American Ghost

by Paul Guernsey

  Having finished, she would have fought the urge to run to me—she knew I was no longer there—and she definitely would not have let them see her cry. Instead she’d have turned, given them the gun, and walked straight out through the great room to whatever vehicle—car, truck, or scooter—they had waiting out front to carry her back to town.

  As I sat thinking about all those things, it occurred to me that I now knew Cricket in ways I hadn’t while I was alive—how strong she was, for one—and what a pity it was I hadn’t recognized her strength and learned to love it long before. For another instance, I was suddenly certain that she’d held all her tears for me until that day she brought me flowers and set them on the stairs. It was only then that she released her hoard of grief.

  And I forgave her then, of course; she’d done the only thing she could. I began to yearn to send her my message of forgiveness, and gratitude. Ben would have delivered it for me if I asked him to. But I also understood how harmful that would be to Cricket; how it would have turned her into a haunted woman for the rest of her days, her mind wandering partially and prematurely in the afterlife, when there was so much work left for her in the living world. Better for me to stay silent, and give her the time she needed to forgive herself truly and completely. And I hoped she could forgive me as well for not encouraging her to do better for herself than to accompany me down that low road I had chosen. We’d both gotten snared in the darkness there, but she had not deserved it. For that, no matter how many millennia go by and how many stars I see born and die, I don’t think I will ever entirely forgive myself.

  Nor would I forgive Scratch, the author of so much suffering—mine, Cricket’s, Angelfish’s, and of so many other innocent and partly innocent people. Scratch was a monster, and likely to cause further anguish in the future, to the naïve and too-trusting Pickle, and to Pickle’s soon-to-be-born baby. I wished I could step forward to stop him, but I was, after all, nothing but a ghost; my footsteps left no impression on the living earth. Sitting on my stairs brooding about it all, I would have cried if I still had eyes.

  CHAPTER 16

  It was a windy late afternoon, probably past the middle of October and somewhere just beyond the second anniversary of my death. I was riding my stairway to heaven when I heard a vehicle coming down the road; a minute later Ben swerved to a stop in his grandmother’s car.

  “What fresh hell?” I groaned.

  He marched directly to the steps and stood before me, wide-eyed and gasping from having moved so quickly across my overgrown lawn.

  “I hope you’re here!” he announced.

  “You know how to find out,” I said. But apparently he was too busy to sit down with a pen and one of his notebooks. Instead, when he reached into his jacket pocket, it was to produce my Beretta.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said. His finger inside the trigger guard, he gave the gun a dangerous wave.

  “Time,” he said. “It’s time, Thumb. You’re right that the cops would do nothing. But if I want to live with myself for the rest of my life, the only right thing to do is to help that pregnant girl escape.”

  “How about we discuss this?” I said.

  “I don’t want to argue about it with you.” It was almost as if he’d heard me. “You’ll just try to talk me out of it, and I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll be back though; don’t you worry. I’ll have the element of surprise on my side.” This last part he said as if he were trying to convince himself; in fact, he was shaking as he spoke. “And I’ve gotten pretty good with this thing.” He held up the Tomcat, then slid it back into his pocket.

  “So, tomorrow, Thumb. By tomorrow morning, it’ll all be over, and I’ll see you back at gram’s trailer, bright and early. For work. Mr. Muttkowski says we’re making great progress. With the money we make on your book, I’m going to college. And I’m going to make sure my little brother and sister have everything they need.”

  “Ben,” I said, despairingly. “You won’t be going to college. You won’t be helping your brother and sister. Tomorrow bright and early, you’ll be lying in the ocean wrapped in a green tarp, hugging a fucking cinder block. Your gram will never even know what happened to you.”

  He waved an energetic goodbye high in the air, as if I were floating in the sky rather than staring directly into his doughy belly. He then turned, walked back to the car and drove off toward Riverside. I had the strong urge to follow him; I was ready to rise from my concrete step, but held myself back. The painful truth was, I wouldn’t be able to save him, and I didn’t want the remainder of my afterlife haunted by the gruesome images of his almost-certain death.

