Kindred Spirits

by Jean Marie Bauhaus

  “Open your eyes,” Ron said. He did. The first thing he saw was her smiling face. “It worked. You’re a free man.”

  He broke into a grin as he took in his surroundings. It was a peaceful place. Sturdy oaks far older than he was cast shade over cement pathways lined with wooden benches. The monuments looked mostly modern to his eyes, tall squarish things made of granite and engraved with the epitaphs of those who lay beneath. The one before him was simple and low to the ground. The image of a praying child was engraved above a name. The dates below it told of a life cut far, far too short.

  His expression grew somber. “So this is it.”

  “Yeah.”

  Joe released Ron’s hand and crouched at the foot of his daughter’s grave.

  “Of course,” she went on, “this isn’t where she was originally buried. But you know that already, seeing as how you were there the day they buried her. They paved over that cemetery decades ago and built on top of it. I can verify that they actually moved the bodies first, though.”

  He waved a hand over the plot. “This is where you and Chris dug her up, to get her ball back?”

  “Well, technically, Gus did all the digging, but yeah.”

  Joe nodded. He reached down and laid his hand on the well-manicured grass. “No flowers,” he noted. “I s’pose that shouldn’t surprise me, seeing as how anyone who’d care to bring any is long gone by now.”

  “That can change. I’m sure Chris would be happy to—”

  “Nah.” He stood up. “She ain’t here, anyhow. She’s far past where flowers’d do her any good. Still…” He looked around and nodded, satisfied. “This is a nice place. I’m glad I got to see it.” He allowed himself a moment to feel an odd mix of emotions until they grew so powerful they threatened to choke him. When he spoke next, he had to force the words out. “Wherever you are, Clarice, I hope you’re happy. You and your ma.”

  They stood there a moment in silence. When he was ready, he turned to take in the rest of the cemetery. “So where are you buried?”

  Ron blinked. “Oh! Um…” She looked around and pointed. “Over that way, next to my mom.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Sure, why not? It’s quite a walk from here. Would you rather pop over?”

  “Nah.” He took her hand. “I’m feeling like a stroll.”

  She smiled and they started down the path. It was a large cemetery, not like the little church graveyards from his day. He figured half the city’s dead was buried here. As they went, he noticed that a lot of the figures milling about appeared not to be just visiting. “There’s a lot of dead folk here, aren’t there?”

  Ron looked at him sideways. “It is a cemetery.”

  “I don’t mean bodies. I mean like us. You see ‘em, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “A lot of spirits haunt their graves.” Her mouth turned down in a cute little frown. “Which I suppose is technically something I’m about to do.” Looking around at all the other spirits, her frown deepened. “I wonder if they even know they don’t have to be stuck here.”

  “Hey, focus.” Joe squeezed her hand. “One mission at a time.”

  She gave him a guilty look. “Fine. Maybe once this business with Jimmy’s done, we can both come back here and see—” She abruptly stopped both speaking and walking. Joe followed her startled gaze, which was fixed on a man who stood at the end of a grave, looking thoughtfully at the headstone. He looked to be one of the living, oblivious to the two of them.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Ron’s look of astonishment fell into one of dejection. “It’s my dad.”

  Joe looked again at the man, more closely this time. They were still some distance from him, but he could recognize Ron’s jawline on the man. Anger flooded Joe, clenching his hand into a fist as he remembered how the man had treated Ron, blaming her for her mother’s accidental death. But, for Ron’s sake, he kept it in check. “At least he’s visiting your grave,” he offered by way of encouragement.

  “No,” she said, her voice lacking anger or bitterness or anything other than tired resignation, “that’s my mom’s grave. I’m the next one over, on the left.”

  “It’s pretty. And it looks like he put flowers on it.”

  “My Aunt Judy probably put those there. Chris says she visits every week.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was in town. Chris didn’t say anything.”

  “She’s been a little preoccupied lately.”

