Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  Praise for

  WOO-WOO

  “Author Joe Coccaro offers an engaging story and interesting characters using charming prose and an intriguing otherworldly plot. Woo-Woo delivers both laughs and goosebumps. Get ready to be entertained.”

  —Dr. My Haley, Author of The Treason of Mary Louvestre and Collaborator on Pulitzer Prize-winning Roots

  “Joe Coccaro employs the same quality prose as Richard Russo in telling the story of Carter Rossi’s adventures. This is a really great story, and more than that it is a world you are reluctant to leave when you turn the last page.”

  —Amazon Bestselling Author William Hazelgrove, Author of The Pitcher

  “Woo-Woo captures the essence of an isolated beach community and the colorful people who live there. The added elements of a rambling ghost and a bit of romance make for a fun and satisfying read.”

  —Kathy Merlock Jackson, Professor of Communication and Editor of The Journal of American Culture

  Woo-Woo:

  A Cape Charles Novel

  by Joe Coccaro

  © Copyright 2017 Joe Coccaro

  ISBN 978-1-63393-554-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  You can’t depend on your eyes when your

  imagination is out of focus.

  ­—Mark Twain

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Cape Charles, Virginia, exists, but the characters and events described herein were conceived from speculative wonderment. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.

  For the free spirits who call Cape Charles home.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CARTER ROSSI EASED the U-Haul onto Tyler Lane, careful to avoid a stray cat leaping over the torrent that flowed into the street gutter. He tapped the brakes to park by the concrete curb and disturbed a stew of leaves and sticks that had fallen from the street’s canopy of sycamore and gum trees. The black edge of the thunderhead that had just dumped its load now roiled over the Chesapeake Bay, a few blocks away from where Carter sat. He stared out his window as it flashed and boomed like black-powder cannons at war.

  A colorful arc emerged in the storm’s wake, teasingly at first with dim shades of orange, yellow, and red, then bursting into a full bloom of greens, blues, and indigo. A rainbow. How cool. Carter grinned.

  Like most of the other streets in the twenty-seven-block checkerboard of old Cape Charles, Tyler Lane had dips, twists, and gullies that became ponds after downpours. Water needs gravity, and Cape Charles had too much of one and barely enough of the other. The town was as flat as the Bay it bordered, less than ten feet above sea level at its crest and a few inches below in divots. Like rain, wind reigned over this patch of earth, terrorizing and vengeful at times.

  Much of the town had been marsh until developers in the ’20s and ’30s, and the railroad, drained it and then compacted the soupy mud with coal cinders, crushed oyster shells, old bricks, and other debris. That “fill” had compressed over decades, and most of the houses built on it, like Carter’s small foursquare, sagged from uneven settling. If human, Carter’s old house would be in serious need of a back brace. He had worried about that when he first looked at the 1920s three-bedroom bungalow, but his real estate agent had seemed nonchalant.

  “If you were a hundred years old, you’d be leaning and have some cracks too,” the agent told Carter weeks ago. “Everything leans ’round here—even the people.”

  Carter stepped down from the moving van and onto the street, unconcerned about dunking his Keen sandals into the mild torrent. It was almost summer, after all, and the rainwater rivaled the air temperature. If he were a boy, he’d be knee deep with joy, soaking himself and friends. If a teen, he’d be walking hand in hand with his love, splashing in the puddles to wet her shorts and T-shirt, and then figuring some plan to slip them off.

  Carter tilted his head a few degrees to level his eyes with his slightly leaning abode. At least the roof was good, and the yard seemed dry. Leaves the size of a catcher’s mitt carpeted the approach to his front steps. One cat, then another, sprang from the lilac bush by the front stoop, both looking wet, mangy, and guilty. A dead robin, wings torn off and beak bloodied, lay matted and muddy.

  “Get! Go on.” Carter motioned at the murderous felines.

  About two blocks from where Carter stood, a ten-foot wall of sand dunes pocked with brown grasses provided reassurance. The dunes were like a wall protecting the town from the Bay’s angry moods. They’re doing their job, he thought. Even so, he felt wise to have purchased flood insurance. His old brick home had a basement, and in Cape Charles anything less than sea level got swamped—eventually.

  Carter turned and looked in the opposite direction. One block up the street was Oyster Park. His house sat equidistant from the beach and the park—a block and a half in each direction. Kids emerged from the park’s covered performance stage, jostling and laughing. Boys got soaked and the girls stayed dry. Further evidence that girls are smarter than boys, Carter quipped to himself. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, he saw two boys hustling toward him, hair matted and looking no better than the dead robin by his feet.

  “You Mr. Rossi?”

  “You bet,” Carter said. “And you are?”

  “I’m Jed, and this here is Elroy, but you can call him Roy. Aunt Hattie said you was movin’ in today and might could use some help, sir.”

  Aunt Hattie? “Oh, you mean the real estate lady? Heather Savage?”

  “Yes sir. She’s my aunt, on my dad’s side. Her real name is Heather, but she don’t like that cuzin’ it sounds too girly. Least that’s what she says. My aunt’s kinda tough; grew up on a farm out in the county, up the road by Machipongo. Dad says she could chop a chicken’s head off with a pen knife and gut a deer in ninety seconds. Skin one in less than thirty minutes too.”

