Laverne moved to the guest bedroom. Chet had had the audacity to lock the door, but it wasn’t going to keep her out. She didn’t even need a key; a small screwdriver would work. Unlocking the door, she threw it open and shook her head at the mess that was her guest room. It was obvious he hadn’t laundered the bedsheets since his arrival. They looked utterly disgusting. Laverne didn’t think she would bother washing them. Better to throw them away—or perhaps use them to wrap up Chet’s belongings.
Fuming over the mess her brother had made, she stomped back to the kitchen and grabbed several large trash bags from the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Returning to the bathroom, she scooped up all his dirty clothes from the floor and shoved them into a bag. She then marched to the guest bedroom.
In the bedroom she removed his suitcases from the closet and began hastily packing them. What she couldn’t fit into a suitcase, she intended to shove in one of the plastic bags. Afraid Chet might show up before she was finished, she hastily packed, carelessly folding his clean clothes.
One by one she opened the dresser drawers, dumping their contents onto the bed before shoving it into a suitcase. What came tumbling out of the sock drawer gave her pause. Laverne stood at the side of the unmade bed, looking down at the pile of socks. Nestled atop it was a small handgun.
“Chet has a gun?” Laverne muttered. “I thought he couldn’t have a gun?”
Warily, Laverne picked up the pistol and inspected it. Familiar with handguns, she looked to see if it was loaded. It was. Chet has no business having a gun, she thought. Should he be found with it in his possession, he could get sent to jail—again.
Chet pulled up to the front of his sister’s house. All the lights were off. He was still annoyed at having to drive all the way back to Frederickport—especially considering the number of beers he had consumed. The last thing he needed was to get busted for drinking and driving. Fortunately, he managed to drive from Astoria to Frederickport without getting pulled over. Now, all he wanted to do was fall into bed.
He didn’t see the suitcases and filled trash bags as he walked up to the front of the house, because it was too dark. It wasn’t until he tripped over them did he realized they were there. The motion light installed by the front door flashed on just as he stumbled over the pile. Once the light turned on, he recognized the suitcases.
“What the…” he grumbled, snatching up the envelope taped to one of the bags. He tore it open.
The letter inside read: Chet, you can’t stay here anymore. You refuse to abide by any of the house rules or contribute to the household expenses. I want my house back. I am done taking care of you. Don’t bother trying to come back. I am having the locks changed in the morning.
Chet tossed the letter to the ground. “Seriously?”
Bending over, he pulled open one of the black trash bags to see what was inside. He immediately recognized some of his clothing. Shoving the bag aside, he marched up to the front door and unlocked it. Yet when he tried pushing the door open, the chain inside stopped it from opening all the way.
“Laverne!” Chet shouted, pounding on the door.
There was no answer
He pounded again. “Laverne!”
Still no answer from his sister’s house, but next door the lights turned on.
When he shouted again, he heard the neighbor yell, “I’m calling the police!”
Nine
Simple pleasures had eluded Walt for the last ninety years. Pleasures he had either overlooked or underestimated during his first lifetime. One was the comfort of a good bed. He had to give Brianna O’Malley Boatman credit, she had done an excellent job when replacing the beds in Marlow House.
Reluctant to leave the comfort of the mattress, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered if Danielle was awake. Glancing over to the alarm clock on the nightstand, he saw that it was almost 9:30 a.m. He didn’t imagine she was still sleeping. Danielle was normally awake, up, and dressed by this time in the morning.
With a yawn, he stretched and sat up in the bed, a task made more difficult because of the cast on his left leg. Now sitting up, he glanced around the room. Max was nowhere to be seen, and the bedroom door was shut. He suspected Danielle had closed his door sometime this morning, after Max had left his room.
With another yawn and stretch, Walt tossed the covers off himself and shifted his body, preparing to get out of bed. Awkwardly moving his feet to the floor, Walt sat on the edge of the mattress, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. He glanced down and smiled. Danielle had bought him a pair of pajamas, but the thought of pulling the pajama bottoms up and over his cast seemed exhausting to him last night, so he’d decided to wear the boxers.
He didn’t tell Danielle he had never worn boxers before. They hadn’t been a thing when he had been alive. In fact, they didn’t discuss the undergarments she had purchased for him. She had only said, “I wasn’t sure what kind you wore, so I bought both.”
Fact was, neither type had been around when he had been alive. Men’s undergarments during the 1920s had included flannel, tight-fitting, knee-length drawers. Fortunately for Walt, he had watched enough television since Danielle’s arrival that he was aware of the underwear options now available, and he was spared such a personal discussion with her. It was bad enough she had to buy them for him. He wasn’t sure boxers would be comfortable attire under his pants, but he liked them for sleeping.
“Am I a tighty-whitey man?” Walt chuckled as he managed to get up and hobble toward the bathroom. The first time he had heard that expression on television, he’d had absolutely no idea what it meant. Had he known it referred to a type of men’s undergarments, he would never have asked Lily during a dream hop to explain its meaning. Lily tried to contain her laughter at the question but was unable to, which meant she woke up from the dream before giving her answer.