  “Yeah.” She grew still as her father turned his head and looked at her grave. Joe leaned in and put his arm around her. She clutched the front of his shirt as she watched. Her father stared at her grave for a good, long minute. Then he turned his back on it and walked down the path toward a dark gray automobile.

  Ron relaxed. “Coast is clear.” She kept her voice light, but Joe could hear the disappointment she tried to mask. “Come on.”

  He followed her as far as her mother’s grave, where she stopped to examine the flowers that had been left there. “I’m over there.” She pointed at the next headstone over. Joe left her to have a minute with her thoughts while he examined her headstone.

  “Veronica Jessica Wilson,” it read above her birth and death dates. “Beloved daughter and sister.” Below that it said, “She’s gone to the place that’s the best.” Joe read that part out loud, and looked back at Ron. “Is that so?”

  She smiled as she came over to join him. “It’s a song lyric. And Chris’s sense of humor.”

  “But is it true?”

  She grinned and stood on her toes for a kiss. He happily obliged. Afterward, she leaned into him and snuggled her head against his chest with a contented sigh. “You bet it is.”

  He held her a moment at the foot of her grave, taking in the signs of life around them. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, but when she pulled back, she wore a slight frown. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to have these fantasies that I would die and at my funeral, my dad would be so sorry that he’d throw himself on my casket and cry and wail about how he wished he could take it all back and do it all over.” She glanced up at his furrowed brow and shrugged a shoulder. “You know how kids are. Anyway…” Her voice trailed off with a sigh.

  “Maybe he is sorry. He’s just not so good at showing it.”

  “Yeah, right. He couldn’t even stand the sight of my grave.”

  “That’s not exactly a sight most fathers would look gladly on,” he pointed out. “Maybe it hurts him too much.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you give him too much credit.” She stood up a little straighter, setting her jaw in a way that made Joe flash back to her father. “So, have you seen enough?”

  “I have.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Eight

  This time, Chris parked in the driveway next to Derek’s Mustang. She still felt some trepidation as she approached his front door. Sure, she’d been invited, but she never knew what she was going to get with this guy. Her fears were put at ease before she could even reach over to ring the bell when Derek opened the door to greet her.

  “You came.” He sounded relieved.

  “I said I would,” she reminded him as he waved her inside. “Is everything okay?” She paused to look around. The house looked homey, if a bit on the masculine side. She took in Derek’s appearance as he took her purse from her and hung it in a nearby closet. He’d showered and shaved since this morning. He looked a lot less rumpled in a fresh pair of jeans and a University of Oklahoma t-shirt, but he still looked worn out.

  “He’s not talking.” Derek went from the closet to the coffee table in the living room, upon which sat the ghost box. “Either that or this thing’s not working.” He turned to her, his face anxious. “Is he here? Can you see him?”

  Chris looked around. A breakfast bar was all that separated the living room from the kitchen, and Jimmy wasn’t visible in either room. “Is there a place he might go to rest? A place that’s just his?”
>
  “His room.” He led her into a hallway and paused at the first door. “I’d always planned to turn it into a home gym or something, but I never got around to it.” He placed his hand on the knob and paused, seeming to consider what he’d just told her. “Or maybe, on some level, I just knew that was a bad idea.”

  He let that thought hang there as he opened the door to reveal a typical teen boy’s room. The posters on the wall were straight out of the late ‘Nineties. Suddenly, Chris felt transported back to junior high. Scanning the room, she stepped inside and smiled. On the bed, stretched out amid scattered Scrabble tiles, lay Jimmy, sound asleep. He was barely visible—just an outline, really—but easy to see if you knew what to look for.

  And if you had a knack for seeing that sort of thing.

  “He’s here,” she whispered.

  “He is?” Derek matched her whisper as he looked around.

  She put her fingers to her lips in a shushing motion and backed out of the room, motioning for him to follow. Back in the hall, she shut the door quietly before leading Derek back to the living room.

  “Why are we being quiet?”

