[2015] The Ghost Slept Over

by Marshall Thornton

  “Davey...we dated. About five years ago.”

  “We did?”

  “Yes. And you’re right. It was unmemorable.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve completely forgotten you.”

  Okay, now that was rude.

  “I’m a lawyer. I tend to remember details.”

  “You are? I wish I’d remembered that. My neighbor is threatening to sue me over my dog. Sheba is a little...rambunctious. I wonder if...”

  “I don’t give discounts.”

  “Oh, well, maybe I should...anyway, it was nice talking to you.”

  It wasn’t.

  “You know what?” I said. “The next time Constance gives you a number just throw it away.”

  I hung up without waiting to find out if he intended to take my advice.

  A few minutes later, I was in the back dining room at The Steppin’ Inn with the Barnyard Players. Wendell, Grady and Jane were there. Kirby and Constance were absent.

  “How did it go?” Wendell asked.

  “Not well. I mentioned the theater and he wanted to know if we paid rent.”

  “Rent!” They screamed. This was followed by protestations of “We can’t pay rent” and “Where would we get the money?”

  “I’m afraid it might be the end of our little theater,” I said, surprised at how much that mattered to me. I was, after all, only on the board. While I’d done the incorporation papers and the 501(c3) tax forms and various other legal documents, I wasn’t particularly involved in any of the productions.

  “Don’t say that Dewey,” Jane said with a catch in her voice. “We have to do something.”

  We were silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. I would have liked a refill on my coffee but Jane looked upset so I didn’t ask. Finally, I said, “You know, he is an actor. We should be able to use that. Appeal to his artistic—”

  “We’ll offer him a part,” Wendell said. “Actors will do anything for a part.”

  “That’s not really what I—”

  “In what show?” Grady asked.

  “Heaven Sent,” Wendell said as though it was obvious. And I’m afraid it was.

  “Do you think he’ll want to play Lord Essex?” Grady asked. “Kirby will be upset. But he is a little old for the part.”

  We all stared at him for a minute. There was only one obvious choice. The lead. The nephew who inherits the estate is in almost every scene. Grady tumbled to Wendell’s intentions. “Oh no, you want to give him my part? But it’s the first lead I’ve had.”

  “It’s really not a good idea,” I said.

  “Quiet,” Wendell hissed.

  “If we don’t find some money you won’t play it anyway,” Jane pointed out to Grady.

  “But, I’ve already memorized my lines.”

  “It’s for the good of the theater,” she continued.

  “Do I really have to?” He looked at each of us. I wanted to defend him, I did, but like the others I was silent. Finally Grady said, “Oh fine. Give him my goddamn part.”

  It seemed settled, so I gave up my resistance. I asked, “What will we tell him?”

  “About?” Wendell asked.

  “The reason we’re offering him the part. It will be obvious it was already cast.”

  “We’ll tell him we fired Grady.”

  “I will not be fired,” Grady said, standing up. “I quit!”

  “Why are you quitting?” I asked.

  “Because I don’t want to be fired.”

  “I mean what reason are we giving Cal?”

  Too quickly, Wendell said, “I think Grady should break an ankle.”

  “I like my ankles just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Not really break your ankle. We’ll just have Doctor Albertson put you in a cast.”

  “My leg will atrophy,” Grady protested.

  “Oh, that would be a shame,” said Jane. “He does have nice legs.”

  “It’s only for a couple of weeks,” Wendell pointed out.

  “Well, how did I break it?”

  “That’s up to you,” Wendell said. “It’s back story. You can work it out on your own. Just let us know and we’ll all stick to your story.”

  Grady nodded. He looked pleased by the idea. Then he said, “It was a Sunday. A lovely Sunday. Warm and bright. I was up at Carlin’s Cove, swimming, when I noticed the Winslow girl, drowning. I jumped into the water and hit my foot on a rock, instantly breaking my ankle. But that didn’t stop me. I swam out and saved the Winslow girl…”

  He saw the frown on my face. “What?”

  “Grady, it’s the dead of winter. And you need to break your ankle this morning. Not last Sunday. Or next Sunday. Or some random Sunday.”

  “Oh…okay. Fine. It’s…this morning. A lovely morning. Cold and crisp. I was up at Carlin’s Cover, standing on the bluff. That’s when I noticed the Winslow girl, drowning. The ice had given way. I jumped off the bluff onto the ice, breaking my ankle in the fall. Even though I was in incredible pain, I ran out to the spot where the girl was flailing in the water. Heroically, I was able to drag her out to safety.”

  Jane frowned. “Grady we need something people will believe.”

  “Well, Jane, what’s your bright idea?”

  “Sexual misadventure,” she said without hesitation.

  “We’re saying I broke my ankle, not my joystick.”

  She frowned at him and then explained. “You and I were trying a position I read about in Cosmo and you slipped off the bed. It’s that simple. It’s that easy,” she said. “And it’s not that far from the truth.”

  “That was barely a sprain,” Grady replied. He looked around the room a bit embarrassed. “The diagram was unclear.”

  I thought something close to the truth was a good idea. If Grady messed up some details or even told a different story entirely, well, it didn’t matter. The “truth” was embarrassing enough to explain away any mistakes.

