Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly

  A girl with kaleidoscope eyes

  Cellophane flowers of yellow and green

  Towering over your head

  Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes

  And she’s gone

  Luzia in the sky with diamonds . . .

  Luzia in the sky with diamonds . . .

  Luzia in the sky with diamonds . . .

  ***

  Carter and Lil stayed to help Gil clean up and watch him lick his financial wounds as he counted the gallons of rum and ginger beer he’d given away. Before she left with Jessep, Rose pulled Carter by the hand into a booth in the vault.

  “Carter, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just that Jessep and I, well, there is something special there.”

  “Spare me, Rose. We weren’t dating anyway. We were just acquaintances with privileges. I had a good time and, presumably, you did too. I wish you and Jessep the best. Maybe you two can start a ghostbusters company, since you both seem so convinced this stuff is real.”

  One good insult deserves another, Rose thought. “Here.” Rose reached into her handbag and handed Carter back the poem he’d written. It was marked up in red pen, words and stanzas crossed out and rewritten.

  “Jessep was going to share this with you, but considering . . . He asked me to give it to you. He says it needs more substance. Hope you take it constructively.”

  “Nothing like a little insult to spice up my injury. Maybe I should challenge the son of a bitch to a duel,” Carter said.

  “Don’t, Carter. Trust me. You’d lose.”

  Carter hobbled over to the bar to pick up glasses and handed them to Gil, who was standing over the sink washing them.

  “You cost me a bundle tonight, Sparky. All because you had the hots for some wacky witch. Worst part is, she dumped you for a guy even stranger than you. Honestly, I almost feel sorry for you . . . almost.”

  CHAPTER 23

  CARTER ROCKED ON his front porch, cupping the warmth of his coffee mug. His Syracuse University hoodie made his arms equally as toasty. Months ago, the soupy Gulf air of summer had retreated from the brittle north winds swooping down the Bay from Canada. Carter inhaled the crispness through his nose and felt his lungs cool.

  Better than caffeine, he thought.

  The flocks of summer tourists, who had inhabited Cape Charles like noisy geese, had migrated back to suburbia. The golf carts they had rented were now bedded down for the winter, batteries unplugged. Most of the art galleries and knick-knack shops on Mason Way that existed for them were shuttered or open weekends only.

  Carter felt oddly content as he swayed in his rocker, watching the last leaves on the giant sycamore drift to the ground, their chlorophyll long drained. Beautiful, but messy, just like Rose, he thought.

  Carter felt strong and happy, as if he were in a state of emotional remission. Since college, he had always felt a need to be in a relationship or moving toward one. The same with friends. They provided validation. What Cape Charles had taught Carter, the antiseptic it provided, was that you find happiness within—not through others. Happiness was not a dependency, like narcotics or booze. Rocking on the porch, working on his house relaxed Carter’s mind and soul.

  He realized that the tranquility of floating on this earth solo clashed with the visceral nature of human beings needing others. Humans are social animals—or are they? For Carter, tranquility had finally conquered its nemesis. Carter looked to his right and contentedly accepted that one of his rocking chairs sat empty, and he felt relieved. The pressure to be with someone—to make them happy, to meet their expectations, to impress—had been swept south with the soggy air of summer. For once, Carter’s priority was Carter, just as Kate Lee-Capps had prompted when she consoled him back in the spring.

  Smart woman, he thought. Beautiful woman.

  The summer had been exhilarating. By exploring the town, its past, its woo-woo, Carter had become one of its eclectic fixtures—maybe not quite an oddball like Tank Top and some others, but a townie for sure. Hattie had been right. If folks aren’t gossiping about you in Cape Charles, then you’re not trying hard enough. Maybe Tennyson was right too. Maybe having loved and lost is better than not having loved at all.

  Carter thought about his college sweetheart and that magical night in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge. He thought about Sophie and the good times and other women who had come and gone. On the caboose of his thought train rode Rose Portman, the summer fling who had flung. She seemed so perfect at first, luring him like a shark to bloody bait and then cutting him loose to float on life’s tides, weak and wounded. Beautiful, sophisticated but dangerously self-absorbed. Rose used men, and when their Old Spice turned stale, she tossed them overboard like chum.

  The pre-Cape Charles Carter might have carried those scars of rejection for years. But he felt stronger now, more confident, less emotionally dependent. Rose’s dismissiveness said more about her than him. He got that now, and, as a result, he could breathe again. Life felt refreshing, like Canadian air. He thought about the note Rose had left in his mailbox a few days after the Luzia crescendo at Gil Netters. Her cutting words had left barely a nick.

  Carter,

  You’re a sweet man and an affectionate lover. You’ll make some woman very happy, but, unfortunately, not this one. Our minds are more in sync than our souls, and, my dear Carter, my spirit is more restless than yours. Trust me, I need someone stronger than me; I would have made you miserable. You are too giving, and I am too taking. Find a gentle soul to match your own.