  “Good thing I didn’t ask her to cut her commission,” Carter said.

  After a few seconds of thinking, the boys laughed. “Nah, she ain’t like that—once you get to know ’er,” Jed said.

  “Well, boys, sounds like you want to make a few bucks. How ’bout sixty each to empty the truck and carry in the furniture and the heavy boxes? It’ll save me a trip to the chiropractor.”

  The boys’ eyes swelled, and Jed stuck out his hand for a shake. “Sixty bucks! Thank you, sir. Deal!” He went on, “You know, we got one of those in town.”

  “One of what?” Carter asked.

&nbs
p; “A chiroproctor, you know, somebody who fixes backs and stuff. She lives over there.” Jed pointed to a blue Victorian across the street. “Aunt Hattie sold ’er that house. Auntie and her company sells just ’bout everything ’round here. Been doing it a long time. Took over the business from her daddy. The Savages go way back ’round here, oldest family in the county, not includin’ the Indians, if you know what I mean.”

  “Good to know your aunt has deep roots and lots of connections in case I get in trouble and need to sell,” Carter said. He pointed to the chiroproctor’s house. “Nice porch. Love the red trim and purple gables. People like their crazy colors in this town. That house doesn’t look like it leans much either, at least not as bad as this old girl.”

  “Yeah, people like their porches ’round here,” Jed said. “Yours don’t lean too bad. Seen lots worse. Cud use some paint on the trim, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, she needs lots of cosmetics,” Carter said. “You boys been waiting long for me to show up?”

  “Kinda. Aunt Hattie said you’d be movin’ in today. We was just hangin’ round playin’ soccer in the park. Roy here is sweet on one of the girls. He was showin’ off his muscles when the thunderboomers rolled in. Not much else to do ’round here ’cept chase the girls and fish.”

  Carter looked from Jed to Roy and noticed Roy eyeing him. But Roy never said a word. He wasn’t a talker.

  “Chasing girls and fishing. Kinda the same thing, don’t you think?” Carter said, winking at Roy. “Everyone make it through the storm okay? Seemed pretty violent and loud.”

  “Ever’body scattered like flies when the light’nen started,” Jed said. “One boy got ’lectracuted in the park last summer. Burned his left ear. He don’t hear er speak so good no more. Course, he didn’t talk too good before he got ’lectracuted either.”

  “Sounds like you get some violent storms then,” Carter said.

  “Sometimes. But the one that came through today weren’t nothin’ special. Just noisy is all,” Jed said. “We get ’em like that a couple times a week in summer. One threw off a tornader that ’bout leveled a campground across the creek last summer. A buncha people got hurt; killed a little Asian boy. Pine trees over there snapped like twigs and fell on the kid’s camper. These’ins are pretty sturdy.” Jed pointed to a large sycamore in front of Carter’s yard. “But you might oughta get some of them branches trimmed. I know somebody with a chainsaw and long ladder.”

  “Paint the porch and trim the tree. Good advice,” Carter said. He eyed the tree’s spindly tentacles that looked like the arms and legs of a person with severe arthritis. “You guys ready to get started?”

  Carter walked up the nine steps to his covered porch and opened the front door. The boys followed him inside. The house looked smaller than Carter remembered, and bleaker. Only 1,600 square feet, not including the basement. The place was empty, stripped of everything but faded wallpaper and bent curtain rods. The floors were decent, though, except in the kitchen. It was covered with faded and stained linoleum tile from the ’80s.

  “Place is nice, but looks like it needs some cleanin’ up. You know, me and Roy here does some paintin’ and yardwork. I’m just sayin’.”

  “Yeah, this is gonna be a project,” Carter said.

  It occurred to Carter that the house, on the outside and in, looked sad. It felt that way too—forlorn, like an abandoned child. Hattie had told Carter the demeanor of 205 Tyler Lane was the byproduct of a nasty divorce; the couple had only lived in it a few years. Enthusiastic at first, they had pumped every discretionary cent into support beams in the basement, new plumbing, and upgraded electrical panels. By the time they got to the cosmetic stuff, the marriage had cracked under financial stress and emotional neglect.

  “These walls have heard some hate,” Hattie had said when first showing Carter the house.

  “Well, at least nobody was murdered. At least it isn’t haunted.” Carter had laughed.

  “Hah! They’s all haunted.” Hattie had smiled and winked. “If you hear footsteps in the night, don’t fret. Cape Charles’ ghosts mostly keep to themselves. Most just wander ’round like they’re lost. Sometimes they taunt ya, I’m guessing ’cause they’re bored.”

  “Oh great!” Carter had huffed. “Shouldn’t there be some kind of legal disclosure about houses for sale being haunted, kinda like disclosures of asbestos or lead paint?”

  “You can prove asbestos and lead is there, but t’aint nobody I know who can prove a house got spirits. Besides, don’t take all this woo-woo stuff ’round here too serious.”

  “Woo-woo?”

