Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  I took his elbow and nearly shoved him out the side door. It was cold, but I didn’t plan to be out long, and there was too much noise in the bar for Charles to hear me clearly.

  “Charles, I haven’t talked to my ex in a quarter of a century.” I cradled my arms close to my body and stood between Charles and the door so he couldn’t slip back into the comfort of Cal’s. “I didn’t know her husband. I didn’t even know she was married. Finally, I have no idea why she wants me in Tennessee.”

  Charles held up his right hand, palm stuck in my face, and interrupted. “It’s cold out here, and I’ve heard enough excuses. First, it hasn’t been a bunch of years since you heard from her. She called a week ago. You said she seemed hesitant and wanted to tell you something. And most important, it’ll drive me crazy not knowing what she wanted!” He hesitated and then pointed back at the door to the bar. “Again, are we leaving tonight or in the morning?”

  Maybe I felt more responsible for the divorce than I was willing to admit. I guess I did feel guilty about how I’d treated her, closed her out of my professional life. But that was two decades ago, and what was happening now was several hundred miles from here. Besides, I knew Charles enough to know that if we didn’t make the trek, he would pester—more accurately, torment—me about it until my dying day. And, if he could figure out how, from then until the end of time.

  That was the only reason I said, “In the morning. Eight.”

  The sentimental words of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” greeted us as we reentered Cal’s.

  CHAPTER 9

  Charles was pacing in front of his small apartment on Sandbar Lane as I pulled up. I had called Charlene and told her that a friend and I would come to Gatlinburg, although I didn’t know how I could help. She thanked me, gave me directions to Joan’s house, and said she’d tell my ex. It was seven forty-five, but I knew that in Charles Standard Time, that equaled eight o’clock. His canvas Tilley hat was cocked crookedly on his balding head. He carried his ever-present handmade wooden cane; didn’t have on a jacket, even though it must have been in the low forties; and sported an orange sweatshirt with a ferocious lion on the front, roaring above the words HIWASSEE TIGERS.

  Neither his attire nor his pacing surprised me, but I was confused by the two suitcases by his door. I recognized his battered and faded Samsonite case from the trip we’d made to Kentucky a couple of years ago. What was totally out of place was a new brown suitcase next to Charles’s well-traveled carryall.

  I wasn’t nearly as surprised by the pristine suitcase as I was when William Hansel stepped out of Charles’s apartment. When he saw me pull up, he walked to the gravel and crushed-shell parking area in front of the building.

  Charles looked back at William and then walked to the driver’s side of my SUV. “Good news, Chris,” he said with a wide grin. “William can go.”

  “Oh.” William closely watched my expression. “That’s great,” I said, hoping I wasn’t giving away my surprise.

  “Yeah,” said Charles. “After you left Cal’s last night, I was talking to William and asked him what he was doing since classes were out for the year.”

  William stood directly behind Charles. “That is correct,” he said in his bass voice. “If I may, Charles, allow me to tell Chris about your benevolent offer.”

  Charles tipped his Tilley in William’s direction. “Please do,” he said.

  William stepped closer to the car. He wore the same navy blazer that he’d had on at Cal’s, but he had the good sense to have a cashmere topcoat over it. “I was sharing with Charles that I had a dearth of activities for the balance of my winter respite, and he graciously and unexpectedly offered me the opportunity to visit the Great Smoky Mountains with the two of you. I’ve never been there, I might add.” He smiled at Charles and turned back toward me. “I trust that my presence is acceptable.” He took off a gold, red, and brown plaid motoring cap and held it in front of his chest, offering a slight bow.

  “Of course it is,” interrupted Charles.

  I felt uncomfortable sitting in the car while Charles and William lingered at the door. I got out and walked toward the suitcases. “That’s great,” I repeated. I was still in the holiday spirit, so I didn’t scream at Charles about inviting another person to join in our trip to visit my ex—my ex who just lost her husband and hadn’t seen me since before many of William’s students had been born.

