The Ghost of Second Chances

by Anna J. McIntyre

  “Ahh yes, the reproductions. I forgot all about those. What are you going to do with them?” Walt asked.

  Danielle smiled at him. “Me? Well, it’s not really up to me. They belong to you now. Well, at least they belonged to Clint.”

  “When I was a spirit, I didn’t mind having my portrait in the library. I suppose I saw it as a way of exerting my presence. Yet now, it feels a little bit like it did when Angela gave them to me—too much. No one needs a life-sized portrait of himself.”

  “We don’t need to decide what to do with them now. I don’t have a problem with putting them in the library where the originals were. I will confess, I find I rather miss the portraits, even Angela’s.”

  Walt shrugged. “It’s up to you, Danielle. Whatever you want to do with them is fine with me.”

  “For now, I think it best they stay in storage, at least until the portraits Chris purchased are officially deemed authentic Bonnets. I don’t need Macbeth or any of his cronies breaking into Marlow House for the paintings. Then I suppose we can have Clint’s things delivered here, and you can go through his suitcase and see what you want to keep.”

  Walt cringed. “No. Sounds ghoulish. I’d rather we just donate his belongings to some charity.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Most definitely.” Walt yawned.

  “I guess you probably want to get to bed?” Danielle asked.

  “I’d like to take a shower first.” Walt glanced to the adjoining bathroom.

  “I assume the nurses at the hospital showed you how to do that with a cast on?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to have to bother you for a few things.”

  “Just so you know, I already purchased an assortment of toiletry items for you. I put everything in your bathroom. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so in some cases—like with razors—I bought you several different kinds.” She paused a moment and eyed his emerging beard. “Although, not sure you’ll need those.”

  Walt reached up and stroked his chin while smiling at Danielle. “You don’t like my beard?”

  “I’m not much for beards, but I have to say that looks rather nice on you.”

  Walt let out a sigh. “To be honest, it was not a style choice on my part. I forgot how tedious it was to shave my face every morning. And then one slip with the razor? After decades of not feeling pain, it’s amazing how excruciating a razor cut can feel.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to shave because you’re afraid you might cut yourself again?” Danielle grinned mischievously.

  “No.” Walt sounded insulted. “The mention of the cut was more a side note. I’m not confessing to being afraid of a razor—I’m confessing to being lazy.”

  Danielle laughed. “So tell me, Walt, we haven’t really had a chance to discuss it. Certainly not with that busybody roommate you had in the hospital always listening to our conversation. What’s it like for you now—being in a body again? Is it what you expected?”

  Walt considered her question a moment and waved his hand. If he expected a cigar to appear, he was sorely disappointed. He stared at his empty hand and said, “For one thing, I can’t do that anymore.”

  “You said you didn’t miss smoking.”

  Walt shook his head. “I don’t. Not in the way a smoker misses it. This body is not addicted to nicotine, so I haven’t any physical desire to smoke. I suppose it’s more a habit, something I was used to doing with my hands. Although, when I think about it, I didn’t really have hands, did I? Just an illusion of hands.” He grinned at her.

  “So nothing else?”

  “Oh no, there are many things I never considered. The itching, for instance.”

  “Itching?”

  Walt glanced at his broken leg and then leaned down and patted the cast. “This itches, a sensation I haven’t experienced in ninety years. While annoying, I have to admit, it’s also a reminder of how my physical sensory perception switch has been turned on again.”

  “Like when I pinched you?”

  “No. That just hurt.” Walt flashed Danielle an unconvincing scowl.

  “Sorry about that.” Her apology was no more convincing than his scowl.

  “Getting used to my physical being has been a bit of an adjustment. I recall the first day awake, I felt so—grungy. This body hadn’t been bathed for several days, aside from a sponge bath, and I found the sensation of unclean skin unpleasant.”

  “I always heard that back in your day people weren’t into bathing.”

  “I suppose that might have been true for some people, but I rather looked forward to my daily shower.”

  “When I first moved into Marlow House, I didn’t think much about the showers in the bathrooms. I later learned they wouldn’t have been common back when you were alive.”

  “True.” Walt nodded. “I added them about a year before my death. I wanted to modernize the house.”

  Danielle glanced around the bedroom. “Didn’t you tell me this room was your grandparents’?”

  “Yes. When my grandfather had the plans for this house drawn up, it included two master suites, this one and the one you’re in now. When they first moved into the house, my grandparents used your room, which became my room in later years. They moved to the downstairs bedroom when it became difficult for them to use the stairs, which had always been the plan.”

  “And I appreciate his foresight—and yours.” Danielle grinned.

  “An interesting story my grandfather once told me. When he had the house built, he wanted a private staircase from one of the upstairs bedrooms to the attic.”

  Danielle frowned. “Why?”

  “I’m not really sure. But apparently my grandmother didn’t like the idea, so they boarded it up.”

  “You mean there’s a hidden staircase in this house that leads to the attic?” Danielle asked incredulously.

  “To be honest, I was never sure if the stairs were scrapped while drawing up the house plans or after the house was under construction. My grandfather was never clear on the subject, and I didn’t pursue it.”

