by Pam McGaffin
“This way, we’ll see the ghosts before they scare us,” she jokes.
I don’t remind her that my ghost is real. He’s in my dreams, my thoughts. He’s always there, if not front and center then in the background. Of course, I’d probably wet my pants if I actually saw Dad’s ghost, especially if he came back bloated and covered in barnacles. What an awful thought. But it’s just as awful imagining him happy with another family. If you’re dead, I’m sorry. If you’re alive and don’t care what happens to me, then I don’t care either.
DENA’S belled dress keeps popping up in the wind, so we have to go back to the truck and ditch the hoop skirt and crown, which also isn’t staying put.
“Damn,” she says.
“You still look great,” Sophie assures her as we make our way through the mud and brambles.
I’ve only ever seen the haunted house from our trips down Highway 20. Standing tall and alone in the middle of flat nothingness, it’s a familiar landmark. Up close, it looks even lonelier, but you can tell it used to be a stately thing. “A once-grand Victorian lady,” Dad would say when he pointed it out on our drives.
All that remains of that lady now are pieces of trim hanging here and there and an ornately carved beam fallen like a warning across the missing front door. Her most remarkable feature is a squat, round tower that hangs off the southeast-facing corner. It’s suspended as if a strong breeze could take it down, but no windstorm has been able to. I think that stubbornness has fed the rumors.
“It must have been beautiful before the murders,” Gerry says.
Sophie’s Raggedy Ann eyes narrow. “Is that a true story?”
Gerry nods while Dena shakes her head. “Not true,” she says. “It wasn’t murder that caused the house to be abandoned.”
Sophie turns to her. “Do you know the real story?”
“Yep. Dad told me.”
“Well?” Gerry waves her hand, signaling for her to get on with it.
“Well, it’s kind of sad,” she starts. “A farmer named Bell homesteaded here, but he didn’t know that the land floods, like, every other year. This one winter, it flooded really bad. All the fields were underwater. They lost cows and chickens and stuff, but the worst part was the family dog. He got trapped underneath the house. The family was inside and could hear him struggling and whimpering right below them, but they couldn’t save him.”
“That’s really sad,” Sophie says.
“They abandoned the house after that,” Dena says. “They couldn’t get the sound of their dog drowning out of their heads.”
Gerry gives a fake cough and nods her head in my direction.
Dena claps her hand over her mouth. “I’m sooo sorry. I’m such a dope.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and it is. “It’s not something I haven’t already thought about a million times. Besides, my dad knew the risks. That poor dog didn’t know anything.”
We stand there, staring up at the hanging tower, until our solemn reverence is disturbed by a girl falling backwards into our group, crushing her fairy wings.
“I think we have some catching up to do.” Dena grabs me by the elbow and we thread our way through the bodies to a plastic tarp where someone has set up a makeshift bar with a beer keg and a big basin of “punch,” a mysterious red liquid that smells like cherry cough syrup. Dena scoops a full cup of it and hands it to me. “Drink up.”
It’s as sickly sweet as it smells, but I take a second sip, then a third. Once the others get their drinks, we fall into a line of kids who are stepping over the fallen beam to go into the gray skeleton of a house. “Just to say we did,” says Dena, shining her flashlight on floors littered with bottles and trash too rotten to be identified. The house smells of mildew and piss, and the wood under our feet is so spongy I’m amazed it holds our weight. Tumbling three stories would probably kill a person, but we go upstairs anyway because everyone else is going upstairs. Someone I can’t see keeps making OOOO sounds, and I hear a girl say, “Here’s where the children were killed.” Dena clucks her tongue and yells, “Not true!”
From the third story, the strong beam of Uncle Pat’s flashlight illuminates the squinty-eyed, red-lipped faces of those stumbling around below, as well as some of the featureless landscape beyond. If the sun were out, we’d see snow-capped mountains to the east and the waters and islands of Puget Sound to the west. It would be spectacular. No wonder the Ball family wanted to build here. But it must have been terrible when it flooded. They must have felt trapped.
