Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  “So, it was pretty hot, huh?” Gil said as he leaned forward and did his best Groucho Marx bouncy eyebrow.

  “Let me just say that I’m worn out—and hungry.”

  “How ’bout an early lunch—a lamb burger with extra bar fries and a Guinness, on me. The wine you never paid me for is on me too, but I still want my wineglasses back, you moron.”

  “You’re the nicest prick I know,” Carter said. “And don’t tell Jill about the girl, okay? I don’t want Sophie to know about my personal life, or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Jill’s gonna find out anyway, Sparky. She knows everyone on your block. By the sound of it, you and Little Miss Hot Ass probably kept the neighbors awake last night with your screams of ecstasy.”

  “I hope not, but we did have the windows open,” Carter said. “And she left her golf cart parked out front.”

  “Oh shit, Sparky. You’ll be reading about it in the newspaper by tomorrow. Guaranteed. I can see the headline now: Town Numbnuts Finally Grows a Pair.”

  “Good thing you make a great martini and own a bar, because you sure as hell ain’t a poet, my friend.”

  “You’re right. I was always better at chemistry than English.”

  ***

  Carter felt revived after the burger and fries hit his bloodstream. Lil cleared the booth and brought her boss and his best friend two spiked coffees. Lil looked thinner than Carter remembered—maybe because he usually only saw her from the waist up when standing behind the bar. Today, she looked less like a biker chick with buff arms and tattoos and more like a preppy college girl with a ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses. Or maybe a sultry librarian hiding beneath prudish clothes, a sexy ball of fire aching to be unleashed. She wore a navel-high, deep V-neck white T-shirt and blue jeans that hugged her hips without forming a crotch line.

  Carter always liked Lil’s North Carolina drawl and the contrast of her green eyes and black hair. She reminded him of his college sweetheart, the dancer with the perfect ass who had forever branded his psyche like a hot iron that marathon night of entangled bliss by the mountain lake. Privately, he and Gil called Lil “Wonder Woman” because she resembled actress Lynda Carter—tough yet inviting, a dominatrix.

  “Wonder Woman is looking good,” Carter said.

  “You noticed, huh?” Gil huffed. “She’s taking hot yoga and working out—all for you, dipshit. She swoons every time you come into the bar. She practically squirts when she talks to Jill about you.”

  “Get out of here, Gil. I’m like twenty years older than her.”

  “And that’s a problem? What are you, stupid? How many guys have a superhero lusting for them?”

  “You’re just messin’ with me. Lil is hot. She could have any guy in town.”

  “I know,” Gil said. “That’s what I told Jill. Damned if I know what she sees in you. Maybe she wants to spank you or hold you upside down or something. Probably likes you because there’s not a lot of options around here, I’m guessing. You’re fresh meat. Carpe diem, Sparky.”

  “And baciami il culo, Gil. I hope you and Jill have a good laugh, but not at my expense. Look, I got to ask you about the bar and this ghost stuff. Rose told me why she’s in town and what she does. It’s pretty weird. She thinks that a family member, a great aunt I think, died here and that the woman’s ghost is still hanging around. I’m connecting some dots, but I’m wondering if it’s the same ghost Lil was talking about.”

  “I told you I don’t like talking about that stuff,” Gil said, his mood getting tense. He lowered his voice. “Look, there is some weird stuff that happens around here, like I told you. I looked into it awhile back. I talked to the town historian, who said that this building burned up pretty bad back when it was a bank in 1920 or so. All but one bank employee got out, and two bodies were found in the vault—supposedly a man and a woman—but no one could identify the remains. The only other thing I heard was that the bank had been in Cyril’s family or that they were part owners. That’s all I know, and all I care to know.”

  “Well, that’s pretty close to what Rose already knew. But the confirmation will help. Would you mind talking to her about this?”

  “If it will help get you laid again,” Gil said. “But keep your mouth shut. I don’t want the staff freaking out, or the town. Mr. Frier will quit. He’s very superstitious. That’s why he hates snakes. And you heard Lil.”

  “I won’t say a word about the Gil Netters ghost if you don’t tell Jill about Rose and me. Deal?”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Sparky. You finally get a girlfriend, and she turns out to be some kind of freako. That’s just perfect. Another crazy bird lands in Cape Charles.”

