by Greg Weisman
Maq and I kept our distance. We didn’t exactly have a respectful change of clothes, but Maq removed his big straw hat and held it over his heart. Rain glanced back. He caught her eye and winked at her. She forced a smile and looked away.
A few lazy bees buzzed about, looking to pollinate. Father Lopez began to speak. Keeping my ears open, I wandered off among the familiar gravestones and vine-covered mausoleums. Some were neatly kept. Others had been overgrown for centuries. Most were empty of anything that mattered to me, but they were pleasant reminders of smiling faces, kind voices and rich smells. Off to the side was a small pet cemetery where I could easily have spent the entire day.
The good Father kept his sermon short. But it seemed to me he could have skipped it altogether. A pleasant breeze and the swaying, skipping shadows of leaves on the trees bespoke a better epitaph for old ’Bastian Bohique than any man’s words ever could.
Still, before Rain knew it, she was back at the Inn. Friends and loved ones milled around the lobby and dining room, eating food, offering condolences, telling ’Bastian stories. There were too many people for the space. Too many people touching her face or shoulder. Kissing her cheek or her forehead. Stopping their tales when she came near. Rain felt like she was overheating. She couldn’t eat. Could barely generate mumbled responses to each repetitive show of concern. She began to slowly navigate through the crowd toward the front stairs. She wanted to evaporate to the upper stories and listen to her iPod or her father’s rock CDs or ’Bastian’s old jazz LPs on the phonograph in his room. But reaching the bottom step, she immediately knew she couldn’t go into his room. So she stood there, vaguely paralyzed.
The front door opened. It was Mr. Chung and Ms. Ellis-Chung. Tourists, guests of the Inn, backlit by the sun, standing there, wondering what kind of party they had been missing. They held the door open as they considered the somber, whispering crowd. And Rain bolted. Out the door. Outside. Away.
To the N.T.Z. of course. Where else could she go? Her good shoes hidden away where she and Charlie had stowed the bicycles two short nights and one horrific eternity ago, she slipped through the jungle in her knee-length black dress. She entered the clearing silently. And sat down on the sandstone slab overlooking the sea. She hugged her knees to her chest and finally began to breathe again.
Time passed. And Charlie was there. She didn’t need to look back. She just slowly became aware of his presence behind her. Without turning, she nodded once. And he sat down on the slab next to her, still wearing his Sunday clothes, even his shoes. They sat there quietly, watching the ocean. Watching the sun move down the sky. They never spoke or even looked at each other. But she was glad he came. And he was glad to be with her.
Hours later found them in the exact same spot, practically holding the same pose. Rain had lowered her bare feet over the cliffside, and was gently letting them swing with the breeze. The sun sank into the ocean. The sunset was stunning. The end of a beautiful day on the Ghosts.
And still they maintained their vigil. Eventually, Rain felt moonlight wash over her body. Cooling and soothing her brittle fever from the wake. She stirred. Charlie turned his head toward her. “I just had to get away,” she said. As if he had just caught up with her and hadn’t spent half a day beside her.
“It’s okay.”
She stood up. He did too. She smiled sadly, leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said.
Once again, he felt the rush of being near her. Full of self-loathing, he admonished, reproved, reprimanded and chided himself reproachfully. He just wanted to be her friend. Now, of all times, just her friend. But to his frustration, the buzz remained.
She turned toward the clearing, and her smile vanished; the color drained from her face. She and Charlie were surrounded. Where had they come from? Who were they? What were they? A barely audible no escaped her lips, and she started to back away … nearly stepping right off the cliff.
“Rain! Careful!!” A panicked Charlie grabbed hold of her, steadied her. He glanced back over his shoulder and down. It was a long way to the bottom. He looked at her profile. She hadn’t even registered the cliff. What the hell is she looking at?