A dark shape flits by what used to be a window. Sophie screams. Then Dena and I scream. Then everyone else on the third floor screams. “What?” yells a guy wearing a Superman costume. A whistle pierces the din. Gerry is holding her arms up. In her witch dress, she looks like she’s fixing to cast a spell. “Calm down, you boobs,” she says. “It was only a bat.”
We leave the house as more people pour in, having heard the screams. Dena skips away to say hello to a friend dressed up as a cat, and Sophie and Gerry wander off to talk to people they know. I continue to drink my drink to make up for the fact that I am now friendless at this party of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. A fuzzy numbness seeps in as I watch the flow of kids going through the front door. I wish they’d stop laughing and making fake ghost sounds. This used to be someone’s home.
I walk around the back, almost stepping on a couple making out in the grass—at least, I think it’s a couple making out. Without Dena’s flashlight, I can’t see a thing. My skirt catches on a blackberry branch. To free myself, I have to gingerly lift the thorns off the fabric. Half of my drink spills down Dena’s white peasant blouse, leaving what I’m sure will be a big pink stain. Crap.
I drink the rest just to get rid of it. The taste isn’t so bad now, and I kind of like the numbness taking over my body. A pleasant buzz blots out all but the now, the sensations of moving through space. There’s a fingernail moon tonight, and the stars are out. I turn around, looking for the North Star, and I feel my center of gravity tilt. Whoa, better watch where I’m going. Don’t want to step on or in anything.
Soon I’m back at the tarp, where someone has helpfully set out several filled cups for people to take. I grab another and find a place to sit on a wide tree stump. Two couples are already taking up most of the space. One of the girls, a much thinner and prettier gypsy than me, moves to let me sit and then tosses her long thick braid into my face. She’s in the tight grip of a boy dressed like a hobo.
The other couple is kissing. The guy leans back with the girl on top of him, bumping me. I spill more punch on Dena’s blouse. She’s going to be so mad. Where is she, anyway? I scan the silhouettes around me, looking for hers, but it’s all just shapes and noise, punctuated by the occasional scream or shrill laugh. I gulp my drink down. It’s better if you don’t taste it. Maybe I should go look for the others, but I’m kind of afraid to get up. My body is one big buzz with a sloshy liquid middle. I really want to lie down, but there’s no place to do it. Is this stump swaying? I feel like I’m on a boat.
A bubble of sour cherry rises from the pinch of Dena’s skirt. Oh-oh, I try to hold it down. God, don’t let me throw up. I try to stand, but my legs collapse beneath me, and what must come up does, in a heaving gush of red.
CHAPTER 8
Trolling Spoon
A fishing lure with a large spoon that’s trailed behind a boat
I’m grounded. Dena’s grounded. Mom’s furious, and Nana’s none too pleased either. She wouldn’t even come to my defense when Mom said I couldn’t see Dena outside of school. The punishment came with no time limit, but I assume family gatherings are exempt with the holidays coming up. Mom also said nothing about telephone contact.
As soon as I’m feeling up to it, I call my cousin to apologize for getting us in trouble and ruining her peasant blouse.
“Aw, that’s okay,” she says. “It was my fault. I should have warned you about that punch. Everyone was getting sick, not just you, so don’t feel bad.”
“You remember?”
“Actually, no. But she’s really mad at me today, so I can only guess.”
“Yeah, she pretty much had a cow. But then she needed my help getting you up the stairs.”
“God, I’ll never drink again. It hurt to move my head, but you have to move your head to—”
“Spare me the details.”
“Anyway, I’m sorry you got grounded.”
“I’ll survive … You know Gerry and Sophie got off scot-free? Those snots. Gerry says her dad snores so her mom wears earplugs. She could do a tap dance in their bedroom and they wouldn’t wake up. She’ll tell you all about it at lunch, I’m sure.”
“Um … I may not be coming to lunch for a while.”
“Jeez, your mom must really hate me.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s my grades and this project in English. It’s due Thursday and I haven’t even started.”