  “Just keep an open mind. This ghost stuff could be good for business, Gil. Maybe we can conjure the spirit every Wednesday night and you could charge admission and sell T-shirts.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, don’t mess with this stuff. Better to leave it alone. You’ve heard the saying about letting sleeping dogs lie, right?”

  “Well, well. Who’s the wuss now? Maybe you need to grow a pair.”

  “I have a pair, and I like them just where they are—not slashed off and jammed down my throat. I’m telling you, be careful with this shit.”

  CHAPTER 12

  HATTIE SAVAGE SAT at her desk in the bay window of Savage Realty, just a few steps from Gil Netters and Bay Hardware on Mason Way. Like Gil Netters, Savage Realty was in a building that over its ninety years had had several incarnations. It had been a dress boutique, a bistro, a shoe repair store, and a dentist’s office. The Savage family had bought the building for next to nothing. One of the local banks was pulling up stakes after Cape Charles’ economy collapsed in the 1970s and unloaded its assets at fire-sale prices. Hattie’s uncle was on the bank board, and her daddy had scooped up about a half-dozen commercial properties for about twenty cents on the dollar.

  Hattie had a perfect vantage point from the bay window. She could see who was coming, going, and who had lunch with whom. She’d always pretend to be on the phone looking busy, but as soon as someone stepped through the office door her conversation would conveniently end. Men were “honey” and women “dear.” Her smile was as big as her voice, inviting, commanding, and joyful. She was a mixed breed—half-used car salesman and half-church deacon. And that’s how she dressed—bright pastels but below-the-knee conservative and always flat sandals—even in the winter. Her double-E wide feet had plenty of natural insulation.

  Hattie’s handshake was firm and reserved for people she had just been introduced to. Everyone else got a hug, except for Cyril, because he didn’t hug anyone. No hugs for his sidekick, Mac, either because he had once grabbed Hattie’s ass. She had spun like a professional wrestler and back-armed Mac into a rack of rubber waders and hip boots that cushioned the dirty old man’s fall. He’d been scared of her ever since, stepping off the sidewalk when he saw her coming. Privately, he called her “Momma Brahma.”

  “What brings you in here, stranger? Ready to sell already?” Hattie said, rising from her desk to give Carter a hug.

  “Let me guess. Today is a great day to sell a house,” Carter said.

  “Unless you’re buying. Cape Charles is hot right now,” Hattie said, followed by a belly laugh. “Come visit with me. Coffee?”

  “No, I’m good. Just had some lunch and an Irish coffee with Gil. People sure do start drinking early around here.”

  “Some consider it our national pastime.” Hattie laughed. “Not me. Not anymore. Got into trouble too many times. Alcohol makes you speak the truth, and nothing good can come from that. So what can I do ya for, honey?”

  “It’s about a girl, the one in town doing research about a lost family member.”

  “You mean that skinny chickie stayin’ on Neally’s boat with the old man. Cute girl. Him too. You have good taste. Heard you two had some fun last night.”

  “Christ! Already? Unbelievable.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. We was all rootin’ for you.
Glad you found your stride.” Hattie leaned over her desk and gave Carter a congratulatory tap on the shoulder. “So, how can I help you impress this young gal? Sounds like you rang her bell pretty good last night.”

  Carter spent the next ten minutes telling Hattie about Rose, Malcolm, their parascience, and Rose’s missing relative. Hattie sat expressionless, nodding and mumbling “uh-huh” as Carter tried to make sense of it all. She was as serious and sincere as a school guidance counselor listening to a sophomore confessing to unprotected sex.

  “So, I guess what I’m really wondering is whether all of this ghost stuff is real. People seem to joke about it on the surface, but when you start to ask serious questions, they get nervous. Gil nearly shit himself, told me not to mess around with the supernatural.”

  Hattie stiffened and sat upright in her swivel desk chair. She folded her hands on the desktop and fixed her green eyes on Carter’s pupils.

  “First off, I’ve never seen a ghost,” Hattie said. “Now, that may be because I don’t want to see one and because I’m agnostic about all of this woo-woo stuff—even religion. My daddy said that when we die, that’s it, we’re dead. If there’s some kind of life after death, then that’s a bonus. I subscribe to that notion, Carter. Takes the worrying out of life. I believe in doin’ all your livin’ while you’re vertical, with feet on the ground.”

