A Boy a Girl and a Ghost

by Robert J. McCarter

  She takes it in quietly, nodding occasionally, asking for details a few times. She’s not this wall of coolness like my dad. I can see emotions pass across her face: surprise at the timing of Lionel’s death and Ann’s sister’s death; revulsion when describing the details of his murder; happiness when I talk about Helena; fear when it’s all over.

  “You’re scared,” I say.

  She snorts, it’s almost a laugh. “Of many things, son.”

  “Of this?”

  She shakes her head. “Not really. As long as you aren’t out there accusing people of murder, I’m not too worried.”

  I don’t believe her. “Mom…”

  “Okay. I’m worried. But I still think it’s better this way.” She’s quiet for a moment and then asks, “Is Lionel here?”

  I do my closed and covered eye thing and look around the kitchen. I catch a flash of light out of the corner of my eye by the stove. “Is that you, Lionel?” I ask, and the light moves. I open my eyes. “He’s right there.” I point at our white Whirlpool stove.

  She bites her lips, takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and starts addressing the stove. “Hello, Lionel. I am sorry for what happened to you. We met a few times, but I don’t know you well, so I don’t know how you’re going to take this.”

  She pauses and I’m just agog. Really. My mother is talking to a ghost. Holy Shit.

  “I appreciate your need to have peace. To understand why you were killed. But listen to me now. This is my boy you have enlisted to help you.” Her southern accent is starting to slide back in. “My boy. He is the most important thing in my life. If this thing you two are doing puts him in danger… if he is hurt… Well, I will hold you responsible for that. And, believe me, just because you are a ghost doesn’t mean that I won’t find a way.”

  She slowly rises and walks out the sliding glass door, grabs her garden gloves, and starts weeding the herb garden with a fierceness that scares me.

  Helena’s silent on the other end of the line. I hear the click of a lighter and then a deep inhale.

  “Well?” I ask.

  She laughs, but it’s a quiet, dry thing. “It’s official,” she says. “I love your mother.”

  I laugh with her and feel warm inside remembering what she said to Lionel. “She’s pretty great, isn’t she?”

  “That she is.” She’s quiet for a bit and I hear her heavy inhalations as she smokes. “So, I guess I should tell you what I have planned for Wednesday, so you can keep her in the loop.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was going to be a surprise, but…”

  “The suspense is killing me,” I say.

  “Please don’t talk like that,” she says, her tone suddenly serious.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “You said, ‘the suspense is killing me.’ That last part is just an expression, I know. But damn it, Aaron, it felt like someone punched me in the gut when you said it.”

  I take a breath to defend myself when I remember what my mother said. Women—your Helena for one—express their emotions more often and with greater strength. “Sorry,” I say, and I am. “I sometimes forget there is an elephant in the room.”

  “A big fucking elephant that stinks and steps on everyone’s toes.”

  “Yeah… I know. Believe me, I do.”

  She’s quite again. “This whole thing scares the shit out of me, Wade.”

  I smile because I’m “Wade” again. “So, what about Wednesday?” I put some energy in my voice. I’m changing the subject, because I don’t want to go there right now.

  “Yeah, Wednesday,” she says, and I’m glad she’s going along with the shift. “Tell your mom I’m going to sweet talk your dad into letting me take you to the bakery. Good chance we’ll run into the Edwards. Public place, we’ll be safe.”

  34

  Wednesday, July 20, 1977

  My mother is laughing more. It’s a weird thing, we’ve got a secret. I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable with keeping this from my father, but I am enjoying the change in my mother.

  It’s not huge, she just seems happier, a little less tense. A while back when my father suggested I do something special for her, I thought I knew what he meant. Like bringing her lunch at work—that was a disaster—or going to church with her, which was nice but not like this. This is special. There’s a piece of my life, of me really, that I only share with her.

  I’ve had things like this with my dad for years. Like the pinewood derby which he’s helped me out with a few times. The bookstore—Mom doesn’t do much there, it’s more our thing. Books, for that matter, my mom reads but that passion I have for all things bookish came directly from my father.

