Ghosted

by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

“Sure.”

  “What do you do?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “I sank two balls.”

  Seth squinted, then nodded. “Subway,” he said.

  “Restaurant or rapid transit?”

  “Not the fucking restaurant.”

  One in the side.

  “Why did you stop drinking?”

  “It gets me in trouble.”

  Four down the rail in the end.

  “Have you tried to kill yourself?”

  “Nope.”

  Mason flubbed a bank shot. Seth took aim.

  Eleven in the end.

  “What’s your last name?”

  Mason hesitated. “Dubisee.”

  Fourteen, same pocket.

  “How many clients have you had?”

  “Three.”

  Sixteen in the side.

  “How many are dead?”

  “At least two.”

  A crash. The mahogany coat rack fell to the floor as one of the old guys stumbled over it. Mary shouted, “Fuck you marbles!” or something like that and the men started pounding their fists on the bar.

  A bit funny, but not funny ha-ha.

  “What’s the deal with the coat rack?” said Mason.

  “It’s not your turn.” Seth missed.

  Mason sank the two ball, then asked the question again.

  “It’s a sort of sobriety test,” said Seth. “You knock it over on the way out, you gotta give Mary your keys and buy the bar a round. You knock it over on the way in, and you don’t get served—unless you buy two rounds.”

  “So we got a drink coming?”

  Seth shrugged.

  Mason took aim.

  Down the rail in the end.

  Instead of asking about the drink again, he looked at Seth straight on. “Are we going to work together?” he said.

  “Oh, that was decided long ago.”

  Eight in the end.

  “Another game?” said Mason.

  “That’s your question?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Sure,” said Seth, and racked up the balls. “We’ve got a lot to answer for.”

  Name: Seth Handyman

  Gender: male

  Age: 44

  Place of work: subway (not the restaurant)

  Drug and alcohol use: abstinent. Heavy past use likely.

  Appearance: medium height, slightly overweight

  Hair: almost to his shoulders, greying, thinning.

  Wears a floppy grey fedora.

  Eyes: baby blue, with white flecks—like robin’s eggs

  Hangout: Tony’s Happy Daze Bar and Beer

  Likes: games

  Dislikes: Finland

  Family: parents deceased, brother estranged

  Risk to self: high

  Risk to others: unknown

  Depression, hopelessness: apparent

  Fear, anxiety, panic: unknown

  Mood swings, unstable moods: unknown

  Uncontrollable, compulsive behaviour: unknown

  Impulsive, illegal or reckless behaviour: unknown

  Manic, bizarre behaviour: a little

  Openness to being saved: unknown

  Would like to belong to several clubs: probably not

  52

  Two days later they were back in Tony’s Happy Daze Bar and Beer, shooting pool and asking questions.

  Twelve off the ten in the side.

  “Do you have fear, anxiety or panic?”

  “Right now?” said Seth.

  “Generally.”

  “No. Not generally.”

  Mason miscued. The four went into the side.

  “It’s still a ball …”

  “My ball, my question.”

  A shrug from Mason.

  “Where is your family?”

  Mason hesitated. “The other side of the country.”

  Seven cross-corner.

  “What was the name of your first client?”

  “Sorry,” said Mason. “That’s confidential.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of the rules of suicide assistance?” Seth turned and put his cue back in the rack. “Interesting. Very ethical.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “This game has rules, too. So apparently we’ve got a conflict.” He picked up his jacket. “I’m leaving now.” He walked towards the coat rack.

  He’s getting away.

  “Warren,” said Mason.

  Seth turned. “Before you tell me his last name, keep in mind I can just go online: the Globe obituaries cover the past two years.”

  He wanted to tell him, Stop making this so goddamn difficult. I’m trying to fucking save you!

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “So we can trust each other,” said Seth.

  Just fucking tell him!

  Shanter,” said Mason. “Warren Shanter.”

  Seth walked back and picked up the cue. He smacked carelessly at a cluster of balls. The ten went down.

  “My ball,” said Mason. Seth stood back. “Did you bring the money?”

  “I will next time,” said Seth. Mason looked at him, then he missed a cross-side.

  Seth took down the six.

  “Have you started on the letter?”

  “I will when you pay me.” They looked at each other.

  This is a dangerous game, kiddo.

  Seth glanced down at the slate. “It’s a messy table.”

  Mason’s balls were all trapped on the rails. And Seth had no shot.

  Mason looked at him. “You forfeiting?”

  Something flashed across Seth’s face. Then he just looked tired. “I’ll give you one question.”

  “All right,” said Mason. “Why can’t you write your own letter?”

  “Writing’s like drinking: I used to do it, but now I don’t.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  Seth shrugged. “It’s the truth, though.” He turned around and headed out the door.

  Mason paid his bill, then followed him. A half-block away, Seth’s grey hat bobbed. Mason walked towards it.

  Seth turned left on Sudden Street. A minute later, Mason turned too, then crouched behind a parked car. The sidewalk was clear and Seth was only about thirty yards ahead of him, just standing there. He was staring at a tree.

  After a few minutes he began walking again. Mason moved slower, still in a crouch behind the row of parked cars.