  “Well, then how do you explain all the people who say they have seen spirits, or heard voices, or seen the Virgin Mary appear, or had a premonition about a relative being sick, or that they were reincarnated?”

  “Like I said, honey, I don’t dispute what people think they saw or heard, but I don’t claim it to be true either. When I talk about ghosts bein’ in town, I’m just makin’ conversation. The way I see it is that if you believe somethin’ happened, then it happened to you. Period. That simple. Sounds to me like this Rose lady has your mind in a knot—and maybe another part of you too. You seem pretty levelheaded. What did you two do last night, besides you know? Did you have a séance?”

  “It’s not like that, Hattie. She’s more of a scientist. I like her, and I want to help. She’s got my curiosity up, and, besides, I’m getting tired of patching plaster and painting all day. This is a nice distraction. Maybe the paint fumes are getting to my head.”

  “Okay, honey. There’s a fella who lives across the creek on one of the oldest farms in Northampton County. About ten to fifteen years ago, we had scientists from all over the place crawlin’ ’round here, drilling holes in the ground and using fancy boats with all these electronic gadgets. Some of them were from South Africa and Europe. A few stayed in the old Cape Charles Hotel.

  “Anyway, they was here trying to figure out the Bay crater. You know about the crater, right? They did lots of exploring around Greyson Plantation over on Kings Creek. That’s Jessep Greyson’s place. Jessep is, shall we say, a believer in the past. He thinks he was reincarnated, and he’ll swear that the past ain’t really the past at all. He was really happy to let the scientists crawl around his land and punch holes in the ground. He said maybe they’d find out why so many curious things seem to happen at Greyson Plantation.

  “One of these nerdy science guys stayin’ at the hotel told me that the center of the giant crater is smack-dab under Jessep’s 757-acre farm. He said there’s a magnetic field around parts of the crater stronger than most anything he ever saw. He used some fancy word to describe it: anomaly, that’s what he called it. The way I heard it, the magnetic waves from whatever is down there would make the hair on a donkey’s ass stand up straight and chickens sit backwards on their eggs.”

  Hattie scratched her chin. “We got a fella named Major who used to be bipolar—you know, depressed or angry, couldn’t sleep, just a god-awful mess. Moved here ’bout eight years ago with his huntin’ dog named Minor. He started feelin’ better after a few years. Don’t take lithium or Prozac or any head-meds no more; just smokes weed every now and again and drinks Miller Lite. Says it’s the best he’s ever felt. Doctors can’t explain it. Says his brainwaves is different. That boy’s happy all the time, always whistling and smiling at the sky.”

  “Damn, Hattie, I need to get some of what Major has. I had no idea all of this weird stuff happens around here.” Carter scratched his head.

  “No, not around here,” Hattie blurted. “Here! This place is ground zero for the biggest crater ever to smash into North America. That outer space rock left a hole about a mile deep right over there.” She pointed southwest over the Bay. “Right goddamn there! When you walk down the street, you’re standing on it. Coordinates 37.2679 – 76.0174.” Hattie pointed to a map on her wall of a longitude-latitude grid of Cape Charles. “Head out a ways by boat, and the Bay floor drops down 600 feet. Watermen call it the ledge. Damn straight, honey. Livin’ here is like walkin’ on the moon.”

  Carter sat quiet for a few seconds to absorb the geography lesson. He had seen the signs about the Chesapeake Bay Crater over the beach, next to other informational plaques about Bay critters and birds. Carter, like most, had glanced at the graphic of the comet strike but never thought more of it. Things that happened millions of years ago seemed to him like more myth than fact, nothing more than grist for sci-fi flicks. It was hard enough trying to imagine life pre-1800s. After listening to Hattie, though, a fiery ball of hot iron from outer space punching a mile-deep hole in the earth felt more real at that moment than mastodons or Jesus of Nazareth.

  “So how do you know Jessep?” Carter asked.

  “Fourth cousin on my momma’s side.”

  “I should have known.” Carter chuckled.

  “I’ll give him a call.”