  I still feel a bit of guilt over this, but every time I have a little private conversation with her and see the conspiratorial grin on her face, that guilt gets plowed down. I know she’s doing this to keep me safe, but this feels more like friendship and I really like that.

  Tuesday drags by. I’m well enough to work a shortened shift at the bookstore. Billy comes and hangs out and I fill him in. But it’s not until Wednesday’s shift when that little bell on the door rings and I look up to see Helena walking in that I feel good.

  My body has shucked off the worst effects of the chemo and I feel almost normal. Well, it’s rather my new normal at this point. Not much energy, a touch of nausea here and there, and that damn metallic taste in my mouth, but I’ll take it. “Normal” has definitely changed.

  “Good morning,” I say to her. “Welcome to Cedar Books and Such. We have the town’s best collection of books and other fine items. And if you are looking for anything related to Shakespeare, well, go no further. We’ve got the best selection in all of Southern Utah.”

  She laughs as she approaches and smiles broadly. There’s an older couple digging through the Shakespeare section and they look up briefly at our exchange, their brows furrowed.

  Helena looks beautiful. She’s got on a long taupe-colored skirt that flows around her tanned legs and above that a light-yellow blouse. It’s not the usual jeans and T-shirt outfit she’s worn most of the summer. Looking at what I can see of her legs, I’ve got to wonder why she doesn’t wear skirts more often (or shorts, for that matter).

  “You look great,” I say, meeting her smile with my own as she makes it up to the counter. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m celebrating,” she says.

  “What?”

  “My father got a raise at the warehouse. It’s not a lot, but it will definitely help us out.”

  “That’s great. So, you got to do some clothes shopping?”

  She twirls, the skirt picking up and I see her legs just past the knee. “Goodwill special,” she says. “You’d never know, though. They’re in great shape, practically new. I have no idea why someone would give them away.”

  I keep a smile on my face as I think of one big reason why someone would. Namely the former owner dying. Now, I know Helena doesn’t break easy, but I see no reason to dim her brightness, it makes me feel warm inside.

  “Is he here?” she asks, her tone low.

  I nod. “I talked to Lionel last night. He said he’d be with me all day.

  We chat and she helps me dust until my father comes in just before 2 p.m. and then she starts working her charm. It doesn’t take much really, she’s in such an effusive mode, how is a boy (or a man) to resist. We are soon off, walking towards the Sunrise Bakery. Helena grabs my hand as we walk and I feel…

  Oh my god, I can’t even explain it. Her hand is warm and a little bit rough. She gives my hand a good squeeze as we pass by where Lionel’s shop used to be—it’s a place that sells lotions and stuff now. I mean, I’m sure that for most boys my age, this wouldn’t be a big deal. But for me, it’s like the whole world has changed.

  Maybe it’s just a friendly gesture. Maybe she’s just in a great mood. I don’t care. I love it. I cherish the feeling as we walk together, hands clasped, down Cedar’s Main street in the hot
sun of a July afternoon.

  I just love it until we come across Tyson.

  He’s tall and wiry, taller than Helena and a lot taller than me. He’s got blond hair, down to his collar, long enough to attract disapproving looks from adults and whispers of “hippie,” although he doesn’t look like one. He’s got a motorcycle helmet under his arm and parked at the curb is a Kawasaki. I don’t know much about motorcycles, but it’s big and fancy with a black gas tank and gleaming chrome.

  “Hey, Hel,” he says, his voice deeper than it looks like it should be.

  That moment when she sees him is the moment she lets go of my hand. The day, suddenly, is not so bright. I hate that he calls her “Hel” instead of “Helena.”

  “Tyson,” she says, the smile gone from her face.

  “Is this little pipsqueak him?” he asks, his long chin gesturing to me. I’m scared. He’s bigger, a couple of years older, and isn’t currently having poison pumped into him once a week. But I want to get between Helena and him. I want to protect her.

  “Yes,” she says.