“Whoops,” Dena says.
I find the 800s and look for Poe, Poe, Poe. Where can he be? Uh-oh. I’m gonna … monster sneeze! I wipe with the only thing available, my sleeve, and when I look up, David has appeared out of nowhere. All I can think about as we stand there staring at each other is whether or not I have snot on my face.
“Hi,” we say at the same time.
“Jinx!” My voice squeaks.
He grins. “So, how are you?”
“I’m okay.” I take in air, let it out again. Don’t let that nose tickle come back, please. He’s wearing black Converse tennis shoes. Even his feet are cute, the way one’s rolled out, balancing on the outside sole.
“That’s good,” he says. “Hey, I’ve, um, been wanting to tell you how sorry I am about your dad. Steve was a great guy.”
Maybe not so great—present tense. David obviously thinks he’s dead. I wonder what he knows. I dare to stare up into those incredibly blue eyes. His fishing tan has faded and his mustache is gone, but his face still has that lean ruggedness that comes from a summer of hard work. His mouth is moving, but the only word I hear is “Alaska.”
“Huh?”
“The Salty Dog,” he repeats. “It’s a tavern in Ketchikan your dad … uh … liked.”
“Oh.” Dad never told me about a tavern, not that he would. So how does David know about it? He’s only two years older than I am.
“The fishermen would meet up there,” he adds. “Us younger guys all had fake IDs.”
Question answered.
“Your dad could tell some wild stories.”
I wait for him to give me an example or explain, but he just bows his head and shakes it slowly back and forth, as if he can’t quite believe his memories. I want to ask him about a million questions, but he adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and moves to leave.
“Well, I’ll see you later,” he says.
As he turns around, I see my one chance to learn more about my father slip away in black Converse tennis shoes.
“I’d like to hear more about my dad.” My desperation hangs there between us, grotesque and waiting. “In Alaska, I mean.”
“Sure,” he says. “Although, there’s this saying among fishermen that what happens in Alaska stays in Alaska … but sure. Any time.”
I watch him disappear around the shelf of books. God, what were the chances? Here it is, October, almost two months since school started, and we connect by chance in the stacks. Is this fate? What was he doing here? What am I doing here? Oh, yeah. Poe.
I get to the shelf where the books on him should be and find the section has been picked clean. The only book left is a slim volume with the super-vague title Rhyme and Reason. This is what happens when you wait until the last minute.
I ask the librarian if anything on Edgar Allen Poe has been returned and she points me to a table in the middle of the room and a stack of books hiding a person with black hair.
Sam.
I don’t remember seeing him when I walked in. Of course, he’s not one to draw attention to himself. I approach his table and scan the titles in his pile. Sure enough, he has the book I want, The Life and Times of Edgar Allan Poe.
“Can we share?”
He jerks his head up, startled.
“Hi. Sorry. Can I look through your books?”
He nods.
I sit down across from him and ask him how much he’s done on our assignment.
“Not too much,” he says with his pretty articulation. He shows me three pages of neatly written notes.
“I haven’t even started.”
Sam’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t scold me.
“Maybe we should work together,” I tell him. “It might save us both having to read the same stuff.” I dig out the worksheet Mrs. Smith gave us, a list of things the biography needs to include. “How about we split up this list? You do the first half, and I do the second half?”
He takes my worksheet. “I will mark what I’ve done.” He starts making check marks down the page. He’s left-handed, I notice. Scabs and small white scars riddle his knuckles. Another scar cuts his left eyebrow in half. Could that be from fighting? Other than that, his light brown skin is flawless. No bruises, no pimples. I decide he has cute lips. They form two perfect peaks on top.
He looks up, catches me staring. My eyes shift to the worksheet. About the only things he hasn’t marked are “bibliography,” “end of life,” and “lasting influence.”
“That doesn’t leave a lot for me,” I say.
“That’s okay. Poe is interesting.”
In-ter-rest-ting. I can’t help but smile at his crisp diction. “Oh, good. I’d hate to study a boring poet.”