  “I assume Charles told you why we’re going,” I said. “It’s not a vacation.” I wanted to give him a chance to back out in case my buddy had failed to tell him about Joan and the death of her husband.

  “He clearly communicated the sad and unusual nature of the visit,” said William. “He also shared that there certainly would be time to vacate the world of work during the visit.”

  I paused a second to figure out what he was talking about. Much of his conversation could have leapt off the pages of a nineteenth-century literary novel. It was refreshing to hear proper, although a bit antiquated, grammar coming from someone I knew. But it did take extra concentration, which was something I’d wager his students often lacked. “And,” I finally continued, “I don’t know how long we’ll be there.”

  “I will be comfortably attired for up to six evenings,” said William. He nodded toward his suitcase.

  “If they sell sweatshirts,” said Charles, “I can only hold out for seven months.”

  Twenty-four hours ago, my plan was to enjoy a peaceful, quiet day after Christmas holing up in my home—avoiding the gallery, stores, and the mad rush of people returning gifts and spending the gift cards burning holes in their pockets. Twelve hours ago, my plan was to leave my peaceful home and drive to Gatlinburg with Charles while spending the entire trip wondering why I had agreed to go. One hour ago, I had loaded my vehicle with two suitcases, one person I’d known would be in the front passenger seat, and an unexpected surprise occupying half of the rear seat.

  Through the magic of my SUV’s satellite radio, Willie Nelson shared that he was also “On the Road Again.” I helped William adjust the heat from the rear seat control while Charles fiddled with the navigation system and announced that we were 357 miles from my ex.

  Perhaps we were only 357 miles away from my learning why I had to dredge up ghosts from the past—and what effect it would have on my life. If recent history was an indicator, I had reason to worry.

  * * *

  We limited our conversation the first third of our trip to topics that people kill time with. Charles, the master of gathering irrelevant information, shared that he had worn the tiger-logoed sweatshirt because Hiwassee College was in Madisonville, Tennessee, near Gatlinburg. Neither William nor I had asked, but that minor detail didn’t stop Charles. When he started telling us that the student enrollment was about four hundred, William wisely interrupted and asked if I knew the weather forecast along the route. Clearly, William wasn’t ready to listen to the names of Hiwassee’s students, or the faculty, or the administration, or the maintenance crew.

  The weather was mild for this time of year, and the last thirty miles or so would be on well-maintained interstate highways. There was an increased chance of snow the closer we got to Asheville and the mountains. Before leaving home, I’d checked the Internet and found that forecasters didn’t appear worried about any weather delays in Asheville, east Tennessee, or in Gatlinburg. If they weren’t worried, neither was I. Besides, if there was snow, it would be a chance to try my all-wheel drive feature, which one had little use for in the mild seldom-below-freezing climate of Folly Beach.

  The conversation got more interesting as we skirted around Columbia, South Carolina’s capitol. William had napped for a half hour, and he then shook his head awake and looked at Charles. “I couldn’t help noticing yesterday that you appeared to be filling food containers and getting malt beverages for the customers at Cal’s establishment,” he said. “Is it possible that you are in t
he employment of Mr. Ballew, Cal as you call him?”

  William was clearly unaware of Charles’s venture into the world of private detecting. I glanced at Charles and waited for his reply.

  Charles shrugged in my direction and then turned to the rear seat. “William,” whispered Charles, as if he didn’t want the trucker barreling past us at eighty miles per hour to hear. “This is highly confidential. Shareth not with others, okay?”

  I nearly swerved off the road—Shareth not?

  “Of course, Charles,” said William. He leaned toward the front seat.

  Charles then whispered the entire story about how Cal had approached him with the problem; how he and Charles had decided on the plan of action; how Charles had been on the job for a week; and how he had already read two books on bartending and thought that he was getting the hang of mixing drinks. He also told me that unless the thefts stopped, Cal might have to close the bar.

  “So,” said the professor, “you have found employment where you work a week and earn vacation days?”

  William surprised me with that glimmer of humor, something that wasn’t his forte. At least I thought he was trying to be funny.

