of Ghosts comic book. It’s got an illustration of a scuba diver and chest of gold with a Spanish conquistador ghost attacking. “This, I know is fiction. Made up stuff. Right?”
I nod my head.
“But you… you saw a ghost. You and Helena proved it was real. And that… well that…” he trails off again, carefully putting away the collectable he got out and then flopping on his bed.
I kind of see where he’s going with this. Lionel calls into question what’s real and what isn’t. But I know I’m still missing something. “Where do you think Lionel went?”
I’m on the floor and he peers at me from his bed, pulling a big pillow under his chest. “I was going to say heaven, or maybe hell. But shit, Aaron. What does this mean? There’s a freaking ghost who wants you to solve his murder. There’s not supposed to be any ghosts!” He gets up again and roots around in the corner of his room. It’s a stack of paper and books—I wonder how he can find anything.
He comes back and sits down on the floor next to me. He’s got the Bible and the Book of Mormon. “No ghosts in here, only the Holy Ghost.”
“No?” I ask, I wouldn’t know.
He slowly shakes his head. Billy has been raised Mormon, it’s a big part of his life—not a part I share, but a big part. For him, Lionel raises different questions than he does for me. Billy may be a slob, girl obsessed, and rather compulsive in his use of his favorite expletive, but he’s got his faith. It has grounded him in ways that I have often wondered at.
“Shit, man,” I say. “I’m sorry, bro.”
“And it’s not like I can go talk to a deacon or someone about this. They’d just think I’m crazy.”
I nod, but don’t know what else to say. Billy believes me, that I am really seeing a ghost, and Billy believes in his religion which doesn’t allow for ghosts. Shit.
“So…” I begin. “I’m gonna do as you say. I’m just going to leave it alone unless he shows backs up and…” I don’t want to continue. I thought this would be the kind of adventure Billy would be all over, but I didn’t factor in his faith.
He nods and is about to say something more when the twins open the door and come in. Billy growls at them and chases them downstairs. I quietly let myself out.
I’m out front of our house when Helena arrives. I don’t work the bookstore on the weekends usually, my dad has employees for that, so after Billy, I was home doing my mother’s bidding for hours. There was nothing more to do, and my mother was still fussing, so I snuck out front and sat on the steps.
My breath catches when I see Helena walking towards the house. It’s about six, the sun is still pretty high this time of year, the air hot. She’s a ways off, but still leaves an impression wearing a powder blue sundress with her hair pulled back. I’ve never seen her in a dress before.
I’m no poet, but to say she is beautiful is like saying the sun is hot. It just doesn’t begin to describe it. Even in the dress she’s got that confident, boyish walk. Or, maybe boyish is the wrong way to describe it. It’s a confident, direct walk. Like she knows where she’s going, knows who she is, knows what’s going on. If you saw me walk that way—not that I really can— you might call me cocky.
I stand and start walking towards her, a huge grin on my face.
“Hey,” I say as I meet her two doors down from our house. “Ready for the epically awkward extravaganza?” I ask.
The evening light catches in the golden brown of her eyes and I never want to look away.
She shrugs. “Can’t be that bad, Wade. It’s just food and your parents.” She pauses, looking at me, her smile has gone nervous. “It can’t be, can it?”
“Truth?” I ask.
She purses her lips and nods.
“They are worried that I’m going to get hurt. They know about your mother and wish that I had made friends with a less ‘complicated’ girl. They want to check you out for themselves.”
She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, Christ. I should have known.”
“Sorry—” I begin, but cut myself off. Her face has gone hard and she stands up straight and squares her shoulders.
“I don’t break easily,” she says. “I can handle this.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “For you, Wade, I can handle this.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder, gently turning me around, and we head for the house. I go docilely. I can barely think. For me she can handle it… for me!
I know we’re in trouble as soon as I catch my mom’s face. My mouth is open, about to introduce Helena, but Mom’s mouth is open too and her eyes are wide. Her hands are clenched in front of her white apron, which is covering her light pink dress.
I look at Helena and back to my mother. Helena’s not wearing any makeup, but she looks way more woman than girl. My guess is that is what has stymied my mother.
The silence is thick and awkward. I want to speak but can’t.
“You must be Helena,” my father says, stepping in from the living room, his hand outstretched. “I am Henry, and this is my wife Laura.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Wade,” Helena says as she shakes my father’s hand. “Thank you for inviting me over, Mrs. Wade,” she says to my mother, stepping past me and shaking my mother’s hand.