His laugh takes me by surprise. It’s soft and musical, like his voice. I take out a pen and open my binder to a fresh sheet of notebook paper. I’m about to grab Life and Times when I spot something more intriguing, Edgar Allan Poe: The Man, The Mystery, The Magic. I look inside the jacket and read, “Lies, spread by a competitor, helped tarnish Poe’s reputation near the time of his death, the exact circumstances of which remain open to speculation.”
The exact circumstances of which. “Are you using this book?” I ask Sam. “I’d like to check it out.”
I can’t help comparing Poe’s mysterious death to Dad’s. Then, as I’m changing for gym class, I remember a key detail from Mom’s conversation with Nana that night I broke my nose. There’s something I don’t know about Dad that could have tarnished his reputation. And because I don’t know it, I still think he walks on water. Running around the track, I don’t even notice how hard I’m breathing. My mind is too busy turning around all the little invitations that have been dropped in my lap. The English assignment. Julie choosing Poe. Running into David. Poe’s mysterious death. The book that’s in my backpack. Forces are at play here. In some strange way it’s all leading to this thing I’m meant to find out about my father. For once, I can’t wait to get home and do my homework.
I stay up late to finish the Poe biography. His life makes mine look like a cakewalk. He was orphaned at two. First his father leaves. (Hmm, another coincidence?) Then his mother dies of tuberculosis. He marries his thirteen-year-old cousin, which is a little gross, and loses her to the same disease. He can’t really support himself off his writing, though “The Raven” was an instant success. He spent years planning his own journal but died at age forty, before it could come out. His death was attributed to alcoholism, but some say he may have been murdered. If that’s not enough, this editor with a grudge sets out to destroy Poe’s reputation by portraying him as a depraved madman. Sheesh! It’s depressing stuff, and I can’t wait to share it with Sam. We’re going to ace this project!
SAM and I meet in the library and divide Poe’s life into four sections. We agree to trade off on the presentation, with him starting and me ending.
“Oh, good, I get the mysterious death,” I say, drawing some five-sided stars next to the notes I took last night. “Know all about those,” I mu
mble.
“What?” Sam looks up from his own notes.
My first thought is to say, “Oh, nothing,” but something inside me wants to tell him. He’s different from my other friends. He’s had some hard knocks—literally. He might understand. “I know all about mysterious deaths,” I repeat. “My dad … I guess you wouldn’t know, being kinda new here.”
“Know what? Was he killed? In ’Nam?”
I shake my head, but he’s on a roll. “My dad’s over there. Gulf of Tonkin. He’s been gone almost five months now.”
“No, my dad’s a fisherman—was—a fisherman. He went missing this summer. They think he had a boat accident and drowned.”
“Oh, man.” Sam looks down at the table and bites his lower lip. “That’s terrible. Crap, that’s worse than terrible. How can you stand it? Not knowing for sure?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
OUR Poe presentation went great, but Ralph, of all people, stole the show with his growly and ridiculously drawn out ne-e-v-e-r-r-m-o-r-r-es. Voicing the Raven was his sole contribution to our group project, and everyone praised him like he’s the next Laurence Olivier. Even Mrs. Smith looked impressed.
I’m trying not to let Ralph’s unearned A bother me. If I’ve learned anything from these last two months, it’s that you can’t count on anything in life, including life. It’s time to “fish or cut bait,” as Dad would say. I need to find out about that part of him I never saw, and the one person who can tell me will be graduating this year. First chance I get, I’ll pin David down and get him to tell me about my father, Alaska, and all those wild stories.
CHAPTER 9
Cannonball
A weight that carries lines and lures down to the depth where fish are feeding
I stake out a small reading table by the window and wait for David. I skipped lunch—too nervous!—but he probably didn’t. To keep myself from watching the doorway, I stare out at the view of the channel. Water and sky are two shades of the same gray. When I was little, I’d watch Dad’s boat disappear into that line and imagine him falling off the edge of the earth. When you can’t see the end, you assume it’s there, like all those people who thought the earth was flat.