  Three blocks down, Seth stopped once more, in front of a large old house, two plots wide, painted a dark brownish black. There was a chest-high wrought iron fence surrounding the yard. He pressed something on the gate, then waited a moment before pulling it open. He walked up the front steps onto the porch, waited again, then stepped inside.

  As Mason studied the large dark house, the door opened once more. Two men walked out onto the porch and lit cigarettes. They began to smoke in silence.

  To: MasonD@hotmail.com

  From: JFollow@FollowMe.com

  Subject: Urgent

  Dear Mr. D,

  Unfortunately I’m not the J Follow you’re looking for (I am less famous.) The good news is I think I can help you. This has happened before (we are distant relatives but have met only once). Here is a phone number that may work: (915) 822-2131.

  All the best,

  Jeffrey (not a poet) Follow

  53

  One week after his ill-fated meeting with Dr. Francis, Mason returned to her office. He didn’t say anything, just bowed his head and handed her “The Book of Confession.”

  45. I prefer candlelight to lamps.

  46. There are angels here among us.

  Afterwards, he sat in the Cave, three lines of coke and a twenty-sixer on the bar in front of him. The DJ was playing a remix of a Nina Simone song. Mason looked in the mirror—imagining someone behind it watching him. He studied himself that way—trying to see what the man in the safe room saw: a self-conscious loner, a drunk, a sucker
, a guy staring at himself in a crowded booze can. He changed his focus and, still looking in the large, bulletproof mirror, searched the room around him, all these faces in the flashing dark and light.

  Chaz came down the bar and stood in front of him.

  “What?”

  “You’ve only got yourself to blame.”

  “Thanks, Chaz. I’m doing fine.”

  “You kidding me? You’re over the cliff with the buffalo.”

  “Nope.” Mason did a line. “Things are good, actually. I’ve got purpose now.”

  “You got what?”

  “Meaning, a reason to live … you know, purpose.”

  “Well, you look like bat shit. What’s it called …?”

  “Guano?”

  “Yeah, you’re all guano-looking. How much did you lose last night?”

  “Some.”

  “And the night before?”

  Mason poured himself another glass. “Also some. What’s your point?”

  “What’s your purpose?” Chaz waved towards the card table. “Putting vampires through college?”

  “Nah, it’s something good.”

  His heart was palpitating a bit. He took a long drink and did another line. Chaz turned to leave but Mason stopped him. “Can you find an address from a phone number?”

  “Possibly.”

  Mason took a napkin, wrote down the number, and slid it across the bar. “Oh,” he said, pulling it back. “There’s also an address I want a number for.” He wrote 68 Sudden Street.

  “Why don’t you just visit the one and phone the other?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Anything to do with Willy?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Well, it should,” said Chaz.

  Mason looked at him. “You seen her?”

  Chaz didn’t answer. There was a ruckus at the poker table. He put the napkin in his pocket and headed down the bar. Mason did a line, lit a smoke and stared at the mirror again.

  54

  Combo cross-side.

  Boom.

  Seth was on today. He was in the zone. His voice had a bit of cut to it. Even the questions were sharper.

  “How long since you’ve seen your family?”

  “About five years.”

  Six in the end.

  “What are you hiding from?”

  “Myself, I guess,” said Mason. He’d meant it to sound trite, to undercut the question. But his voice had gone too high. Seth let the silence stretch, then took another shot.

  Mason hadn’t yet decided what to do with the information he’d got from Chaz, but questions like that last one made him want to beat Seth—still save him of course, but bring him down a notch at the same time.

  Seth rattled the corner.

  Mason took aim.

  Fourteen in the side.

  “Do you live with anyone?”

  “Nope.”

  Mason stepped back from the table. He looked at Seth, who was chalking his cue. “We’re playing for the truth,” he said.

  Seth looked up at him.

  “You live in a halfway house,” said Mason. “With sixteen other ex-cons.”

  They stood there for a moment. “Why don’t you shoot?”

  “It’s not your turn for a question, Seth.” He lined up a combo. The nine skidded and missed the pocket.

  Seth stepped up to the table. No assessment, he just leaned in—and boom, he hammered down the four ball.

  “How long you been a drug addict?”

  No time to answer. Boom.

  “And a drunk?”

  Boom. “And a lousy gambler?”

  Boom. “And a fucking pussy?”

  Seth stood up, pushed back the brim of his hat and they looked at each other. Mason didn’t like what he saw.

  He’s still worth saving.

  Is he, though?

  “About five years,” said Mason.

  Boom. Eight ball in the end.

  Seth grinned. “Who’s the Man in the Black Helmet?” he said. Then he turned to put his cue away.

  Mason just stared at the back of his head.

  “By the way,” said Seth. “I don’t have your money.” He pulled something out of his jacket pocket, turning back around. “I brought you this instead.” He tossed it onto the table, the balls scattering sadly. A brown notebook. On the cover, in raised hokey font, it read Notebook.

  Mason walked over and picked it up. Seth was already out the door.