  He shakes his head and sighs. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Now I’m just mad. His eyes, a light blue color I’m sure girls would call “dreamy,” snap from Helena to me and back to Helena. I don’t like him. I seriously want to hurt him. I want to feel my fist connect with that sharp chin of his.

  Helena takes a breath and steps forward. “Go fuck yourself, Tyson.” He takes a step back, resting his gloved hand on the handlebar of the motorcycle. I don’t blame him. When Helena is mad… well, she certainly does express her emotion with “greater strength.”

  “You had your chance,” she continues. “More than one, I might add. But you tried to lock me down. You tried to control me. I…” There’s more, but she looks back at me, her brown eyes are practically sparking, and then back at him. She then takes a deep breath, walks back to me, grabs my hand, and drags me towards the bakery.

  This time, her hand in mine doesn’t feel the same, but I’ll take it none the same.

  Joe Edwards kind of looks like a baker. He’s got this puffy look to him like freshly risen bread. If I had to guess, it’s from eating too many of his wares. But I know enough about life to know that is a shallow assumption. I’ve been puffy, kind of like that before, and it was from steroids, not pastries.

  He’s got a little brass bell on his door, just like we do at the bookstore. He looks up from behind a glass display case full of pastries when we walk in and smiles. “How can I help you?”

  I’ve been in here before. I formally met him once with my father at a Chamber of Commerce mixer where people stand around eating finger food and blabbing. I can’t say that I liked it very much. I just don’t really have that much to say about “business.”

  “Do you have any coffee brewed?” Helena asks with a smile.

  Now that we’re here, this is not what I want to do. I want to talk to Helena about Tyson. I want to know the details. I don’t want to do this.

  “All day long,” he says. “For here or to go?”

  “Here is good.” She looks to me. “What do you want?”

  “Umm… tea if you have it. Peppermint would be good.” My stomach isn’t doing so good. I keep picturing Tyson, how tall he is, how old he looks, how he called me “pipsqueak.”

  “Coming right up,” he says. “Sit where you like.”

  There are three small tables at the front of the shop, most of it is taken up by the actual bakery, which you can see beyond the glass counter full of sweets, breads, and treats. It smells like bread and sugar, with a hint of something else—maybe vanilla. I like the scent of it, but rich food is generally not a good idea right now, I’m on the infamous chemo dieting plan.

  We sit at a round table, the chairs are padded and have twirling iron on the backrest. It reminds me a bit of that rocking chair in our living room. The one I seem to be always sitting in when it’s time for an uncomfortable discussion. Helena tosses me a smile, but I can see it’s forced. I’ve got to think she’s still feeling our recent encounter with Tyson.

  “Here you go,” he says bringing out our drinks in white ceramic coffee mugs. He’s got a white apron on with tan stains and traces of flower. He’s got big hands and short blond hair. I see a few traces of grey as he leans down. “Anything else I can do you for?”

  Helena looks at me pointedly. Now? She wants me to do this now?

  “Umm… Mister Edwards, I’m Aaron Wade,” I begin, swallowing hard, trying to get my head back in the game. “You might not remember me, but my father, Henry Wade, he runs the bookstore. This is my friend Helena.”

  Recognition lights up his face and he smiles. I relax a little, he’s got a great smile.

  “Yes, of course, it’s been a while. I owe your father a call about that swing set and I understand I have you to thank for that.”

  “Happy to help, Mister Edwards.”

  “So, what can I do for you, Aaron?”

  “I… I…” I stammer, then look to Helena. “We…” I just lose my whole train of thought. “Umm…”

  Helena smiles up at him. “Aaron here is a little shy to ask, but we could use your help on a school assignment?”

  He stands there, looking a bit uncomfortable and scratches his head. “School’s not for a few more weeks, right?”

  I feel my cheeks flushing. I don’t want Helena to do my talking for me, so I jump back in. “I’ve missed a lot of school from being sick. There’s something I need to get done this summer.”

  “Oh, okay. Hope it’s no math or anything. That I can’t help you with, but ask if you need to know anything about bread, I’m your man.”

