Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  I decided to treat myself to an extravagantly expensive dinner from De Matteo’s, my friendly overpriced neighborhood grocery store. I went in and stood entranced before the gourmet deli counter where green and red pasta salads, yellow curries, and plump scallops beckoned. The fact that the prices were quoted by the quarter pound was a minor deterrence, and the thought crossed my mind that Clay would just die if he could see me contemplating linguine with clam sauce at $15.96 a pound.

  “What’ll it be, dearie?” demanded the short, gray-haired man behind the counter. As always, he was wearing a red bow tie and a cummerbund over his immaculate black pants. As always, the old fart was in a snit; he was a clear candidate for some career counseling. Or better yet, a session with Amy Vanderbilt.

  I cleared my throat. “I can’t seem to choose between the linguine and the shrimp creole—”

  “Look, dearie,” he said, “this ain’t the hour to be slow. If this decision is too difficult for you—move away and give someone else a chance!”

  “It’s not necessary to be rude.”

  He scowled. “Any more than it’s necessary to be slow-witted.”

  “Hey, you have no right to talk to me like that,” I told the hook-nosed old geezer. “I don’t have to put up with that from you.”

  “Well, then, don’t.”

  “I won’t! Forget it, I’ll get my linguine elsewhere!” I turned, head held high, and walked through the crowd, which parted as I passed. There was a smattering of applause, but no one made a move to follow my lead. They were apparently too smart for self-righteous grandstand plays on empty stomachs; mine growled.

  When I reached the door, a hand pushed it open for me. “That was very impressive,” said a tall man with a slight southern drawl. “It’s about time someone told the old gent off.”

  “It really drives me nuts when salespeople do that—especially when you’re about to shell out sixteen bucks for a pound of spaghetti with a few skinny clams swimming in it.”

  “Ah, rudeness, the bane of urban life. Which—” he touched my arm lightly “—aside from its unpleasantness, seems to have also left you with a rather large problem.”

  “Oh?” I looked into hazel eyes surrounded by a light web of laugh lines. “And just what kind of problem do I have?

  “You have no dinner.” The small, triangular piece missing from one of his front teeth made his smile boyish. “Could I interest you in joining me? Maybe we could find a restaurant that serves its spaghetti with chubby clams.”

  “I don’t think so—unless you want to invite my husband too?”

  “No, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.” He flashed his imperfect, appealing grin. “So continues the sad saga of my life—the good ones are always taken. See you around.” He waved and walked off.

  You had to admire a guy who took rejection in his stride, I thought as I watched him go. Then I turned toward home, toward a freezer full of exciting culinary possibilities: a couple of frozen pizzas and at least one Lean Cuisine. I switched direction and headed to the closest Chinese take-out.

  As I turned the corner onto Clarendon Street, my eye was caught by a slight movement. I looked up and thought I saw a lady in a deep pink and white dress sitting on a tree branch. I stopped short and leaned closer, not believing what I saw. She smiled and waved at me, a mischievous look on her face. That face. The face seemed vaguely familiar; a deep apprehension filled me as I realized it reminded me of the shadowy face in my daydreams.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath; when I opened them, the lady was gone. I turned and fled the empty mimosa tree.

  I was still shaky and consumed with thoughts of the outrageous sight—especially outrageous to one used to the suburban streets of Lexington—as I climbed the stairs toward my apartment. No reason to come unglued. Probably some poor bag lady. Perhaps the same one I’d seen yesterday afternoon, sitting on my stoop reading a year-old People magazine. That’s why the face had seemed so familiar. I tried to smile and ran my hand over the smooth railing to calm my nerves. If you’re going to live in the big city, Lindsey, I told myself, you’ve got to get used to offbeat behavior. Remember—offbeat is why you moved here.