  Also upsetting was the fact that my book now would never be finished, unless Fred just decided to make everything up—but even as the thought occurred to me, I felt ashamed for thinking it. What was the importance of a book compared to a real-life tragedy, one that I was directly responsible for?

  About twenty minutes later Angelfish, in a ponytail, jeans, and an untucked shirt, appeared at the roadside and came over to settle next to me on the steps for her second and last time ever.

  “Hey, boy,” she said.

  “Hey, lady.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, this dude, Ben, just stopped by … ”

  “I was worried I wouldn’t find you here. I need your help.” I noticed then that her eyes were dark with worry—a lot of that going around all of a sudden.

  “You know that I’m a ghost, don’t you? My ability to help anybody … ”

  “Pickle’s in bad trouble. I heard the Blood Eagles talking. A couple days ago they ran some tests on her at the hospital, and it turns out her baby’s going to need heart surgery as soon as it’s born. Its chances are good, but not a hundred percent, which means that the club won’t be able to sell it as a premium product. They sure don’t want to pay a bunch of money for a heart operation either, or have a sick, expensive kid around their place afterward. On top of it, Pickle said some things to people at the hospital that made Scratch nervous. Which, combined with them seeing her on the surveillance monitor, talking to her mirror all the time—my fault, guilty as charged—they’ve decided she’s seriously cracked, and at least a liability to them, if not an actual danger.”

  I sat thinking. Finally I said, “I don’t suppose they’d just let her go.”

  “Not when they think she’s crazy enough to talk about everything she knows. Scratch is going to take her for a boat ride about an hour from now. Then, as soon as it gets dark … ” Angelfish made a plunging motion with her hand.

  “Oh, Jesus. It’s gonna be an actual slaughterhouse over there. How I wish I was alive.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “Like what? In fact, we are not alive.”

  “You must of learned somewhere along the way that we can make ourselves seen, if we really want to.”

  “What I know is that we’ve got less than a minute of boo in us, and then we’re gone forever. I’ve seen that happen before to other ghosts. How’s that supposed to help?”

  “We don’t really know whether we’re gone forever. No one’s ever come back to tell us.” After a pause, she asked, “Are you afraid?”

  “You know, I might not be if I thought it would actually work. But I don’t see how even the two of us together throwing a short scare into the Blood Eagles will save Pickle—or that asshole, Ben, I was starting to tell you about. After we disintegrate, they’ll just conclude they must’ve gotten a little too high on whatever drugs they were using and seen some things that were never there. Then they’ll go ahead and drown her anyway. Cut Ben into bluefish bait.”

  “Well, I’ve got an idea. In fact, with the special talents each of us has—mine being my ability to talk to Pickle—it’s possible we won’t even have to show ourselves at all, and we’ll live to boo another day. But we each have to be ready to do what we need to do, and when it needs to be done if it comes to that.”

  “And my special talent—the one that’s su
pposed to keep me from having to commit suicide—what is that, exactly?”

  “It’s getting late,” said Angelfish. “Our chance will come as soon as Scratch lets her out of the house to walk down to the boat dock. I haven’t told her what they’re planning—she’d just freak out and lose her shit—but I made her promise to keep checking her mirror whenever they’re not watching her. I figure that once Pickle’s out on the lawn, you’ll be able to distract the Bloods while I get her to run to the nearest house and ask the neighbors to call the cops. If I have to, I’ll use my big boo to block for her.”

  “Distract them? That doesn’t sound like leaving me to fight another day.” But by the time I finished speaking Angelfish had already taken to the air, heading for Riverside and leaving me with no choice but to follow. I was not able to catch up with her until we were past The Magic Hat and our spirit path had widened enough for the two of us to travel side by side without our avatars intersecting. All along the way I scanned the roads below for Ben’s car, but there was no sign of it. I said, “So, what are you seeing as my super-power here? What is it you think I can do to distract them without blowing myself up in the process?”

  She said, “The dogs. It’s good they hate you, Thumb.”