  “He’s sleeping. You must’ve really worn him out last night.”

  “All we did was talk.” He sounded defensive.

  “Yeah, but he had to use Scrabble tiles,” she reminded him. “That takes a lot of effort. And he’s still new at this.”

  “Of course.” Derek blew out a sigh and raked his hand through his hair. “I should’ve realized.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was probably the best night of Jimmy’s afterlife. He just needs time to recover.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.” He stood there a moment, apparently lost in thought. Then he gave a little start as if remembering he had company. “Oh, um, sorry.” He motioned toward the sofa. “Make yourself at home.” He rubbed his face vigorously, as if trying to wake himself up. Then he announced, “I could sure use a beer. Would you like one?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Anything else I can get you?” he asked as he went into the kitchen. “Coffee? Water? I’ve still got those donuts.”

  “I’m good,” Chris assured him as she took a seat on the leather sofa. She took a moment to admire his decor. “You have a nice place. Not quite what I expected.”

  He shut the fridge door and glanced back at her. “What did you expect?”

  The question was punctuated with the hiss of escaping air as he pried the lid off his beer bottle. He tilted it to his lips as he padded back into the room. Only then did she notice his bare feet. Chris suppressed a smile. She’d gotten used to seeing him on television in his tailored suits.

  She realized that, despite their history, she’d come to think of him mainly as Derek Brandt the Local Celebrity Reporter. Seeing him standing in his own living room, shoeless, disheveled and chugging a beer, served as a nice reminder that he was just a guy—and a charming guy at that—when he wasn’t deliberately antagonistic.

  She realized he was watching her expectantly, apparently waiting for an answer. She shrugged. “I would’ve pictured you in high-rise loft, or maybe a McMansion in a gated community.” He wrinkled his nose as if she couldn’t have pegged him more wrong. “This,” she added, taking it all in with her gaze, “is just so homey.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s home.” He settled into the Eames chair next to the couch and propped up his feet. “I inherited it from my parents. Well, technically, my mom signed it over to me when she moved to Florida. So I guess that’s not quite the same. Still,” he said, looking around the room as she had, “it’s always been home, except for the years I spent at college.”

  “That’s really nice.”

  He looked at her as if trying to ascertain whether she meant it. “Some would call it pathetic.”

  “Well then, those people are pathetic. I would’ve loved getting to stay in my childhood home.”

  “Did you move around a lot?”

  “No, but my dad couldn’t stand it there after my mom died, so he sold it and moved us to an apartment across town.”

  He took a thoughtful sip, then nodded. “That’s understandable. God knows it wasn’t easy coming back to this place every day after what happened to Jimmy.” His gaze drifted over to the entryway as he spoke.

  “Is that where it happened?”

  He nodded, his brow furrowed and his eyes far away. Watching him, Chris realized that he hadn’t needed an awareness of Jimmy’s presence in order to feel haunted all these years. Shaking himself back to the present, he said, “So how old were you when your mom passed away, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I don’t. I was eight.”

  He winced at that. “Man. That’s a rough time to lose your mom.”

  Chris nodded but gave a slight shrug. “I’m not sure there’s ever a good time to lose your mom.”

  His eyebrows lifted at that, and he nodded. “How’d it happen?”

  “She fell down the stairs.”

  He frowned. “Isn’t that the same way your sister died?”

  “Sort of. Technically, Ron was pushed. After her neck was already broken. Mom just slipped on a toy and hit her head too hard.”

  Derek seemed to consider all of this, then leaned forward, planting his feet on the floor and dangling the beer bottle between his knees. “Wait, so you’re saying your sister was murdered?”

  Chris felt her mouth twist into a grim half-smirk. “It’s a long story.”

  “So? We’ve got time. If you feel like talking about it, that is.”

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but just then, the ghost box lit up. The phrase, “What’s going on?” came from it in a mix of staticy voices. Derek jumped to his feet and stared in startled wonder at the box. Chris looked around the room, then turned to see Jimmy standing behind the couch.