  “It’s about… well…” I’m still all stammery, but at least I’m talking. “I’m doing kind of a biography of someone that you might have known.”

  His brow furrows. “Oh. Who?”

  “Lionel Malak.”

  The color drains from his face and he licks his lips and swallows. “Sad thing that. Horrible, really.”

  “It’s kind of a tribute,” I say. “We’re gathering people’s memories of him and I’m going to put them all together. It’s a tough assignment, but I’ve gotten so far behind in English.”

  He crosses his arms and sighs, looking back to the counter. There are no other customers in the bakery. “That was a bad time for us,” he says. By “us” I assume he is also referring to his wife Ann and the tragedies in her family. “But we’re getting past it all now. Finally. Lionel was my friend, I loved him like a brother, but I would appreciate you not talking to my wife about this.”

  “Do you have a few minutes to talk to us?” Helena asks.

  He glances back at the counter and with a sigh, sits down. He’s a big man and for a moment I’m sure it’s him, that he’s the murderer, and here we are alone in his store. I glance out the huge windows that front the store. The sun’s still shining out there and cars and people are moving by. Nothing will happen right here, I assure myself.

  “How well did you know Mister Malak?” I ask.

  “He was a brother to me. That’s how well I knew him. I miss him every day.” His eyes get a bit moist and I don’t feel threatened anymore.

  “What was he like?” Helena asks.

  “He wasn’t a simple man and he was mighty hard to get to know. He had this front he put up to all his customers. It was like pulling an eye tooth to get past it.” He pauses, his eyes defocusing as he stares out to the street. “It wasn’t me. It was Ann. We all met because of our businesses. We needed menus and business cards, he needed bread and loved our cupcakes. Ann was fascinated with him, but I couldn’t be bothered.”

  “What did she find fascinating?” I ask.

  “His sense of humor. It was so dry it might just blow away in the breeze like a maple leaf in fall. If you weren’t listening, you’d miss most of his jokes.” He smiles as he remembers. “Like this one time when I was over at his place picking up some flyers, and I thanked him, telling him they
were just what I needed. He looked back at me with the straightest damn face and said, ‘Well, Joe, I’m sure a man like you needs a lot.’“

  I’m just looking at him. If there was a joke, I missed it.

  “It sounded like ‘needs,’ but it was K-N-E-A-D-S. A man like me ‘kneads’ a lot. I’m a baker.”

  I laugh a little and so does Helena. It’s more of a pun than a joke.

  “It was the delivery. He said it like the most normal thing. It wasn’t until I was halfway back to the shop that I got it. I told Ann and she couldn’t stop laughing about it. She started doing ‘knead’ jokes with me all the time after that.” He scratches at his eyebrow where his skin has a dusting of flower. “That was about ten years ago. I think that’s where it all started. That stupid joke.” The smile on his face slowly fades until his puffy features are slack.

  “It’s such a shame what happened to him,” I say quietly.

  He nods, his face still sagging. “Sometimes life just keeps punching ya. It doesn’t give up. Doesn’t stop. You know what I mean?”

  I nod grimly. “I do.”

  “I bet you do, Aaron. How is your health, by the way?” It’s a small town, everyone knows everyone’s business.

  “I’m back in treatments,” I say. It’s really the most diplomatic way to tell someone your Cancer has come back.

  “Oh, hell… I’m so sorry. Really I am.”

  “Thank you, Mister Edwards, I appreciate that. You’ve given me some good stuff about Mister Malak. Can I ask you another question?”

  He nods but doesn’t answer. I can’t quite read his face. There’s sadness and agitation, but I’m not sure what else.

  “Do you have any idea who would want to hurt him?”

  His eyes narrow briefly as he looks at Helena and me, then they relax. “Not a clue. Not a one. Except for bad jokes, Lionel didn’t hurt no one. Not a soul. He’d even capture spiders and take them outside. He was one of the gentlest men I’ve ever known.” He yawns and stretches. “Well, I’ve got to finish up a few things. Been up since three, and I’ve got to get things ready to hand off to Alice, the lady that closes up for me.”