The next time Lily found herself alone with Walt, she broke into a detailed explanation of men’s underwear, including the debate over boxers versus briefs. If not already dead, Walt might have died from embarrassment at her candor. His only saving grace, Lily could neither see nor hear Walt at the time of her telling, so she never had to see his discomfort over the topic.
Sufficient time had passed since Lily’s dissertation on tighty-whities, and he now found humor in the long-ago conversation. There was just one thing he wasn’t sure about. The briefs Danielle had purchased were not white.
“So do I call them tighty-bluey? Tighty-grayie?” He shook his head and thought, No, that doesn’t have the right ring to it.
Now dressed in baggy gray slacks and a button-up blue and gray cotton shirt, his right foot in a slipper, Walt stood before the bathroom mirror, combing his hair and debating whether he should shave or not. His beard was filling in nicely, yet it was still relatively short. The hair on his head was now much longer than it had been when he had first woken up in the hospital; in fact, it was closer to the length he normally wore. Walt frowned. He couldn’t recall his hair ever growing this fast before. However, he also hadn’t remembered what a pain it had been to shave each day.
Leaning closer to the mirror, he looked at his forehead and frowned.
Where is it?
He stepped closer, running his finger over the side of his forehead that had been stitched after the accident. Nothing was there. There was no sign of the injury.
“They must have some really great medicine,” he muttered.
Setting his comb on the bathroom counter, he started to button his shirt sleeve when something caught his attention. He paused a moment and then rolled up his left shirt sleeve, examining his wrist.
When Walt came out of his room fifteen minutes later, he stood out in the hallway for a moment, listening. He heard sound coming from the direction of the kitchen and started that way. Halfway down the hall, he remembered the cellphone Danielle had given him. She had told him to use it when he needed to contact her.
“It’s going to take me a while to get used to carrying that thing,” W
alt muttered as he continued to the kitchen, making no attempt to return to the bedroom for the phone.
To Walt’s surprise, he found Joanne Johnson in the kitchen, not Danielle. He stood at the open doorway a moment and watched as Joanne emptied the dishwasher. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard him coming. He wasn’t exactly quiet when using the crutches. She would have to be deaf not to have heard him, and he knew she had excellent hearing.
After a few moments he cleared his throat and said, “Good morning.”
Joanne stopped what she was doing and turned to face Walt, her expression unsmiling.
“Danielle is not here,” she said curtly and then turned back to what she was doing.
Walt watched her a few moments and then said, “I assume you are Joanne Johnson?”
“I see you remember my name.” Joanne closed the dishwasher, her back to Walt.
“Danielle told me about you. I’m afraid I don’t remember you,” Walt lied.
Joanne turned to Walt with a hostile expression. “Yes, she said you had amnesia. Do you need something, Mr. Marlow? If not, I am busy and need to get back to work.”
“First, you can call me Walt,” he said with a friendly smile.
“I’m not sure I can do that,” she snapped.
“Why not?” He frowned.
“For me Walt Marlow will always be…well, our Walt.”
“Your Walt?” he couldn’t help but smile. “You mean my cousin?”
“I’d rather call you Mr. Marlow.”
“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” Walt said. “But do you think you could spare me five minutes? I really would like to talk to you.”
Joanne stared at Walt a moment before answering. Finally, she said, “I suppose you’re hungry.”
He arched his brows. “Hungry?”
“I know you haven’t eaten yet. Danielle told me you were still sleeping. That you needed your rest and not to wake you up.”
“Where is Danielle?” he asked.
“She had to go out and run some errands.” Joanne took a deep breath and said, “Go ahead and sit down. I’ll bring you some coffee and something to eat.”
Walt smiled at Joanne. “Thank you.” He hobbled to the kitchen table as Joanne poured him a cup of coffee. Just as he sat down, she set a full cup before him and slid the creamer and sugar closer to him. A moment later, she set a clean spoon on the table.
He watched as Joanne grabbed a pan from the oven and set it on the stove.
“I hope you like quiche,” she said as she cut a slice of ham and cheese quiche from the pan she had pulled from the oven.
“I’ve never had it.”
Joanne paused and turned to Walt. “I thought you had amnesia?”
Walt shrugged and flashed Joanne a smile. “At least, I can’t recall having it.”
Joanne picked up the plate of quiche and then grabbed a fork from a drawer.
“Would you please sit with me while I eat so we can talk?” Walt asked kindly.
Narrowing her eyes, Joanne studied Walt as she dropped the plate of quiche before him on the table.
“I suppose I could take a coffee break,” she said begrudgingly.
A few moments later, Joanne sat at the table with Walt, coffee cup in hand.
“This is amazing,” Walt purred after taking his first bite of quiche. He looked at Joanne. “Did Danielle make this?”
“Yes. She’s an excellent baker.”
“I had her chocolate cake yesterday. It was a slice of heaven. But this, I can’t describe it.” Walt took another bite and groaned.
“I don’t recall you being so impressed with Danielle’s cooking before,” Joanne noted. She sipped her coffee and eyed Walt suspiciously.
He shrugged. “It seems like almost a hundred years since I’ve had anything this good.”
“I suppose it’s that hospital food,” Joanne suggested.