  “Which bedroom?” Danielle asked.

  Walt shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I always assumed it was from your room.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Why is that?” Walt asked.

  “Haunted houses and hidden staircases, they sort of go together.”

  Walt chuckled. “Technically speaking, Marlow House is no longer haunted.

  “I don’t know about that, considering how often Marie and Eva drop by.”

  “True.”

  “So is there anything else you’ve been more aware of since taking over Clint’s body? Maybe something that you had forgotten about?”

  There was, but Walt certainly had no intention of sharing it with Danielle. After ninety years of never having to use the bathroom, it was something he realized he certainly hadn’t missed. Instead he shared, “Being tired—and sleeping. I forgot what that felt like.” Walt yawned.

  Danielle stood up. “I guess that’s my cue to let you get ready for bed. Do you need me to get anything for you?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll need two large plastic trash bags, a hand towel, masking tape, an Ace bandage, and a rubber band. Do we even have all that? I’m sorry, I should have said something earlier.”

  “Whatever do you need all that for?” Danielle frowned.

  “The nurse showed me how to cover my cast to take a shower. That’s what I need. But if we don’t have all that here, I suppose I could take a sponge bath tonight.” Walt didn’t look happy at the prospect.

  “Oh, you don’t need all that stuff,” Danielle chirped. She walked to the adjoining bathroom and returned with a package. She handed it to Walt.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I ordered it online. It’s better than a plastic bag. You slip it on your leg, and it seals on top so your cast stays dry. It got great reviews.”

  Holding the package in hand, Walt smiled u
p at Danielle. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

  Danielle shrugged. “I just wanted to make the transition as easy as possible for you.”

  “Thank you, Danielle. Thanks for everything.”

  She glanced from him to the door leading to the front hall and then to the bathroom door and back to Walt. “Umm…do you need any help…umm…taking a shower?”

  Walt grinned up at her. “I appreciate the offer. But I think I have this under control.”

  “Do you want me to help you with that thing?” Danielle nodded to the package in his hand.

  He shook his head. “No. It looks like it has directions. I’m sure I can manage.”

  “Okay. Well, if you need anything…”

  “I have the cellphone you gave me. And I have Max here. He’s agreed to stay with me tonight. If I forget how to use the cellphone, I can always send him up to get you.”

  Danielle glanced down at Max and chuckled. “I just hope he lets you sleep.”

  Before leaving the room, Danielle dropped a quick kiss on Walt’s cheek and whispered, “Goodnight, Walt.” Just as she started to turn away, he grabbed her right hand and pulled her back to him. Without a word, their lips met for a brief yet intimate kiss. When the kiss ended, Danielle smiled down at Walt and silently left the bedroom.

  Without incident, Walt managed to undress and slip the plastic cast protector over his broken leg. Waiting for him in the shower was a bench Danielle had obviously placed there for him yet had failed to mention earlier. It was similar to the one he had used at the hospital. Walt smiled at all she had done for him.

  Max stood guard at the bathroom door, prepared to run upstairs for help should Walt slip and fall in the shower. Fortunately, Walt managed to bathe without falling. After his shower, he dried off and removed the plastic protector and set it over a towel bar to air out.

  Glancing down at the cat, he said, “Max, I’m not up to making my rounds. Can you check out the rooms on the lower floor, then the upstairs? Make sure everything is how it should be, and then come back here?” It wasn’t the spoken words Max understood, it was the mental telepathy projected from Walt. The cat let out a meow and then turned and ran from the room.

  Hopping toward the bathroom sink, Walt looked into the mirror. He still hadn’t gotten used to seeing his reflection. Or was it Clint’s? He leaned closer to the mirror and inspected the faint scar along his forehead. They had removed the stitches before he had left the hospital, and the nurse had noted how well the injury seemed to be healing.

  Rubbing the tip of one finger over the faint scar, Walt studied it in the mirror.

  “I can’t even see where the stitches were,” he muttered under his breath. “Amazing.”

  Eight

  Chet wasn’t in a hurry to get back to Frederickport on Wednesday evening. He knew his sister, Laverne, would just start griping at him again about how he had to do more around the house and start paying rent or, better yet, move out. It wasn’t as if she was using her extra bedroom anyway. She didn’t have any kids, and no one ever visited her. If anything, she should be happy to have the company, especially since her husband had left her. But she didn’t appreciate him. Just that morning he had reminded her how lonely she would be if he left. She had countered with one of her typically snarky remarks, something about getting a dog if she needed company.

  Instead of going back to his sister’s tonight, Chet figured he would crash at the Bandoni brothers’ house in Astoria. That would teach her a lesson, he thought. He would let her spend a night alone, wondering where he was and worrying about him. In the morning, when he went back home, she would be relieved to see he was all right, and then she would shut up for a while about him finding an apartment.

  “I’m out,” Chet said as he tossed his playing cards on the table. He sat with the Bandoni brothers at their well-worn pine dining room table off their small kitchen, playing poker. On the kitchen counter was a stack of empty pizza boxes. They had finished off the pizza an hour earlier. The boxes wouldn’t fit in the trash can; it was brimming with empty beer bottles.