  When I reached the midfloor landing right below my apartment, I was stopped short again. There was something strange up there—something small and dark in the shadows around my door. Once again I closed my eyes and took a deep breath; when I opened them, it was still there. This was more than offbeat. Then the object caught the stairway light; I walked tentatively up toward my apartment. When I got to the door, I burst out laughing. A large casserole dish, heaped to the brim with lasagna, sat on the floor. I picked up the note lying next to the dish.

  Lindsey, Babs confided to me that tofu lasagna is one of your favorite dishes. I offer a few pieces for your dining pleasure. Savor.

  From the kitchen of your down-door

  neighbor:

  Edgar

  Babs was going to get it for this.

  I carried the dish into the dining area. I glanced at the fireplace, the bay, the dining room table, the fireplace again. Aside from a slight hint of lavender-an odor to which I was becoming quite accustomed—everything seemed normal and everything was perfectly still. So why did I have a semiqueasy feeling in the pit of my stomach? A sort of creepy feeling—like someone had been in the apartment. I went into the kitchen to get a fork.

  Even the silverware looked strange—slightly off—the way a word can appear misspelled if you stare at it too long. There the forks were, innocently nestled in their tray, just as they had been at breakfast. Or were they? I grabbed one, slammed the drawer shut, and sat down to eat my dinner. But I kept looking over my shoulder as if to catch a glimpse of movement, or of shadow, or of something.

  Babs’s joke had backfired: the tofu lasagna was surprisingly good. But, of course, this in no way negated the necessity of my repaying the favor. I was deciding between a sophomoric or a sophisticated form of retribution when I noticed my living room wall units looked odd. I stared intently, a forkful of lasagna suspended in midair.

  Ricotta cheese and tomato sauce splattered all over the table, and my fork hit the floor. There had been someone in the apartment! My books had been rearranged! I ran across the room, tripped over the couch, regained my balance, and stood before the wall units.

  At first I couldn’t move; then I began grabbing: War and Peace, The Great Gatsby, The Accidental Tourist. The books were unwieldy, but I clutched them as if they were life preservers and ran my eyes back and forth along the rearranged shelves: the hardcovers were neatly descending by height, and the paperbacks were grouped by color! I knew I would never align them in such an orderly fashion; moreover, I had not.

  I sat down and placed the books on the table; I slid them from one corner to another corner as I tried to sort out exactly what had happened. My books had been moved. No one had broken in. Ergo, I was losing my mind or—or someone with a key to my apartment had done it: my mother, Nathan, Hilary, Babs. Babs! Babs, who had moved my other book. Babs, who loved a practical joke. Babs, who just might want to show a nonbeliever that one shouldn’t be so sure. Babs, who was in really big trouble now.

  That night I had another dream. It started with flowers. Sweet, lavender-pungent roses and geraniums and daffodils bursting from neatly trimmed bushes and drifting softly through the air. Dressed in a flowing summer gown, I danced between the flowers; I twirled and twirled until my feet left the earth and I drifted to the clouds above. Tremendous joy surged through me as I rested in my flower paradise, cuddled by the fluffy whiteness and warmed by the summer sun.

  Then the sun disappeared. The flowers disappeared and I was in a barren wilderness where nothing could grow, where nothing could survive; I marched relentlessly through this wasteland, swallowing huge gulps of frigid air. Freezing cold, the wind whipping through my thin cotton dress, I climbed glacier after icy glacier, searching, searching, always searching. Where was Clay? I had to help him. My legs became heavier and
heavier, my steps slower and slower. I could barely raise my feet over the frozen tundra. I tried over and over again to move, to keep going, to keep searching. Why? I cried. Why couldn’t I move? I looked down. My legs were encased in blue ice.

  “Stand right here and look straight down the street,” Babs ordered. “See? These few blocks are a perfect illustration of the flow of architectural influence during the eighteen hundreds. Close to the Public Gardens you see pure Greek Revival, then it evolves into French Academic, and then to Queen Anne. And here—” she took my shoulders and turned me in the other direction “—you get McKim Classical. Pretty neat, huh?”

  “Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather live.”