“Maybe.” Walt smiled and took another bite.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked.
Walt set his fork on his plate and looked across the table to Joanne. “I wanted to apologize.”
“Apologize for what?” she asked.
“For how I treated you.”
“I thought you have amnesia?”
“Danielle told me. She said I was a real ass.”
Joanne stared at Walt a moment. Whatever she had imagined he wanted to say, it wasn’t this. “She told you that?”
“Since I don’t remember anything about my life—about who I was—I asked Danielle to tell me everything she knew about me.”
“And she told you, you were an ass?” Joanne sputtered, trying not to choke on the coffee she had just sipped.
Walt nodded. “Pretty much. She told me I was horribly rude to her friend Lily—who I met last night. And to her friend Adam, who I haven’t yet met. At least, not since the accident. And she told me how I tried to get you fired. I’m so sorry about that. I have no idea why I would have done something like that.”
“You really can’t remember anything?” Joanne asked.
Walt shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
“Why don’t you go by Clint now? That’s what you were called.”
Walt shrugged. “Clint is my middle name. When I was told that’s what I went by, well, it just didn’t sound right to me. I didn’t feel like a Clint.”
“You felt more like a Walt?” Joanne asked.
“It seemed more natural.”
“How about Walter? It’s your real name.”
“True. But I don’t feel like a Walter either. I’m a Walt.”
“No, you aren’t,” she snapped.
“You don’t like me, do you?” Walt asked, his tone sounding more teasing than accusatory.
“I didn’t like Clint.”
“I didn’t particularly like him either.” Walt grinned.
“You didn’t like yourself?”
Walt chuckled and took another bite of the quiche. A moment later he grabbed a napkin from a stack on the table and wiped his mouth. Eyes twinkling, he looked up to Joanne. “By the way Danielle described him, he didn’t seem like a very likable fellow.”
“Then why do you think Danielle invited you to stay here?” she asked.
Setting his fork on his plate again, he looked up at Joanne and said, “I asked her if I could stay. I thought perhaps it might help me regain my memory. And I’ll be paying her rent. I suspect Danielle is just a nice person, which is why she said yes.”
“How long do you intend to stay?”
Walt shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “I don’t know. You’re anxious for me to leave, aren’t you?”
Joanne shrugged. “It really is not my business what Danielle does. Or who she lets stay here.”
“Yet you would rather I not stay, because I was so rude before. Is that correct?”
Joanne nodded. “I suppose.”
“I can understand that, Joanne. Having to endure rude people at your place of work is unpleasant. But I promise I will be on my best behavior. Please give me a chance.”
Joanne sipped her coffee and considered his words. After a moment she set her cup on the table and looked up at Walt. “I am sorry about Stephanie. I should have told you that.”
Walt smiled sadly. “One of the things I can’t remember is Stephanie. But I am also sorry about that. Especially for her father. I met him when I was in the hospital, and he seemed like a very nice man.”
“So you really don’t remember anything about her? Knowing she’s dead…you feel nothing?”
“Nothing personally. She’s a stranger to me.”
Joanne considered his words and took another sip of coffee.
“How about it, Joanne. Can we have a truce?”
“Truce?” Joanne frowned.
“Or better yet, maybe start all over again?”
She stared at him a moment, considering his offer.
Walt smiled and held out his right hand to her. “Hello. My name is Walt Marlo
w. Nice to meet you, Joanne Johnson.”
Ten
The morning sun had woken Chet several hours earlier, but he had nowhere to go, so he remained in the backseat of his car, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before people started showing up at the beach parking lot where he had spent the last night. But now his back was killing him, so he rolled out of his car and stretched, trying to decide what he was going to do now.
Returning to his sister’s was not an option. He knew her well enough that when she was in one of these moods, it was best to give her time to settle down. In a week or so she would be welcoming him back, he was sure of it. But, in the meantime, he needed to find someplace else to stay.
Chet walked to the back of his vehicle and opened his trunk. After rummaging through his suitcases, he found something clean to put on, yet cursed his sister, because now it was wrinkled. Grabbing his shaving kit, he took it and his fresh change of clothes and stumbled to the public bathroom.
After shaving and changing his clothes, Chet returned to his car with a plan.
“I’ll go to Marlow House. To hell with Adam, I don’t need him,” Chet muttered while climbing into the driver’s seat. “Maybe Laverne did me a favor.” Before turning on the ignition, he readjusted the rear-view mirror and looked at his reflection. With the back of his hand he removed a dab of shaving cream he had missed and then ran his fingers through his hair. Once satisfied with his appearance, he readjusted the mirror and turned on the ignition.
Walt had just finished breakfast when it started raining outside. He had intended to spend the rest of the morning on the side patio and wait for Danielle to come home, but he changed his plans and headed to the parlor instead. Normally rain would not discourage him, yet he had a cast to consider, and he didn’t want to get it wet.
Once in the parlor, he found a book his spirit-self had left sitting on the coffee table. He hadn’t finished it. Making himself comfortable on a chair, his cast propped up on a footstool, he started to read. A few minutes later, Joanne walked into the room.
The Ghost of Second Chances Page 6