  “You’re awake!”

  Derek looked from the box to where Chris’s gaze was focused. “Say something else.”

  Jimmy looked down at the box on the coffee table. “What is that thing?” Chris heard the question in stereo as the box echoed his words.

  Derek set his beer on the table and knelt on the floor before picking up the box. “This thing is amazing.”

  At Jimmy’s confused look, Chris explained, “It’s a way for you to talk to Derek. It should be a lot easier for you than pushing tiles around.”

  “Cool.” Jimmy and the box spoke simultaneously.

  Derek laughed, his face lit up with delight. “You said it, big brother.”

  His reaction drew a grin from Jimmy. Chris realized she was smiling as well. They were apparently both so busy watching Derek that they both lapsed into silence until his grin faded and he shook the box. “Is it still working?”

  Jimmy looked at Chris, and she motioned for him to say something. “So, uh, you guys are good now, right?”

  Derek’s features melted into relief. With a sigh, he set the box down and got to his feet. “Yeah,” he said, addressing the box. Then he glanced uncertainly at Chris. “At least, I think so.”

  She smiled. “We’re good.”

  He returned her smile. “Good.” His eyes crinkled up at the corners in a really appealing way as he met her gaze. Flutter. Chris coughed and tore her gaze away.

  “Hey, so is that drink offer still on the table?”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure. What would you like?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  “Sure. Hang on.” He started toward the kitchen, then turned back and said, “Jimmy, don’t go anywhere. Okay?”

  “I won’t,” Jimmy said, laughing. The box picked up his words but not his laughter. He met Chris’s gaze and shook his head, smiling in amusement.

  After a moment, Derek returned and handed Chris a bottled water. “Thanks,” she told him. After a sip, she asked, “So, Jimmy, why do you think you’re still here?”

  “Getting right down to business.” Derek perched on the Eames footrest.

  Jimmy looked at her in confusion. “Because Derek just asked
me not to leave?” It came out as a question, and Derek grinned at the box.

  “No, I mean, why haven’t you crossed over? Is there still something you need to say to Derek?”

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “I think I already said it.”

  “So what’s still holding you here?”

  “I don’t know. I guess… I mean, I had a great time last night, talking to Derek. And look at him.” He jerked his head toward his brother. “He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time.”

  Derek’s eyebrows drew together at the accusation, but the smile didn’t quite leave his face. “That’s not true.”

  “It is. I’ve watched you all these years. I’ve seen how sad you were. How angry. And how driven you were by it.”

  “Yeah, well.” He leaned forward to retrieve his half-drunken beer from the table. “You’d have been the same way if our situations had been reversed.”

  “You’re right about that. Except I’m the big brother. It was my job to keep you safe, and I did. If I hadn’t, if those guys had killed you instead of me…” He trailed off into silence. Derek frowned at the box. He started to reach for it, but Chris reached out and stayed his hand, letting him know with a look that he should wait.

  “Anyway,” Jimmy resumed at last, “it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Derek insisted. “I had Dad’s gun. I could’ve stopped them. If I could’ve just…if I hadn’t been so scared…”

  “That gun almost got you killed. You think I could’ve ever forgiven myself for that?”

  Derek sighed. “No, I guess not.”

  “You were just a kid. Maybe Dad should’ve trained you on how to use the gun, or maybe I should’ve, so you would have known what to do if you ever needed to use it. But we didn’t, and that’s not your fault.”

  Derek sat silently, contemplating the bottle in his hands. Chris watched him, picturing the boy he’d been, holding the power to protect himself and his brother in his small hands and not having the proper ability to use it. This time, she didn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch him on the arm.

  He glanced up at her touch and gave her a little smile. It looked to be somewhere between embarrassment and appreciation. She offered him an encouraging smile in return. Then she straightened up and pulled her hand into her lap, drowning another stupid flutter with another sip of water. When her composure returned, she set the bottle on the table and stood up.