  She nodded. “Me either.”

  We were walking home after yet another great dinner at yet another great Thai restaurant, and Babs was giving me yet another architecture lesson. It was fun and I tried to listen, but I lost some of the details concentrating on remaining upright while negotiating the uneven brick sidewalks in my dress-for-success shoes. I missed the difference between Academic Brick and Panel Brick,—and still managed to almost fall twice. There was no doubt in my mind: Brick sidewalks had been designed by men.

  “So,” I said, when my lesson was over, “tofu lasagna is one of my favorite dishes?”

  “It’s not?” Babs’s voice rang with false innocence.

  “Well, to be completely truthful, that stuff wasn’t half-bad.”

  Babs laughed. “I’m surprised you admit it.”

  “I’ll also admit I’m not too crazy about the new book arrangement.”

  “Book arrangement?”

  “Yes, the way you rearranged the books in my living room. It’s too orderly for my tastes.”

  “Lindsey, what are you talking about? Why would I rearrange your books?”

  “Why would you tell Edgar I loved tofu lasagna?”

  “That’s different.” She grinned. “That was just a little—”

  “No matter. Just watch out—the next practical joke may be on—” I was stopped short by the sight of my house.

  “Having a party you didn’t tell me about?” Babs asked.

  I shook my head.

  “So how come all your lights are on?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared at the brightly lit building and had the strangest sensation that it wasn’t my house, that it belonged to someone else—for it looked both foreign and familiar.

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Beats me. I didn’t turn on a single light this morning.”

  “Let’s check this out!” She started up the rough granite steps.

  “Wait!” I grabbed her arm. “It might be a robbery! We’ll use Edgar’s phone to call the police.” When we got inside, I knocked, but—for once—there was no answer. I motioned her to follow me. “If we hear any noises, we can go to the third floor and use Phyllis’s phone.” We tiptoed up the stairs, our footfalls muffled by the thick runner.

  When we reached my apartment, we pressed our ears to the door; silence pressed from the other side. We looked at each other. I slowly turned the doorknob. It was locked. We straightened up and looked at each other again.

  “Well, kiddo,” Babs finally said, “I never heard of burglars who locked themselves in during a robbery. Let’s go see what the story is.” But I didn’t move. “Lindsey, what is it? Do you hear someone?”

  “No. No, I don’t hear anything.”

  “Well, don’t you think we should go in?” Babs persisted. “Lindsey?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” I turned the key and gently pushed the door; it swung inward with a smooth, silent arc. We leaned into the entryway; every lamp and overhead light in the living room was on. We checked the rest of the apartment; every lamp and overhead light in every room was on. No one was there. Nothing was disturbed.

  “This is too weird,” I said as we stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room.

  “What’s the big deal? It’s only lights. The super must have come in to do some work and—”

  “You know there’s no super.”

  “So what’s going on, Lins?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Has this happened before?”

  “Not this exactly …”

  “Well, what exactly?” Babs demanded.

  “Oh, nothing much.” I circled the living room turning off the lights.

  “Lindsey, there’s more—and I want you to tell me what it is.”

  “What what is?”

  “What it is.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but there really isn’t any ‘it.’”

  “Lind-sey …”

  “All right, all right, sometimes there is a sort of ‘it.’”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing much—nothing even warranting the title of ‘it.’ Just absentminded stuff like doors I think I’ve locked are unlocked, and vice versa …”

  “And?”

  “And I seem to be losing an inordinate number of things …”

  “And?”

  “Well, the other day, when I came home from work, my microwave was running.”

  Babs waited patiently.

  “And then there’s the forks.”

  She followed me into the kitchen. I pulled open one of the drawers. “See?”

  “See what?” Babs peered into the silverware tray. “What? What?”

  “I think some are missing.”

  “Missing?” Babs clasped her hands together.

  “I only have seven left.” I pulled the forks out of the drawer and proceeded to count them. “When I moved in, there were twelve—now there are seven. I just can’t imagine what I did with the other five forks.”