  “I think it’s a great idea.”

  Grady huffed. “You weren’t the one who fell off the bed.”

  “It’s settled,” Wendell insisted. “Sexual misadventure. Now all we have to do is offer Cal the part.”

  They turned and looked at me.

  Chapter Five

  Afterlife 101

  “Why couldn’t he see you?” I asked the minute Dewey was out the door.

  “Because I’m a ghost.”

  “You’re not a ghost. It’s some kind of trick. It has to be,” I got up close to him and took a good look. “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am.”

  “No. I don’t. That was Mac in the coffin. I’m sure of it. So who are you? You look like him. And sound like him. You kind of smell like him even. But you can’t be him.”

  “Unless I’m a ghost.”

  “You’re not a ghost!” An idea occurred to me. “Are you related to Mac? Or are you just some random doppelganger? And what’s the scam? Are you trying to get your hands on his money?”

  He sighed heavily. Then he unzipped the jeans he was wearing.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He pulled the pants down on one side and there was Mac’s tattoo. I nearly gasped. But then I pulled myself together.

  “You had his tattoo copied. Big deal.”

  “You are so suspicious.”

  “I suppose the lawyer’s in on it,” I surmised. “That’s why he pretended not to see you.”

  “He didn’t pretend not to see me. He didn’t see me.”

  “Why? If you’re a ghost, why does it work that way?”

  “I don’t know. I just died. There wasn’t an orientation.”

  “That’s stupid. You expect me to believe that people die and come back as ghosts and no one explains the point of it all?”

  He shrugged. “It’s what happened. I mean, I remember taking the pills. I remember getting drowsy. And
then…I just sort of woke up. At first, I thought I was still alive, which was very depressing.”

  “See that’s another problem. Mac would never kill himself. Did you kill him?” I realized immediately that was a stupid question. If he had killed Mac then why wouldn’t he kill me? I knew he killed Mac so that made me—

  Mac—or whoever he was—sighed heavily. “I had cancer. It was in my lungs. My liver. All over the place. I only a few months left and I thought why go through it? All that pain. And a mysterious suicide is much better for a writer, don’t you think? Everyone will want to do my plays now. If I stuck around and died of cancer people would only do my plays during cancer awareness month. Not as cool.”

  That did sound like Mac.

  “You’ve really studied him, haven’t you?” I asked.

  “For fifty-five years.”

  “If you’re Mac’s ghost why do you look the way you did when I met you…him? Why don’t you look the way he looked when he died?”

  “Apparently, as I tried to explain before, when you die you get to look the way you looked at your peak. When I was in my twenties I was covered in zits and as thin as a fishing pool.” I remembered him saying that about his twenties in those exact words. I almost said it with him. He continued. “In my forties I was more distinguished than attractive. And my fifties, just embarrassing. It does make a kind of sense, doesn’t it? Getting to look your best in the afterlife?”

  “Unless you peaked as a child. That could be awkward.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, luckily that’s not the case here.” He stared at me a moment, sizing me up. “You’re going to look just like this when you die. You’ve improved with age, Cal.”

  “Thank you,” I said, somewhat flattered. Then I remembered he had to be an impostor. “And another thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “Mac was an atheist. You can’t be his ghost. He didn’t believe in an afterlife.”

  “I have to admit it was something of a surprise. But so far I haven’t seen anything to change my mind. About God, I mean. Given the circumstances, I’m completely buying the afterlife thing. Really, death has been pretty dull. Nothing like in the movies. I didn’t pop up in a cloud-filled studio and wander around until I found a helpful but inept angel to tell me the rules. Nor did some gravel-voiced actor arrive to tell me he’s God and guide me in my disembodied adventures back here on earth.”

  “You hardly look disembodied to me.”

  “Thank you! Are you horny? Do you want to do it? It’s been a long time for me and like I said this forty-plus thing you’ve got going…really works.”

  “I’m not going to have sex with you. You’re some kind of con man who probably killed my ex.”

  “My, you are stubborn,” he said. “I remember that about you. Not one of your better qualities.”

  Just then there was a knock on the door.

  “Thank God,” I whispered under my breath.

  Hearing me, Mac, or whoever, said, “We haven’t established that he exists. You might want to save your thanks.”

  “Just because he didn’t meet you at Heaven’s gate doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.”

  “You’d think someone would have met me. Even Walmart has greeters.”

  I opened the door and found a small blond woman wearing a politically incorrect mink coat and carrying a thin leather briefcase. The coat was open and I could see the black and white checked suit she wore underneath.

  “Hello!” she said, then pushed by me into the house. Taking in the living room she said, “The place looks lovely. Turn key.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Constance Crandall. I’m your real-estate agent. Didn’t Dewey tell you?” She was shaking my hand, before I knew it.

  “I’m—”

  “Cal Parsons, I know. I googled you. Very impressive.”

  I didn’t know whether she was talking about my filmography or about the naked photos she’d probably found. I waved a hand at the impostor and said, “And this is…”

  She looked in his direction. “And this is what, dear?”

  “Oh, you’re in on it, too.”