  *

  I finally spotted Ben’s vehicle when we were above the gravel road and almost to the clubhouse. It was sitting off in the woods with the driver’s door yawning, and Ben nowhere in sight. He had either left it there to hide it, or the Blood Eagles had run him off the road and dragged him out of it. As far as the odds went, I figured it was a coin flip.

  Angelfish and I touched down just inside the wrought iron fence. In spite of the wind, Mantis and Fat Harold, both of them on gate duty, were trying to play a card game as they sat on opposite sides of a weathered picnic table. Their weapons, a couple of AK-47s, rested against one of the wooden benches.

  “They must be having trouble with another club,” I said. “That’s why the artillery’s in plain sight, and why they’re doubled up on the gate.” I looked around; still no Ben.

  “Tensions’re high,” confirmed Angelfish. “Somebody got stabbed last week, I’m not sure who.”

  We blew through the front door and past the monitor room, manned by Chimp, who was leaning back in a creaking office chair as he snickered and murmured into a cell phone. As soon as we entered the great room, we knew something was wrong. Although we could sense people all through the different levels of the big house, the two we were looking for were missing. “Pickle’s not here,” Angelfish said.

  “Neither is Scratch.” As soon as I spoke, the three big pit bulls rose from the floor and began barking.

  “Fuck a duck!” said Angelfish. “We’re too late. They must of got an early start. Let’s head down to the dock; maybe they haven’t gotten into the boat yet. Once they get out on the water, we can’t follow them. And even if we could, there’d be nothing we’d be able to do.” We flew through rooms and walls until we popped out the back of the house onto several hundred yards of lawn sloping steeply to the river and a long wooden dock that reached out through withering sea grass past the point at which the low tide could strand a boat. Scratch and Pickle were walking down the lawn toward the dock, where a white, center-console skiff about twenty feet in length sat bobbing. Scratch, carrying a couple of stout fishing rods rigged with treble-hooked bass plugs, had almost reached the dock, while the gravid Pickle—dressed in sweat pants and a nylon jacket which, though buckled at her breast, was open and flapping on either side of her bulging belly—straggled behind, the handle of a picnic basket in one hand and in the other the beautiful blue mirror, which she held in the air above her head.

  “We have to get down there,” Angelfish said. She swooped toward the river, and I followed her closely.

  “Earth to Angelfish!” Pickle called softly as she peered up into her own reflection. Scratch stopped, stiffened, and looked over his shoulder—but Pickle had shoved the mirror behind her back before he turned.

  “What’d you say?” he asked. It was apparent Scratch had not shaved for several days; the tattoos on his face were receding behind a dust of grayish whiskers.

  Pickle answered, “I said, how come we’re going fishing now, when it’s gonna be dark in a hour?”

  “I told you, the big stripers don’t start biting until the sun goes down. But, that’s not what you said.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “You said, ‘Angelfish.’”

  “I guess I did, yeah. I still miss her, so I talk to her sometimes.”

  “Well fucking cut it out. It gives me the creeps.” Scratch turned toward the dock again and Pickle brought the mirror out of concealment. Just as Angelfish moved to line herself up with the glass, Pickle began her twirling dance.

  “Goddamn it to hell!” Angelfish yelled. She looked at me and said, “Thumb, fly up and get those dogs. Bring them down here.”

  “How do I … ”

  “When they bark at the door to the Great Room, the dude in the monitor room lets them out onto the front lawn. So, all you have to do is make them bark.” She then glided behind Pickle and began mirroring her movements while calling, “Pickle, stop! Pickle! Pickle! Stop the fucking twirling!”

  As I was heading back to the house, I was relieved to hear Pickle say, “Oh! There you are!”

  “Bitch, shut up!” hissed Angelfish.

  “What?” said Scratch.

  “My comb!” said Pickle. “I found it in my pocket!”

  “Pickle! Stand still! Listen … Pickle! Do not get in that boat!”

  I flew through the back of the house and spun around above the three dogs yelling, “Dogs! Dogs! Dogs!” When I had their alarmed attention, I drew them toward the door to the entrance hall and I passed feet first through its wooden panels. I then hovered on the other side calling, “Here boy! Come on, boy!” as they lunged, and roared, and slobbered.