  “Cal understood that Chris wanted to make this trip and wanted me to go along for support,” said Charles. “He said the thief would wait to get caught.”

  I threw Charles a look, wondering where that bit of fantasy had come from.

  Snowbanks began to appear on both sides of the interstate as we entered the Blue Ridge Mountains near Asheville. The low clouds mated with the higher elevations, and light flurries danced in front of us like fireflies in late summer. December was a problematic time to be traveling in the mountains, and I hoped that we didn’t run into any unexpected heavy snow, or worse, ice.

  “So Chris,” said William, “please forgive me if I’m being too nosy, but how long were you married?”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a sheepish expression on William’s face. He was a private person and seldom asked personal questions. “Considering that we’ve kidnapped you and are taking you to visit my ex-wife, I don’t think you could be too nosy,” I said with a laugh. I wanted to put him at ease. “We were married for nearly twenty years. She was my high school sweetheart. We were in college together and married our senior year.”

  Charles couldn’t bear to be left out. “Then she dumped him. As President Carter said, ‘I have often wanted to drown my troubles, but I can’t get my wife to go swimming.’”

  William cringed, so I laughed and ignored the presidential remark. “Charles isn’t far off, for once,” I said. “Joan was incredible. She would do anything for me. I loved her dearly.”

  “If I may be so bold to ask,” said William, “what happened?”

  I noticed Charles leaning closer. “You may,” I said. “It’s a good question. I put work first and wouldn’t let her be part of it. And then her paranoia had her concluding that I was having an affair.”

  Charles’s eyes widened; I couldn’t see William’s.

  “I wasn’t,” I said, answering his unasked question. “Sadly, I did a lot of traveling for work, and she was at home with her imagination running wild.” I shook my head. “And then Joan came home one day and said she was tired of being married. She said that I was boring. To be honest, she was right.”

  William had his arms crossed on Charles’s headrest, and he inched closer to the front. “That must have been a different Chris Landrum than the one I’ve come to know,” said William.

  I smiled. “I think I’m the same guy—boring or otherwise. It’s people like Charles, Larry, Mel, and Dude, and even you, who keep finding trouble for me.”

  We left the snow flurries thirty minutes past Asheville, and the bright blue sky reflected in the fields of snow covering the bare trees and brown grasses along I-40.

  The mechanical female voice from the navigational system eventually told us to take the next exit to the Foothills Parkway, saying that we were thirty miles from our destination. Accumulated snow on the grasslands was nearly a foot deep, and plowed snowdrifts exceeded a couple of feet along the road. Kudos to the road crews. The parkway was clear.

  “How often do you talk to your ex-wife?” asked William. He appeared more comfortable with the personal questions.

  “Exactly twice,” answered Charles for me.

  “Twice?” said William. “That’s interesting.”

  I agreed, especially since the two conversations were twenty-four years apart and the second conversation was a week ago and somewhat cryptic.

  My cell phone rang. The caller ID read HEATHER, so instead of answering, I handed it to Charles.

  “Hello, sweetie,” he said.

  I nearly gagged.

  “No,” he said. “We’re not there yet … Yes, he’s taking good care of me.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  He laughed. “I think your psychic vibes are right,” he said into the phone. He then looked over at me and at William in the backseat. “Umm, me too … Yes.”

  He hit the END CALL button and hooked the phone back on the charger.

  “Well?” I said.

  “She said she had a strong psychic vibe saying that we were going to have an interesting trip.”

  I didn’t think it took a psychic to tell us that, but I didn’t say it. I had been to Gatlinburg a couple of times when I lived in Kentucky, but I had never entered the resort town from the east. A sign for the Gatlinburg Community Center was the first indication that we were close. Charles commented that we would get to Gatlinburg before we got stranded. I willed myself to remain more optimistic. My main concern was to get out of Gatlinburg before getting stranded.

  There was no doubt we were in Gatlinburg when we passed under a huge GATLINBURG WELCOMES YOU lighted display that spanned the road. Red, blue, and white lights were shaped like mountain peaks.