  “In on what?”

  “You’re good. You’re very good.”

  “Well, I’m glad my reputation precedes me.” She took off the mink and made herself comfortable at the sleek and modern teak dining table. From her briefcase, she removed a standardized contract and laid it out on the table with a lovely gold pen.

  Mac walked over and like some movie tough guy said, “The jig’s up, Connie. He knows all about the con so you can cut the act. It’s all finito. Over. Finished.”

  Clearly, she didn’t hear a word of it. Looking up at me, she said, “I’ve brought the paperwork so we can get started right away. You want to sell the house and the other properties, right?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No,” Mac said.

  “You don’t have any say in this,” I said to Mac.

  “Of course not,” Constance answered. “All the decisions are completely up to you. I’m just here to do the footwork and give a teensy little bit of advice. Now, let’s talk about the price of the house. Mac paid four hundred thousand for it, but that was seven years ago. Even with the slump it’s worth around nine hundred.”

  “Even with the slump it’s worth a million,” Mac said.

  “Why don’t we shoot for a million?” I suggested.

  “Shrewd,” she said. “Very shrewd.”

  “So, you really don’t…”

  “Don’t what?”

  She really didn’t. She didn’t hear him. Didn’t see him. And that meant that maybe he really was a ghost. After all, there was only one other possibility I could think of.

  “Oh my God, I’m insane,” I blurted.

  “It is a lovely house, isn’t it?” Constance said. “I can see why you’d have second thoughts. I don’t know the full circumstances of Mac’s estate. Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with Dewey and we’ll list the house later. We can focus on the other properties for now.”

  “No, I want the house listed. I want to sell it. I want to sell it all.”

  “The winters are long. And I’m sure you’re used to a more…active lifestyle.”

  “I think she just called you a slut, dear,” Mac said.

  “I think I’d have to agree,” I said. That earned me a smile from Constance who thought I’d just agreed with her that I was a slut, living an “active lifestyle.”

  “I’m going to need your signature on the intent-to-sell. Three times. For each property,” Constance explained.

  I walked over to the table ready to sign. Mac beat me there and tossed the pen across the room. Constance was watching me and didn’t see it. I found myself standing at the table with nothing to sign the contracts with. I said, “The pen. It rolled onto the floor.”

  Constance got on her knees and began to look under the table while I bolted across the living room to retrieve it. When I got back to the table, she was staring at me.

  “It rolled all the way over there?”

  “I’m wondering if the house is actually, you know, level?”

  “Oh, I hope it is. If it’s not, that could cause problems.”

  We turned around to the table and the contracts were gone.

  “Where are they?” I asked Mac.

  “How would I know?” he said. “I don’t exist.”

  “They can’t have gotten far,” Constance said. “I wonder if there’s a draft in here.”

  ‘That’s probably it,” I said.

  “But they don’t seem to be on the floor.”

  “I can come down to your office. How about tomorrow?”

  “I’ll just come with you,” Mac threatened.

  “Is that possible?” I asked him. Ghosts were usually attached to a location, weren’t they? If he could go anywhere, well then I was probably—

  “Of course it’s possible,” Constance said. “But there’s no need. I’ve got mor
e contracts in my briefcase.” She turned back to the table and stopped. “Where’s my briefcase?”

  I looked at Mac and asked him, “Where did you put it?”

  “I’m sure I put it on the dining table,” Constance answered.

  “She put it on the dining table,” Mac taunted.

  “Ha-ha,” I said to Mac, which made Constance’s face fall.

  “You’re laughing at me?” she said.

  “Not at you…with you. As in ‘ha-ha, isn’t it funny that you lost the contracts and your briefcase.’”

  I smiled. Tears had begun to well in her eyes. She sniffed and began to search the living room in earnest. I made a face at Mac. He made one back. I wanted to strangle him to within an inch of his life. But I suppose that would have been pointless.

  “Found it!” Constance called out. I turned to see her standing up off the floor. “I can’t imagine how it got under the sofa.”

  I shrugged and said, “Poltergeist?”

  “Oh don’t even joke,” Constance said as she came back to the table. “I had a house up on Mountain View Lane. Lovely home, gorgeous three-sixty view. But there were rumors about it being haunted. It took me twenty-eight months to sell that place. So, no jokes about poltergeist, spirits, specters, phantoms, apparitions or anything else that goes bump in the night.”

  I smiled at her. Something went bump on the second floor. Constance broke out in a thin laugh. I glared at Mac. He just shrugged. Not knowing what else to do I joined Constance in laughter. When we stopped she opened her briefcase. It was completely empty.

  She whimpered, took a deep breath to collect herself, then said, “I have more contracts in the car. If you’ll just—”

  I had a sudden horror of Mac hiding contracts all day long. “You know, maybe today’s not the right day.”

  She smiled her thanks. “Perhaps you should come to my office. Tomorrow around four?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  She closed the briefcase and walked over to the sofa to grab her coat. Reaching into her pocket, I could see she was visibly tense. She dug around until she found something and her face relaxed.

  “My card,” she said, offering me a blue business card with her face next to the logo of a national realty chain. “At least we got that much accomplished.”