Spirits. Ghosts. Translucent. Glowing. Standing in a semicircle around the N.T.Z. Rain was hyperventilating, desperate not to lose it completely. All these tourists do NOT belong here, she thought. She counted them. There were eight of them. She counted again. Still eight. The counting helped calm her. Helped focus her. There had seemed to be so many at first. But no, it was a finite number of dead folk. Fixed and unchanging. At least for now. She scanned their shimmering faces. It was hard to clearly discern their features, but she was soon convinced. The Dark Man wasn’t there. These were new ghosts. All men. All dressed in bomber jackets and some kind of uniform. They looked to her like old-fashioned World War I flying aces or something.
Then, just as her breathing returned to normal, they started to approach. To close in around her and Charlie, who still had both hands locked tightly around her arm. She looked at him. He was clearly frightened, glancing back and forth between her and the clearing. He sees them, she thought. Thank God, he sees them.
Rain cringed involuntarily as the Eight drew closer. They began to point out to sea. Their lips were moving but no sound came forth. Rain studied their body language. They seemed to be begging, imploring. “What do they want?!”
Charlie was clearly freaked: “What? Who? Rain, what’s wrong with you?”
She turned on him like a woman betrayed. “The ghosts! Don’t tell me you can’t see them?! You have to see them!”
He looked at her, followed her gaze and stared at the empty N.T.Z. Moonlight and a cold fire pit. That was all. He turned back to her and shook his head.
She stared at him. Then slowly her own head rotated toward the Eight, still pointing, reaching, begging for something beyond the cliff. Equal parts dread, fear and anger were at war within her. But anger was something she could hold onto. So anger won. She took a step forward. Charlie released her arm. The ghosts ignored her. She took another step. “Why me?” she said. “What do you want from me?!”
Reaching out to sea, the ghosts ignored her still, looking through her as if she were the transparent one, as if she were the ghost. Desperate, she took three fast steps toward the nearest spirit and reached out to him, shouting, “What do you want?!” Her hand passed right through him. There was no substance, just sensation. She had vaguely expected him to feel cold. But whatever stuff he was made of was warm and liquid, like the Caribbean. He was tall, but she tried to meet his gaze. His face was fluid, indistinct. But young. Maybe nineteen or twenty. How could he be so young? She stood right in front of him, waving her arm back and forth through his head.
He took no notice. But somewhere, not in her ears, but in the back of her mind, she heard him speak … or maybe just think. The whispered words, like the ghost, were liquid, were smoke. But a few of them registered: Home … Send us home … Finish it … The mission … Help us …
It was her turn to beg, to implore. “Stop it! I can’t help you!”
Finally, the spirit acknowledged her presence. He lowered his head. His eyes locked onto hers. Solid black and hard as jewels. She wanted to run away, but those eyes froze her in place. He reached out. Put a hand of smoke and liquid into her chest and spoke again, spoke to her. Send us home! His voice was the night wind blowing sand across the beach. Quiet, dry, steady, insistent and impossible to hold onto. And again, Send us home!
It was all too much. She shut her eyes. Screwed them shut against the young ghost, against all of the Eight. Charlie watched her body coil into a kind of standing fetal position. Finally, she screamed: “GO AWAY!!”
Silence. The whispering stopped. Slowly and with great trepidation, she raised her head. The young ghost was gone. The Eight were gone. She turned a full circle. The clearing was empty. Moonlight. A cold fire pit. A cliff. Rain Cacique. And Charlie Dauphin, staring at his lunatic best friend.
Sh
e felt like a lunatic. Or one step from lunacy at most. She looked at Charlie. He hadn’t seen anything. “Rain?” he said.
She shook her head, muttering to herself, “Maybe I am losing it. You can’t see them. No one can.”
Charlie wanted to say something helpful, so: “It’s grief. Playing tricks on you. It has to be.”
She nodded absently. That’s right. That’s all it is. He took her hand and squeezed it. She managed a smile. Then strangely disappointed, she walked with him into the jungle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GRAVE
Rain recovered her shoes from behind the ferns. Charlie watched intently as she slipped them on and emerged into the light of the Camino.
“Kinda dressy for the N.T.Z.”