  We drove down a steep hill and hit the intersection of Parkway, the main road though town. I finally recognized where I was. Christmas lights were everywhere, and the city looked like a cross between a Swiss village and a Disney version of the most festive Christmas ever. Oversized electrified candles, Christmas trees, stars, caroling snowmen, candy canes, and American flags with fireworks bursting in the background appeared to be placed at every empty spot in the city. Even William, the most proper person I knew, said, “Wow!”

  The sidewalks had been cleared, as had been the main street. Several hearty tourists walked arm in arm along the sidewalks, puffs of frozen breath preceding them.

  “Now what?” asked Charles. And he was the one person who always had a plan—good or bad.

  “See my ex,” I said, although I would rather have purchased a pound of Gatlinburg’s famous fudge and scampered back to the beach.

  CHAPTER 10

  A large church youth group was in town for a conference during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, so we were lucky to get the last two rooms at the Hampton Inn, the hotel that I had stayed in on previous visits. It was located close to the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and in walking distance to the main retail area of Gatlinburg. I would be footing the bill, so I took a room by myself and let William and Charles share.

  After throwing our luggage in the rooms, we piled back in the car to head to Joan’s house. The friendly navigation voice told us to turn right on Ski Mountain Road and then we would be a half mile from our destination. I’d paid more for the SUV than I had ever paid for a vehicle, so I felt obligated to obey.

  Charlene had given me an address and told me that Joan lived in a log cabin near Ober Gatlinburg, a ski resort tailored to everyone from the youngster who had never slipped on a ski boot to the experienced skier. It overlooked the city like a medieval castle.

  “Think her cabin is larger than the one Abe Lincoln lived in?” asked Charles. We had passed log homes in varying sizes on the
way up the hill.

  My guess would have been yes, but when the pleasant Infiniti voice told us that we had reached our destination, I was shocked. I asked Charles to double-check the address before I pulled into a circular drive in front of the massive log structure that looked more like a mountain lodge than a “log house.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Abe’s cabin could fit in the guest bath.”

  The log mansion was perched on the side of the mountain. The gravel circular drive was on the only level spot on the property. I could see three stories of windows from our vantage point, but there could have been more. Each level had a large porch across the back of the house, which overlooked the snow-covered mountains and the ski slopes of Ober Gatlinburg. I guessed that the house was more than five thousand square feet, not counting the large decks.

  I stopped behind a new metallic blue Jaguar XK convertible. It was spotless. It looked as if it had been airlifted to the place where it rested. Its chrome wheels were so pristine that they looked as if they had just arrived in the driveway via UPS. My car was covered with salt and road muck, and clumps of snow were in the wheel wells. I wondered how the Jaguar could have remained so clean; surely self-cleaning wasn’t an optional feature. Before I could spend more time pondering the mystery, the nine-foot-high front door opened and I came face-to-face with the person I’d once loved and shared a life with.

  I almost gasped, but not quite, when I saw Joan. There was a deep sadness in her eyes, and something else too. Her face gave me the distinct impression that she was in torment beyond the immediate grief of losing her husband. I wondered for the first time whether she might have been right, that there was more to Daniel’s death than a tragic car wreck during what was supposed to be one of the happiest times of the entire year.

  Joan stepped on the oversized porch and squinted toward the SUV. It was in the low thirties, and she wrapped her arms around her chest. We were backlit so she wouldn’t be able to tell much about her visitors. At five feet eight, she was a couple of inches shorter than I was. She wore an oversized gray sweatshirt, leg-hugging black slacks, and dark brown work boots. Naturally blond hair had cascaded around her shoulders the last time I saw her. It was now mostly gray and short, and it barely covered her ears. We were the same age, but she looked younger than I imagined I did. She was trim when we were married, and I doubted that she had gained half a dozen pounds since then. The thought struck me that she may have had some help keeping her face as youthful as it appeared. I probably wanted to think that since time hadn’t been that kind to me.