  A few minutes later Arlo Bandoni, the middle brother, started shuffling the deck for a new hand when his older brother, Franco, told Chet, “I’ve only seen Boatman’s picture. But she looked hot. And you say she has a thing for you?”

  “Yeah, right,” Arlo muttered under his breath as he started dealing the cards. Arlo, who was a year younger than Franco and a year older than their baby brother, Angelo, was the tallest of the siblings, yet only by a quarter inch. They were all big men, in height and breadth—intimidatingly so.

  “Laugh if you want, Arlo,” Chet snapped. “Like I said, right after I told her she would look better with short hair, she ran out and cut it. The very next day. When I saw her again, she was so freaking embarrassed; it was hilarious.”

  “Not sure how that means she has a thing for you,” Angelo said as he picked up the cards his brother had dealt him and began arranging them in his hand.

  “He’s right, Angelo.” Franco spoke up. “Women, they like a man who tells them what to do.”

  “Not the women I know,” Angelo grumbled.

  “That’s because you’re too soft on them!” Franco scolded.

  “I agree with Angelo. It’s all this feminist crap they’re feeding women. Makes them think they don’t need a man,” Arlo countered.

  “It’s a lie they tell themselves,” Franco told his brother. “These days, women don’t know what they want. It’s up to us to tell them. And sometimes when they don’t listen, you need to remind them who’s boss. Sounds to me like this Boatman was embarrassed when she saw Chet again because she had been fed all that women’s lib crap. She doesn’t know what to think.” Franco turned to Chet. “This is when you need to take a firm hand. Let her know who’s boss and who she belongs to. That’s what she’s waiting for.”

  “You think so?” Arlo asked.

  “Damn right!” Franco insisted.

  “I like making them twist and turn a little,” Chet said with a laugh. “I don’t want her to feel too confident about me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wait too long. That woman has money,” Franco said.

  “No kidding,” Angelo agreed.

  “If it were me, I’d already be making myself at home at Marlow House. And once you get married, then you take over managing the money. A woman has no business managing all that money,” Franco said.

  “Marriage?” Chet squeaked. “Who said anything about marriage?”

  “What good is a hot woman with a crap load of money if you don’t marry her? You just date her, and then she calls the shots. No way!” Franco said.

  “Yeah, she is hot. And she is loaded. But I don’t think I want to settle down with just one woman,” Chet whined.

  The brothers laughed.

  Chet frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re hilarious, Chet,” Angelo said with a grin. “Who ever said marriage meant you can’t see other women? If anything, it makes it better because then your other women know their place and you avoid all the BS of them trying to get you to walk down the aisle.”

  “Being faithful to a spouse is the wife’s job. A real woman expects her man to have something on the side,” Franco said.

  Chet was about to ask how they all knew so much about women since none of them had ever been married, and as far as he knew, none of them was seeing anyone, when someone started pounding loudly on the front door.

  “It’s after midnight. Who’s that?” Franco grumbled as he stood and tossed his cards, facedown, on the table. No one else bothered getting up, but all turned toward the front door and watched as Franco went to answer it.

  “Mac!” Franco exclaimed after opening the door.

  As Macbeth Bandoni walked into the house, Angelo and Arlo stood up, while Chet remained seated.

  “What are you doing here?” the cousins asked in unison.

  “I’ve been driving all day,” Mac grumbled as he tossed the d
uffle bag he had been carrying to the corner. “We’ve got a job to finish.” The next moment Mac spied Chet sitting at the table, watching him.

  “Hello, Mac,” Chet greeted him coolly.

  “What’s he doing here?” Mac asked his cousins.

  “We didn’t know you were coming,” Angelo said lamely.

  “You need to go. I have to talk to my cousins,” Mac told Chet.

  “We’re playing poker,” Chet told him.

  “The game’s over,” Mac said.

  Chet glanced from Franco to the other two brothers. They just shrugged, and no one contradicted Mac.

  “It is kind of late,” Franco said. “Maybe we should call it quits.” In response, Arlo leaned over and started gathering all the cards into one pile.

  “I was hoping I could crash here tonight,” Chet said.

  “Not tonight,” Mac told him.

  Chet looked to Franco.

  With another shrug Franco said, “Some other night, Chet. This is family business.”

  Laverne Morrison had taken back her maiden name. When doing that, she had never intended to revert back to her premarriage self—specifically that of looking after her younger brother, Chet. Yet after his troubles in Missouri, she didn’t feel she could turn him away.

  However, Laverne Morrison was a different person from who she had been in her youth. If she wouldn’t put up with a deadbeat husband, why would she allow her brother to continue taking advantage of her? She had given him plenty of chances—more than he deserved.

  She glanced at the clock in her kitchen. It was after midnight. The dirty dishes filling the sink weren’t hers. Well, technically, the pots, pans, dishes, glasses, and silverware belonged to her. She just hadn’t used them. Chet had.

  From the kitchen she walked to the guest bathroom. Standing in the doorway, hands on hips, she looked into the room and surveyed the damp towels littering the floor and counter, and the pile of dirty clothes shoved in the corner. They were Chet’s clothes.