  “Yeah, spirits, supernatural stuff like that. Anyways, the way I see it, the town must be a pretty nice place, ’cause the dead seems to like stickin’ ’round.”

  “Touché! Never thought about it that way. Maybe the town should put that in its tourist brochure: Cape Charles, a town so great you’ll never want to leave.”

  “Dang. That’s pretty good, honey. Gil said you was smart.”

  “Gil! You know that SOB, huh?”

  “Shoot, everybody knows Gil. His pub is the town in the winter. Gil Netters is the only place to get a burger or a beer and be among the living in January, February, and March. Lights off every place else . . . a real ghost town come winter.”

  “Well, Hattie, don’t believe a word Gil says about me.”

  “Trust me, I don’t! Gil’s pub is rumor central, and he’s the orchestra conductor. Gil trades gossip with customers like penny stocks. Keeps people coming into the pub. He’ll pour someone a double shot to get ’em blabbing. Mostly though, people volunteer their thoughts and opinions without much goading, ’specially lately. Been getting nasty with this crazy election.”

  “Yeah. Seems like this election is bringing out the worst in everyone.”

  “People is pretty fed up or fired up,” Hattie had agreed. “Saw Mr. Grimes from Eastville push old man Standish off his barstool two weeks ago. They was arguing about Obamacare or welfare or something stupid. Mr. Grimes don’t like the president ’cause he is, well, you know . . . Anyway, old man Standish called Mr. Grimes an ignorant dirt farmer and a racist. Don’t never call Mr. Grimes ignorant. He clocked old man Standish. He went down hard and cracked his hip on Gil’s brick floor. Old man Standish lay on his side screaming that he was gonna sue. Gil nearly pissed himself.”

  “Did he sue?”

  “No, not yet anyway. Funny thing is, Mr. Grimes and old man Standish is first cousins; their mommas are sisters. I suspect their mommas will work things out between them in private. I’m guessing old man Standish will be drinking free whiskey at the pub for a while too. People have their own ways of settling things ’round here. These sorts of things make for great entertainment and even better gossip—better than cable TV, right?”

  “Much better. So, what was the gossip about the previous owners of my new place?”

  “The husband was a merchant mariner and sometimes at sea for months, and his wife was skinny, pretty, and lonely. Catch my drift?”

  Hattie had then clicked off a string of rumors like a defense lawyer summing up a case to a jury. Rumor: The crew kept a couple of Russian escorts comfortably on board. Rumor: The wife got lonely and started in with a golf instructor, a guy eight years younger. Rumor: Ex-husband slashed the convertible roof on the golf instructor’s Mustang. Rumor: The husband has a child somewhere with a Russian first name. Rumor: The wife made a selfie porn video after the divorce and sent it to the ex-husband.

  “A real shame. Nice couple when they first moved here. I sold them the place. But women in their thirties get bored, ’specially ’round here, ’specially with their husbands gone. There weren’t nothin’ romantic ’bout her messin’ with that pimple-face preppy kid teaching golf at the Seabay Club. Boredom and hormones is a raging stew. Women got their needs, same as men. That kid just accommodated her needs, I suppose.”

  “What about the rumors about the guy? True?”

  “Can’t prove nothin�
��, so it don’t matter, really. My daddy once told me that rumors are what folks believe to be true, and truth is feed corn of all good rumors.”

  “Profound! Was your daddy a philosopher?”

  “Nope. Raised pigs and chickens and sold real estate, just like me. Honestly, I think raising pigs for slaughter is cleaner than selling houses. Makes you more philosophical too. You see the world in simple terms.”

  “You’re scaring me, Hattie. A town full of ghosts, hurtful rumors, and pig killers. Not sure I see the charm.”

  “Nothin’ to worry about, honey. Truth is, if you live year-round in Cape Charles and people ain’t rumoring about you, then you need some spice in your life. Gil down at the pub will see to it that plenty of folks is rumoring about you. And, if you see a ghost, take a picture. It’ll make your property value go up.”

  ***

  Carter lifted another box from the moving van and smiled as he thought about Hattie’s grit and candor—and a rumor mill run amok. Who needs Twitter in a town like this?

  Inside, he took a water break and a few minutes to take some measurements in the hall entrances and doorways. He spread a few tarps over the golden pine slats, each with waves of grain, groves still tight and straight. Old pine, hard pine. None of that bamboo crap.

  “Okay, fellas. What do you say we get the big stuff moved in first upstairs? I want to get my bed set up. I figure we got about three hours before sunset.”

  After a couple of hours, about half the moving van was emptied and the trio took a break to cool off. The wind had calmed, and the saturated air had expanded in the ninety-degree afternoon sun. Carter removed a Rolling Rock from a small cooler he had set on the porch. Sweat immediately beaded on the green bottle.

  “You boys old enough to drink?”

  “Yup. We can drink, so long as we don’t get caught,” Jed piped. “But I ain’t so worried about that. Uncle Chip’s the police chief in town. And my cousin Smitty’s the sergeant. They’d smack us upside the head beforin’ they’d arrest us. Dad was a drunk. Dead now, though. They keep warnin’ about him and drinkin’.”