  Babs hugged herself. “You didn’t do anything with them—the ghost did. The ghost took them! Oh, Lindsey, Edgar’s right! This is fabulous—the ghost took them!”

  “Yeah, right, Babs. I’m really worried here—about brain tumors and losing my memory—and all you can think about is ghosts? There’s no ghost—and anyway, what the hell would a ghost need forks for?”

  “Ghosts have to eat?”

  “I rest my case.”

  “‘There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio …’”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts, and quoting Shakespeare isn’t going to change that. There are logical explanations—the electrical wiring in the apartment is screwed up … or, more likely, I’m losing my mind or developing early Alzheimer’s …”

  Babs sat down. “Just because you can’t see it or feel it, kiddo, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Just because something isn’t a proven scientific fact doesn’t mean it can’t exist.”

  “Babs, I—”

  “No, sit down and listen to me.” She patted the cushion to her right. “What makes you think you pick up all the signals?”

  “Signals?” I dropped to the couch next to her. “What are you talking about?”

  “We know there are sounds we can’t hear, light waves we can’t see—why can’t there be entire senses that we don’t know about? Senses that we can’t imagine because we’ve never experienced them?”

  “That’s absurd—you can’t use dog whistles as proof of ghosts.”

  “Why not? Why can’t ghosts be the same as X rays, or radio waves, or ultrasound waves? Why can’t they be suprasensational?”

  “Supra-what?”

  “Suprasensational: beyond our sensory thresholds!” She sounded like Boris Karloff with a Boston accent.

  “Because they’re not!”

  “Now, there’s an intelligent answer. I suppose your conclusion is based on years of scientific investigation?”

  “It actually is. I may not know the exact studies and figures, but I do know that there’s never been scientific proof of ghosts.”

  “You’re wrong,” Babs said. “There is scientific proof, there’s lots of it. I’ll bring you a bunch of books tomorrow. They’re full of evidence—from authoritative sources—that ghosts do exist.”

 
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” Babs paused and looked out the window, then shrugged. “Sometimes I’m sure they have to, and other times I’m not so sure at all. But the better question might be: How can you be so sure that they don’t?”

  “Because it doesn’t make sense! When people die, they die. Dead! Gone! Finito!”

  “I ask again: How can you be so sure?”

  “Because then they’d all be here. My father and Clay and all of the zillions of people who’ve died.”

  “How do you know they’re not?”

  “Where the hell are they? If no one ever really died, we’d be suffocated by dead people—they’d be everywhere—there’d be no room for living people. We’d never be free of them.” A shiver ran up my back.

  “Perhaps we’re not.”

  I stood up and put my hands on my hips. “You don’t believe this any more than I do!”

  Babs stood too; she reached up and patted me on the shoulder. “Have it your way.” She busied herself wrapping her scarf around her neck as she walked out the door. “But—” she poked her head back into the apartment “—then how do you explain the lights?”

  Lights weren’t the only things I was having trouble explaining. We had just finished a small job for Farnham Systems, Inc., and old man Farnham had taken a liking to our work—or probably more accurately, to my chest. He asked me to submit a bid for a multiyear technical-support contract for his JX-110-10; a contract that had the potential to finally put TWTTR into the black. I was going against some of the biggest boys in town, and even with the old guy’s raging hormones, it was a long shot. Now I had to explain how I could do it better for less.

  A few evenings after the “night of the lights,” I was working late finalizing my budget projections for the preliminary presentations in the morning. But, as usual, I was having trouble concentrating—the numbers were performing little waltzes across the columns, and all the words looked misspelled.

  Could Babs’s arguments have any truth to them? Could there really be more things on heaven and earth? Could Clay still be here? My hands went ice-cold and I turned back to the printout, forcing the numbers to stay still. If only I could force them to balance. I swiveled my chair to face the computer and deleted the last four columns from the spreadsheet; I entered a new formula.