  “That’d be great, Hattie. Is Cousin Jessep friendly?”

  “He’s a curious fella. Likes reading poetry and drinking port wine and sherry. Thinks he lived in the 1800s. If you want to get on his good side, bring a good bottle and share a poem. He likes that Longfellow and pretty girls too. Had a couple of wives. One left him years ago, and the other died on the farm—natural causes. Had the cancer from smoking. She’s buried in the family plot on the farm, not too far from where those geologists was drillin’.”

  ***

  Hattie held up her finger for Carter to stay quiet while she dialed her cell phone. “Cousin Jess. It’s Cousin Hattie. Been awhile. Momma says thanks for the bushel of snap beans and the flounder fillets. Says she’ll send you over some fried chicken and a sweet potato pie. Jessep, I got a small favor to ask. There’s a fella who lives in town here—nice fella—interested in the crater. I told him about the scientists at Greyson Plantation. This fella, name’s Carter, has a girlfriend who’s a scientist. Young, good lookin’ too. They have open minds about things and they’s smart to talk to . . . Well, that’ll be just fine. Let’s break bread soon, cousin.”

  Hattie hung up and said that Jessep Greyson would be happy to meet with Carter and his friends the next day—if it rained as forecast. If the sun was up, he’d be busy in the field cutting orchard grass to feed to his Tennessee Walkers and a few other horses he boarded. He said to stop by in the morning around nine—if it was raining or wet. Hattie drew Carter directions on a napkin and told him not to be late.

  “Jessep’s got some Dutch-German blood in him from his daddy’s side. He’s punctual and don’t like to be kept waitin’. He’s left the dock to go fishin’ many times without me because I was runnin’ late. He carries a railroad pocket watch everywhere. Even sleeps with it, I hear.

  “When you get to Greyson Plantation, drive past the main house. You’ll see a dirt lane. It takes you to the old guest cottage by the creek. Jessep stays there most of the time now. Says the main house is too run-down. Good luck, honey, and be patient with him. Jessep’s a talker. I ain’t promising he’ll answer your questions, but it will be entertaining listening to his stories, I can promise you that. Visitors leave Jessep’s scratchin’ their heads or reachin’ for their Bible.”

  Hattie wrapped her heavy arms around Carter and wished him luck. Just
as he stepped onto Mason Way, he heard thunderheads relieving themselves to the south. A few minutes later, it started to drizzle.

  ***

  Greyson Plantation was an Eastern Shore landmark for a few reasons. Besides being at the epicenter of the asteroid strike, it was among the oldest contiguous working farms in Virginia and the US, first planted by white settlers in 1640. The plantation house and cottage were also on the National Historic Registry. Notable industrialists and politicians like colonialist John Mason, Supreme Court Justice John Marshall, and President William H. Taft had stayed as houseguests. Confederate officers had used the Greyson house as an encampment several times, with Major Quincy Greyson, an ancestor Jessep Greyson held in high esteem, hosting the man he considered to be Virginia’s greatest warrior, General Robert E. Lee. As for Jessep, he rode an American Saddlebred that looked remarkably similar to Lee’s famed horse, Traveller. And Jessep swore he had served in Lee’s army.

  The Greysons had kept a few slaves during the plantation’s heyday, mostly for domestic chores and tending to livestock. Mature young men had worked the fields, some of them free men who traded their backs and shoulders for shelter and a patch of land to grow vegetables. Quincy Greyson and his sons had not been above breaking a sweat, often working side by side with “the help” to haul firewood, till the ground, or clean tack.

  Quincy Greyson, as his daddy before him and sons afterward, didn’t practice corporal punishment. The Bible actually meant something to him. Instead of whippings or backhands, he applied economic sanctions to rule in the ornery or disrespectful.

  “A hungry stomach hurts more than a bloody back,” Quincy would tell his sons. “Beatings will ruin a man’s spirit just like they do a horse’s. Once you beat them, they can never be trusted again. They’ll buck or kick when you least expect it. Horses and men are vengeful creatures—remember that. And never strike a woman or child unless they is coming at you with a knife. They is tender, like God intended, and meant to be protected. Anyone who strikes a woman or child on this farm will feel the wrath of God, which will be mild compared to the wrath delivered by me.”