  Stay in touch, my sweet. Let’s remain friends and share a bottle of pinot gris at Gil’s from time to time. Thanks for an enchanting summer.

  Rose

  When he learned a few days later after the letter that Rose had moved in with Jessep Greyson, he laughed.

  Poor Jessep. He may be a man’s man, and his soul may have survived the Civil War, but I doubt it’ll endure Rose.

  Carter hadn’t ventured into Gil Netters or the hardware store or much of anywhere in town, but not because he feared bumping into Rose. It was because Trump had won the election, and Carter couldn’t bear to face Gil, Cyril, or the other jubilant neocons toasting a man swept into office on a platform of intolerance and mania. He thought of Thin Lizzy, who visited a few days after the election and cried for her Hispanic friends fearing deportation.

  “The haters won,” Lizzy had said.

  Carter had always strived to see the good in people and avoided talking politics or religion. Now, he couldn’t seem to escape it. Trump’s victory roiled the world and eclipsed the sunshine in Carter’s beloved Cape Charles. In the president-elect, Carter saw only hysterical darkness, a Lord Voldemort crushing Harry Potter.

  One day they’ll carry this maniac out of the White House in a straitjacket, Carter thought.

  Discussion about Gina the ghost and Cape Charles’ woo-woo were about the only barroom topics that trumped Trump’s unseemly and highly suspicious win. Townsfolk who thought they saw or heard strange things, or who had kept their sightings a secret, were no longer closeted. It was suddenly in vogue to be paranormal. Hattie, Mac, and Lizzy were right—Cape Charles had nearly as many wandering spirits as stray cats. And, perhaps, the magnetic field from the asteroid enabled these powers, as Rose and Professor Dunbar had theorized.

  As for Gina the ghost, there had been no encores at Gil Netters, Bay Hardware, or Saint Mary’s. Carter speculated that Luzia had moved on, unleashed by the will of the masses shooing her away in drunken revelry. Or maybe she had fled the lunacy of drunkards shouting her name in the middle of the night. On the other hand, maybe Luzia had stuck around Cape Charles because it was peaceful and she liked the view.

  To Carter’s delight, Gil, ever so much the businessman, had conjured a scheme to capitalize on his homegrown anomaly. He had posted on his Facebook page that on one night every August, Gil Netters would host a Gina Going Away Party. It would commence at two
in the morning and last until sunrise. The annual event would be preceded by a small parade that would start at Saint Mary’s and amble the full length of Mason Way under the escort of Sergeant Smitty of the Cape Charles Police Department. Once in the bar, the locals would exorcise spirits by chanting, over and over, “Luzia in the sky with diamonds—BE GONE.”

  Some strictly religious types in town thought such a spectacle blasphemous. But Father Ricardo took a more progressive view. “Better to believe in some form of afterlife than be an atheist,” he told Lizzy and others. In a Facebook post, the priest said he would be honored to bless the parade of believers.

  Lizzy and Carter remained friends, and she stopped by his place every couple of weeks to say hi and share some wine. Though Carter seemed upbeat, she was concerned that he hadn’t been on a date since the Rose debacle. She sensed Carter’s heart weeping, though he wore a constant smile. Carter had shown Lizzy the Dear John letter, and she had grown animated after reading it, contorting as if on the dance floor.

  “Carter, she wasn’t right for you; Rose isn’t right for anyone. I saw Jessep at the Food Dog, and he said Rose is driving him nuts. He called her ‘dark, pushy, and selfish.’ Says she likes to argue. Count your blessings, Carter. That could have been you.”

  “I dodged a bullet, no, make that a torpedo,” Carter said. “Trust me, Lizzy, I’m over her. In fact, I’m over everybody. I’m in a good place.”

  Lizzy had taken a job at a local community college teaching Romance languages and had registered a business called Woo-Woo Tours. Her plan was to drive tourists around old Cape Charles in a golf cart at midnight to point out buildings or abodes with spiritual inhabitants. Lizzy had also found love. She was three months pregnant and the dad was a Portuguese exchange student she’d met at the college.

  “It’s a girl, Carter. I know it,” Lizzy said, rubbing her belly. “I’m going to name her Lucy.”

  ***

  As the fall air hardened into winter, Carter became even more reclusive. He listened to baroque music, developed a penchant for novels set in the 1920s, and turned his basement into a wine cellar. He even started wearing cardigans and socks. Gil called from time to time and invited his pal for a drink and to Christmas dinner. Carter politely declined. Gil shrugged off Carter’s rebuff—but not Jill.