Rain and Charlie turned to see Marina Cortez watching them with amusement. “What are you guys, having candlelight dinners up there?” She was sitting next to Ramon Hernandez on the front bench seat of his convertible. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Rain didn’t have to be a psychic to guess what he was saying. Ramon had been at the funeral and the wake with his parents, grandparents, sisters, in-laws, nieces and a nephew. As Marina’s expression changed from mirth to sympathy, Rain once again felt the weight of everyone on the islands knowing her business.
Marina climbed up onto her knees and leaned out of the car, “Rain, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Rain didn’t want pity or even compassion right now. Other people’s emotions felt like a burden. Created expectations for how she was supposed to respond in turn. “It’s okay,” she said flatly, which was all she could manage.
“It’s not okay. I know. Look, why don’t you guys hang with us tonight.” Then, after the fact, Marina glanced toward Ramon for confirmation. He didn’t look thrilled. Clearly, he’d been hoping for some alone time with the pretty girl from Malas Almas. But he wasn’t a complete idiot. There really wasn’t any way he could object.
“Yeah, sure. Climb in,” he said, hoping his tone sounded inviting enough to fool Marina, but threatening enough to discourage Charlie at least.
But Charlie wasn’t searching for nuances. This was an unprecedented opportunity. Seniors didn’t invite eighth-graders to hang. If they could just be spotted driving around with Ramon by someone, anyone, from school, it would alter their entire status come Monday morning. Plus, it might serve to get Rain’s mind off of, well, whatever.
“Not tonight,” Rain said.
Marina would not be thwarted so easily. “Come on, come with us.” She opened the door and slid closer to Ramon to make room in the front seat.
Ramon liked the sliding closer part, and his attitude improved, “Yeah, Cacique. Get in.”
Charlie nudged Rain toward the car. “It’s what you need,” he whispered. “Blow off some steam. With seniors…”
It wasn’t what Rain needed, and she knew it. But she felt defused. They were being so nice, and she couldn’t come up with any peer-acceptable objection. She slid into the front seat next to Marina. “Thanks,” she said, not meaning it very much.
It was only then that Charlie realized he wouldn’t be sitting next to Rain. He stood over the others stupidly, until Ramon finally said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Climb in.”
Charlie lurched over the chassis and tumbled into the backseat. Ramon put the car in gear, surreptitiously slipped an arm behind Marina’s back and drove off.
There was an awkward silence. Then Marina turned abruptly to Rain and said, “You know, my older sister died last year.”
“I didn’t know,” Rain said quickly. “I’m sorry.” It was almost exactly what Marina had said to her two minutes earlier, but they were the only words Rain could find. Marina’s revelation confused and upset Rain. The truth was she didn’t know Marina Cortez very well at all. There was the age difference, and, besides, Marina lived two islands over. Rain saw her around some times, but they had no history together. Now, we’re sharing this?
Ramon said, “Man, baby, I didn’t know that either. Your sister? That sucks. Way worse than a grandfather.”
And from Charlie: “Yeah, sorry, Marina.”
Marina ignored the boys, keeping her focus on Rain. She said, “I didn’t tell you to make you feel guilty. And I sure didn’t tell you to compete. I just wanted you to know I understand what it feels like. I’ve been there. If you want to talk or if you just want to shut up, it’s cool. I get it.”
Rain just felt muddled. She didn’t know what she wanted. Didn’t know where they were going. Ramon was just cruising around, heading vaguely for the water. Charlie was desperately scanning the streets, still searching for that someone, anyone, to start the rumors flying at school.
Marina kept talking. Her voice was kind and soothing. “After she died, I felt like … my family … like they were putting me in a cage, you know? I started taking on her chores. Cooking the exact meals she used to cook for Mom and Dad and my brothers. It got to the point where I didn’t even want to be around anyone that knew her. Or anyplace we had been together. That’s when I started coming here every chance I got.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rain muttered sarcastically. “San Próspero rules.”
Marina smiled. “Try hanging on Malas Almas. Makes San Próspero look like Vegas.”
Rain considered that, then nodded. “And at least you were getting away.”
“Exactly. You get it.”
“I get it.”
And Ramon: “Oh, me, too. Come June, I am gone. Mainland, babies. Miami Beach.”