And then it’s like the spell has broken. Helena asks something about the drapes (they’re blue, and block the light, that’s about all I know) and my mother relaxes and launches into the story of how much she went through to get them just right. They move off to the living room.
My father pulls me into a side hug and says, “Relax. We just want to get to know her.”
Things go pretty well, all civil and the like, until we are out in the backyard eating. We’ve got a picnic table in the middle of the yard, not far from the swing set. The sun is getting low and it’s still warm.
“So,” my mother begins, “how did you two meet?”
I nearly choke on the piece of steak I’m trying to swallow. The question is troubling in two ways. I can’t exactly tell them how we met, and even worse, it’s the kind of clichéd question you ask a couple and I should have seen it coming.
My father, who is sitting next to me, slaps me on the back and I am able to resume normal swallowing. Helena smiles at me from across the ta
ble and says, “Why don’t you tell them.”
The world suddenly seems small. I am not a practiced liar by any means. I mean, I got pretty good at lying about how bad I felt when I was sick or during chemo. But not about normal, everyday things.
“We met at the graveyard,” I say, my head nodding towards the west. It just kind of slipped out.
My mother goes kind of pale. I wonder if she remembers that incident when I was a kid and saw those ghosts.
My father clears his throat. “Really?”
I nod, feeling my face flush. Since the truth is tumbling out I decide to stick with it, mostly. “I was over visiting Uncle Don’s grave.” I pause, looking at both of my parents. “I miss him sometimes, you know.”
They nod, both looking at me intently.
“Helena here was going by on Main Street in distress. I helped her out.”
Helena nods, a small smile creeping onto her face.
“Distress?” my mother asks, still looking at me.
“Yes, distress,” I say. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to share more.”
“It’s okay,” Helena says. “I was having trouble with a boy not hearing me clearly, if you know what I mean.” She looks pointedly at my mother. “Aaron was kind to me.” She shrugs. “Frankly, most boys our age aren’t as thoughtful or considerate as your son is.”
There’s silence then. I’m blushing, I know I am, but my parents seem satisfied. And it’s the truth, except we left the part out about how it happened in the middle of the night. I catch my dad’s eye and it’s clear he knows, but my mother doesn’t and seems satisfied.
The rest of the evening goes pretty well, if moderately embarrassing, until the summer sun is finally getting down to the horizon and it’s starting to get dark. We’re still sitting at the picnic table, a few candles lit for illumination. My parents have been grilling Helena on what she wants to do with her life—turns out she’s not really sure—when I see him. Lionel.
He’s standing in front of our wooden privacy fence. It’s six feet tall and measuring him against it I can tell he’s an inch or two taller. He looks kind of dim, but there is no doubt that it is him.
I’m staring, I must be, because my father follows my gaze and asks, “Raccoon? That damn thing is not back, is it?”
“Oh, Henry,” my mom begins. “Please don’t say it. It ate through half of my flower bed the last time it was here.”
Both of them leap up. My father to go get a flashlight, my mother grabs a broom and moves towards the bed of flowers (jonquils, pansies, and peonies) as if ready to defend it.
Helena is watching wide eyed when I lean over and whisper, “Lionel.”
Her eyes get even wider and she turns around and follows my gaze to the fence. “What does he want?” she whispers when she turns back around.
I shrug. “No clue.”
My father’s back out with a big bright flashlight sweeping it over the backyard. “What did you see, son?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just thought I saw something.”
The raccoon search goes on for about ten minutes more before we all move inside. It’s after eight and Helena says, “Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Wade. I really should get going. My father will be off work soon and I’d like to be there when he gets home.”
My mother’s mouth opens as Helena talks, but when she gets to the part about her father, it closes and she nods.
“It’s been a delight,” my father says, shaking her hand.
“Walk me out?” Helena asks me, which I gladly do.
We walk in silence until we’re a couple of houses away. “Is he still here?” she asks.
I nod. Lionel is walking in the street to the right of me.
“Can you ask him if he really wants us to solve his murder?”
“He’s nodding yes,” I say.
“Why?” she asks.
Lionel’s talking, but I still can’t hear him and it’s not one simple word, so I can’t tell what he is saying. He ends up looking up and shaking one hand. “You want to…” I begin, the thought suddenly not sitting well with me and I’m having a big jolt of empathy for Billy. “You want to go to heaven?”
He beams at me and nods.
“He’s stuck here?” Helena asks.
“Looks that way,” I say after seeing Lionel smile and shake his head enthusiastically.