  “He’s just humiliated, that’s all,” Gil told his wife. “Hell, everyone in town knows he got dumped. Hattie told me she even sent Carter a sympathy card. The boy is just lying low.”

  “Carter needs tending to. He needs companionship,” Jill chided. “Dammit, Gil! Carter’s your best friend and my ex-brother-in-law. It’s time for you to step up and be a buddy. Guys are such animals. No empathy. You need to get him out of the house.”

  “Carter knows I’m here for him. Besides, I’ve reached out and he seems fine. Leave him alone, Jill. Guys process stuff differently. We don’t need to hug everything out. We’re solitary creatures, like an old stag in the woods. When Carter gets tired of whacking off and watching Netflix, he’ll emerge. Trust me.”

  “Gil, you reach out to Carter or I’m going to invite my sister Sophie and her lover to come live with us for a month next summer. You understand me, mister?”

  “Yes, dear. Anything but Sophie and her liberal goofball girlfriend, please. Come to think of it, Carter is acting weird. Last time I saw him he was dressed like Mr. Rogers . . . Hmm. Don’t worry about Carter. I know what to do.”

  Gil found the telephone number he was looking for on an Internet directory and left a heartfelt voicemail message. “Please call me back as soon as you can,” he pleaded. “It concerns a mutual friend who needs our help.”

  A few days later, Gil called Carter.

  “Sparky, I’m knocking off early. Meet me at seven. Show up, or I’ll send Jill to drag your sorry ass over here. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll send your ex-wife. Dinner is on me, and please don’t wear that nerdy sweater.”

  Right on time, Carter strode back into his old haunt. Gil came around from behind the bar and kissed his buddy on the cheek. With his hand on his back, he pushed Carter to a booth in the vault.

  “Sit down, you bleeding-heart wuss. I know the Trump thing pisses you off, but get over it. You need some Kleenex to soak up your tears?”

  “Only to wipe the slime you left on my face. I told you to stop that kissy Godfather crap.”

  “Calm down, Sparky. Jill’s worried about you. Should I be?”

  “I’m good, Gil, really. Just been lying low, relaxing, working on the house. Trying not to vomit every time I see Trump’s face on TV. It’s nice here this time of year. Calm. I’m more relaxed than I’ve ever been.”

  “Good to hear. I thought you were home boo-hooing about voodoo Rose.”

  “Summer fling; that’s all it was, Gil. Rose is high maintenance. I hear she’s making Jessep miserable. She caused a lot of chaos around here.”

  “True, but it was fun chaos, Sparky, you have to admit. You got laid and have more crazy Cape Charles stories to tell. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

  “I guess I’m part of the folklore now.”

  “Yep. People are gossiping about you and this ghost stuff. It’s been good for business. The Gina Going Away parties are gonna be a hit. People are talking about it all over Facebook. I’m even having Gina Be Gone T-shirts made. I guess I owe you one, Sparky.”

  “You owe me for a lot more than one for putting up with your shit all these years.”

  “Maybe so, but as we both know, my shit doesn’t stink.”

  “So, I’m guessing Jill ordered you to buy me dinner.”

  “So, you’re telepathic. Good guess. Sit tight, Sparky. I’ll be right back.”

  Gil left and about five minutes later, Carter felt someone—or something—poke his back, right on the shoulder blade—just like before—just like what Gil had experienced. Carter froze, afraid to look over his shoulder.

  “Hey, handsome, Gil called me. He tells me you’re in serious need of therapy.”

  Carter felt a hand massage his shoulder. Standing over him, her face nearly touching his, was Dr. Kate Lee-Capps holding a bottle of Oregon pinot noir, the dimple on her left cheek as deep as the Chesapeake crater. She set the bottle on the table.

  Kate smiled, kissed Carter’s forehead, and stroked his hair. Carter pulled her onto his lap and kissed her back . . . hard, without hesitation, and on the lips.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” Kate said, almost breathless.

  Carter winked and pulled her closer. “Me neither.”

  “Well then, here’s to being bold,” Kate said, hoisting the wine bottle. “Compliments of Gil!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Books are born through encouragement. And for that, I have plenty of folks to thank. First off, to Cheryl Ross, a meticulous editor and dear colleague who nitpicked me until I bled. Next, my business partner, John Koehler, a creative wizard and all-around good guy. There’s not a more honest book publisher out there. To Shari Stauch, the consummate author advocate. To Jana Sasser, an author with a Southern voice as thick as beeswax and as sweet as Tupelo honey. Thanks for egging me on. To my readers, Kristin and Kellie, who let just enough air out of my balloon to keep me humble but afloat. To Gene, Chip, Roger, Lou, Warren, Malcolm, Gina, Ben, and a gaggle of neighbors and drinking pals in Cape Charles—you stoked, albeit unwittingly, the embers of this book. I’ve never laughed so hard.