Charlie couldn’t resist: “’Cause you haven’t spent enough time in a tropical paradise?” Ramon flashed him an angry look in his rearview mirror that said, Listen, scrub, you are here by the grace of me, so shut it! Charlie got the message, lost the smile and sat way back in his seat.
Rain asked Marina, “What about you? After you graduate, I mean.”
“College, hopefully. I’m going to apply to every school in every big cold ugly city I can find. If I get in any of them and get financial aid, then, sure, I’m gone too.”
Charlie got brave again: “My brother Lew’s a sophomore at Northwestern.”
Ramon stopped the car at a red, and turned to face the backseat. Charlie winced, waiting for the order to hit the pavement. But Ramon had been a fan. “Lew Dauphin. Dude, he could move. Football scholarship?”
“Soccer,” Charlie said, relieved. “But he tore up his knee. He’s red-shirting.”
“Man, I didn’t know. That sucks.” Marina and Rain stared at Ramon, then looked at each other and smiled just a bit, sharing a common thought. The guy had only one level of tragedy. ’Bastian’s death. Marina’s sister. Lew’s knee. Ramon incidentally thought it all sucked.
The light changed, and Ramon drove on. “Your brother Hank’s pretty good too. He’ll start at cornerback, this year.” Ramon glanced into his rearview again. “What about you? You goin’ out for J.V.?”
Charlie considered numerous responses, before Rain cut off his options with, “He’s in eighth grade. And he doesn’t play football.” Charlie suppressed a groan.
“That sucks,” Ramon said, glancing with disapproval into his mirror.
From where I was standing, the conversation had become frustrating. Ramon was still heading vaguely toward the water, but Rain was going nowhere. Maq probably wouldn’t have approved of my plan, but he was snoring under his hat on a bus bench and unavailable for consultation. So I swallowed hard, lowered my head and ran out into the street.
Ramon had only just turned his attention back to the road and nearly didn’t see me at all. Marina froze in her seat. But Rain, bless her, shouted, “Look out!” She reached across Marina, grabbed the wheel and wrenched it to the right. The convertible squealed as it veered away from me and down Old Plantation Road.
You could hear the steel drum band of their hearts pounding inside the car. Ramon, both hands on the wheel now, recovered and muttered, “I wasn’t going to hit him.”
Marina said, “Let’s just turn around and
head for the—”
“Stop!” It was Rain. A jittery Ramon hit the brakes and skidded to a stop about a hundred yards beyond the main gate to San Próspero Cemetery. Rain had turned around in her seat. The steel drums had taken on their own beat, their own edge. The cemetery. If she was seeing ghosts, she’d be sure to see some here. And not just any ghosts. Not just strangers, but the one ghost she’d actually like to see, wish to see. ’Bastian.
Charlie said, “Rain?”
“I want to go in. I was in a fog this morning. I want to go in now.” She opened the passenger door and got out. Charlie climbed onto the trunk and followed. Ramon looked at Marina and shrugged. Finally, they were alone. His arm began to slide back around her shoulder, but she slipped away to pursue Rain.
Rain pushed on the unlocked iron gate. It was always oiled before a funeral, so it glided open smoothly. Charlie caught up to her right elbow, effortlessly. (Like his brothers, he could move when he wanted to.) They crossed into the moonlit graveyard side by side. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He watched her eyes shoot back and forth in her head, looking for ghosts. Before he knew it, he was doing the same. Marina materialized on Rain’s left. She looks spooked too, Charlie thought.
“Hey, wait up!” Ramon shouted, too loud for this hallowed ground. He nearly tripped over a tombstone, trying to catch up. Marina shushed him.
I crept up to the gate and watched from the shadows. Soon all five of us were jerking our heads back and forth at every breath of the wind, every rustle of a leaf. All on the lookout for ghosts that some of us wouldn’t recognize if they walked right through us.
Rain was the only one actually hoping for an apparition. The steel drums were warm and tangy and familiar in her head. They brought comfort. Gave her the confidence to face anything. And really, wouldn’t it be better to have evidence that she wasn’t insane? Wouldn’t it be better to see a ghost, as long as it was the right ghost?