Helena sighs and looks around. “This is… Damn. I’m sorry, Wade, but I really do have to go.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“But, keep asking him questions, see if you can figure out who might have wanted to kill him.”
“Okay,” I say again.
“We have to help him, don’t we?”
I slowly nod and look at Lionel who has a pleading look on his face. “We have to.”
“God, Wade, you are one weird kid,” Helena says with a small laugh.
“And you’re one fascinating woman,” I reply as she turns and walks away.
“Monday under the tree?” she calls back. “Where we will dive further into this mystery.”
15
Sunday, June 26, 1977
Lionel Malak was a business owner, never married, had a few close friends, and went to church religiously, but was in no way devout. He lived in a little house on 900 West, south of the university, that he owned free and clear, having paid it off with a small inheritance he received when his favorite uncle died. His mother is alive and living in Las Vegas, and his father died of a heart attack a few years before he was murdered.
Taking Big Ed’s advice, I decide to try to understand who Lionel was. So, after Helena leaves, I go back in and tell my parents I’m tired and want to go to bed. They don’t object—they probably think this is some kind of “moody teenager” event.
Lionel follows me, and once upstairs it takes me a while to figure out a way to gather this information. Twenty questions is in order, but I can’t exactly be up there all night talking. The folks would begin to wonder. So, I get a flashlight, turn off the lights, get out a school notebook and start writing down yes/no questions and writing down his answers.
Do you know who killed you? NO.
Any idea who might want to? NO.
Did you have any enemies? NO.
I start this way but soon become bored with it. Lionel seems to have no idea who would have a motive, so I change tack and try to piece together a picture of him.
And while asking all these questions, I watch him. How he moves, how he reacts to the questions, what is surprising and what is not. You know, detective stuff.
As I go along, I transfer everything into my diary and tear up the plain paper I write questions on in plain English and throw them away.
Lionel’s life was his shop and his work. Something I understand pretty well from my father, and from knowing I’d be happy as a clam to run that little bookstore. Not that I have any idea why clams are so happy.
Lionel only had few friends, but they were close ones. There are three. Two men and one woman. I don’t have their names yet, but I think that is going to be next. I need to know who these people are, find an excuse to go talk to them. Maybe they will know something.
While I don’t know these people’s names, I do know that one of them is not Paul Durr, the man the police questioned. Paul was a client, one of many. Lionel didn’t know why they would have suspected him, but I did find out that Paul was in the shop shortly before the murder.
All of this took hours to drag out of him. I eventually fall asleep propped up on my bed.
I have strange dreams. I’m Lionel in my little shop, happy as the proverbial clam, working an old-fashioned printing press. The kind with metal letters you have to work manually, an old movable type press. Roll on the ink. Put in the paper. Press it down. Take the paper out.
In the dream, I find it strangely satisfying. It’s mundane work but I’m creating something. Building something.
I wake with a st
art to the smell of roses. My mother is in my room. She’s got my diary and is trying to read it.
Her brow is all furrowed as she flips through pages. I rub at my eyes and swallow, my mouth dry and I’ve got super bad morning breath—even I can smell it. I blink, trying to get my eyes into focus.
“What is this?” she asks, looking at me and holding up the diary. She’s in a bright pink robe that in my condition is hard to look at.
“Private,” I say. If I had been more awake, I probably would have been more tactful, but I don’t appreciate her snooping.
Her lips form a tight line and quiver a touch. “What language is this written in?”
“English.”
“This isn’t English. Aaron, what is this?”
I am grateful for the forethought to encrypt my diary. It was such a pain at first, but if I hadn’t… well, she’d probably know way more than would be good for me at this point.
I swing my legs over my bed and sit there staring at her. She’s clearly freaked out, and as I write this now, I can kind of see it. But not right then. Looking back, I think I was definitely having a “moody teenager” event fueled by lack of sleep.
“It’s private, Mom. What are you doing in my room? It’s Sunday morning.” In general, I’m allowed to sleep in during the weekends.
She looks at me again and crosses her arms awkwardly because she’s still got my diary open in one hand. “I… You…” she stammers and rushes out.
In the shower, as I wake up, I remember that I had offered to go to church with Mom. Shit. I rush through and run back into my room and put on some decent clothing. Some nice corduroys and a white button-down shirt. I’ve got a tie, and think about putting it on, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
When I run downstairs, my mom is gone. It’s just my dad sitting at the kitchen table, reading his paper. I see my diary on the table as well as the remnants of breakfast. The smell of scrambled eggs makes my stomach rumble.
A Boy a Girl and a Ghost Page 10