  But Chimp, still caressing the phone with his lips, ignored them. “I’ll show you exactly what it’s good for,” he assured the woman at the other end. “And you won’t have to wonder anymore.”

  I stuck my head back inside—the dogs clearly sensed me there—and yelled a few curses at them. Raging, they threw themselves fully against the door, their combined weight threatening to pop it from its frame.

  “Hey!” Chimp finally shouted, lowering the phone. Then, after putting the phone back to his mouth he said, “Darling, I’ll call you back. These fucking dogs are going batshit here, and I gotta let them out before they wreck the fucking place.” He stood, opened the door to the great room, and called out, “Easy! Easy!” as the three of them charged past him and into the entryway. I ghosted through the front door, and as soon as Chimp had released the dogs onto the lawn I lured them around the house and down the slope toward the boat dock.

  Pickle, with Angelfish at her side, had moved back up the lawn toward the house. She was facing the river with the mirror behind her back as Scratch, the fishing rods still in his hand, stood glaring at her.

  Pickle was saying, “You know, I changed my mind, Scratch. I really don’t like the water. I’m really kind of afraid of it.”

  “I’m about out of patience with you,” Scratch said. “Come down here and get in the fucking boat.”

  Meanwhile Angelfish, in a desperate voice, was saying, “Pickle. Look in the mirror. Pickle, don’t go back to the house. They’ll kill you if you go back to the house”—none of which Pickle could hear, because she was concealing the mirror.

  Running behind me, the dogs swarmed past Pickle and Angelfish and rallied around Scratch’s legs. Scratch said, “Why the hell are these dogs down here?” He looked down at them as the four of us circled him, the three dogs barking and growling in furious confusion. Pickle took advantage of his distraction to turn toward the house and peek into her mirror. Standing before her, Angelfish bent over the mirror with the top of her head just beneath Pickle’s chin; this upside down view of Angelfish must have startled Pickle because
she flinched when she saw it. Angelfish said, “Don’t go back to the house. Go to the neighbor’s house. Run, if you can.”

  Pickle stood straight, gave a moon-eyed glance toward Scratch, dropped the basket she carried, and began moving in the direction of the nearest neighbor’s house as fast as her pregnant belly would let her move.

  “Pickle! Get back here!” Scratch shouted. Toward the house he yelled, “Mantis!” When Mantis appeared at the top of the slope, Scratch called, “Come and get these fucking dogs.” Then: “Pickle! Goddamn it!” He threw down the fishing rods and began loping toward her, the dogs scrambling alongside. He easily caught up with her, grabbed her by the shoulder, and spun her around. He drew back his arm, seemingly ready to club her with a closed hand, then saw that she was clutching the mirror. Instead of hitting her, he ripped the mirror from her fingers and pitched it out toward the river. Flashing, the mirror spun end over end as it arced down to slice into the black, rolling water and disappear. By that time, Angelfish and I were both standing near them.

  “That means I’m all finished now,” Angelfish cried out to me. “I can’t talk to her anymore. The rest is all on you.” Above us, Mantis and Fat Harold were walking down the lawn toward the dock, while Chimp stood up by the house, watching. Still no sight of Ben anywhere.

  I stepped in beside Scratch and started shouting at the dogs, calling them names and using my Spanish to insult their mothers. They went wild again, barking and snapping their jaws as they pressed against Scratch’s legs—though they showed no sign of wanting to bite their boss.

  “Shut up!” Scratch yelled at the dogs. When he let go of Pickle in order to kick them away, she staggered off again, but he easily recaptured her a moment later.

  “Got to do better, dude,” Angelfish urged. So I screamed, I swore, and finally I ghosted right inside of Scratch so that whatever sounds or movements of mine the dogs detected would seem to be coming from him. This was enough to trigger one of the two black pit bulls; the dog launched and locked its jaws around Scratch’s forearm, and as soon as its hind feet hit the ground again it began snapping its head as if hoping to tear the arm off.