  55

  They are in the paddock, drunk, hair still wet from the lake—saddling up beneath a silver moon. The big house is dark: Aunt Jo and three more generations sleeping off the wine. Mason holds the reins for Sarah. She gets up on Warren and he pulls the cinch tight. Warren starts to prance.

  Mason swings onto Zevon’s back and the long gate falls open. They ride through it, a line of trees on one side, the fence then the steep hill down to the land on the other. He angles towards the high road, digs in his heels and they’re off, hooves thundering over the earth. When he turns back he sees Sarah’s hair, like wings, shimmering in the moonlight.

  56

  THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN

  This is my notebook. Like a diary but my new counsellor, Mr. White, said I didn’t have to call it that if I don’t want to. He is the one who wants me to right in it. I don’t like to right very much because when I read it out loud it doesn’t sound like it should. It sounds like I’m a little kid or something.

  But Mr. White says it doesn’t matter if its good or not and I should do it even if its bad stuff. And nobody else will look at it. Its private. Even he’s just gonna look fast at the pages—to see that I’m doing what he asked.

  Mr. White wants me to right about what happened to me when I was attacked and what I feel and what my thoughts are. He says jail is for thinking about all kinds of stuff. He calls prison “jail.” He says I should right about what bothers me and what makes me angry. Also, he said I should call him Larry.

  So! Do you want to no what bothers me? One of the things is I feel like people don’t care to much. Even people who are supposed to help you—like doctors. They didn’t even give me drugs when I left the hospital. Can you believe that? If your in jail they don’t care about you. They don’t give you pharmacuticals for the pain, and they didn’t even try to fix my head. So now I’m basically a freak. Thats something else that bothers me!

  The doorbell was ringing. Mason put the notebook down and looked at it.

  What the fuck?

  This was not the man he’d met. He thought about this as he walked to the intercom.

  It was Chaz. “I got something for you.”

  “Why don’t you come up?”

  “I’ve got to open the Cave,” he said. Mason pulled on a shirt and headed down the stairs.

  Chaz held out a piece of paper and Mason took it. Jonathan Follow. 10 Apple Road. Utopia, Ontario.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Nope,” said Chaz. “It’s a real town. Real road, too. Go ahead and Google it.”

  “Thank you,” said Mason.

  Chaz nodded. “I’ve got to open up.”

  THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN

  Now I’m going to tell you about Mr. White—oops, I mean Larry!

  He has glasses. And he’s already like a friend to me. He said I can tell him anything in the world! Even if it’s really bad! And also he kind of looks like a woman. But not like a hot one. More like a fat one with no breasts, you know? Like a fat, flat bitch. I know thats sort of mean—but I don’t mean it that way. Its just true. (I sure am glad he’s not going to read this!) And another thing about Larry—that fat bitch is fucking patronizing. He thinks everybody is as stupid as he is, poor fucker. But really, there’s not much to do here. So if Larry White wants me to write—I’ll guess I’ll write …

  It reminds me of that song. How’s it go?

  “If Barry White saved your life

  Or got you back with your ex-wife

  Sing Barry White (Ba
rry White)

  Barry White (Barry White)

  It’s all right (It’s all riiiiiiiiiiight …)”

  Mason closed the notebook. It was weird all right, but he didn’t have time for this shit, kept thinking of Sissy Follow.

  Saving people is a matter of minutes.

  He picked up the piece of paper and the Google map he’d printed.

  You know what you have to do.

  He knew what he had to do.

  57

  It was four in the morning when he left the city limits. He crossed onto Route 7, a two-lane back road, heading northeast at thirty miles an hour. There was no one else on the highway.

  When you opened her up like this, the Dogmobile got loud—three small wheels with a Smurf-like engine. He switched on the radio. At first he thought it was between stations, but then he heard it: the low spooky opening of “State Trooper.” It made him shiver. They hardly ever played this on the radio. He turned it up and lit a smoke. The sky was full of stars.

  On the last of Springsteen’s mournful howls, begging and defiant at the same time, Mason slowed down to twenty and poured some coke onto the stainless steel counter. It was going to be a long night. He cut with one hand and steered with the other. He did a line and looked out from beneath the poppyseed brim. For a moment he had the same feeling as when he’d been in the QT room, staring out at the darkened Cave. He was right here and, at the same time, light years away—floating and trapped where no one would ever know, all-seeing and never seen, his visor a one-way mirror. But then the feeling was gone. It was hard to stay anxious driving a Dogmobile, the stars all shining bright.

  He lit a smoke and pressed down on the gas, easing back up to thirty. At these speeds he’d be lucky to get there by daybreak. On the map it looked tricky—a ways off the highway, with an old train track running through. Apple Road was probably gravel, or even just dirt. At least he wouldn’t be conspicuous, bouncing along in a motorized, fibreglass, big-city hat.

  But how did Seth know about the Man in the Black Helmet?

  He turned up the radio.

  It was the first grey of morning. The Dogmobile crept through the outskirts of Barrie, past its belching, slumbering form.

  The light turned silver, shimmering from the horizon, and the sides of the highway began to take shape. Mason drove west on the county road, the sun rising behind him, the first hint of warmth like animal breath on his neck.