The Ghost Slept Over

by Marshall Thornton

  “Oh shit,” I said. I hadn’t gotten the towel completely tucked and it dropped to the floor.

  With a leer, Mac said, “The years have treated you well, Cal.”

  “You’re dead.”

  “I know. Bummer, huh?”

  “Except you’re not dead. You’re here. Right there. Goddammit! I knew it. This is some kind of vicious joke, isn’t it? I’m being punked. Are we on a reality TV show?”

  “Well, if we are, you’re going to spend a lot of time being blurred out.”

  I grabbed the towel off the floor and tucked it tightly around my waist. “You do realize there’s no way in hell I’m signing a waiver. You’d better go get the producer. We need to have it out.”

  “Relax. You’re not on a TV show.”

  After eyeing him suspiciously, I said, “I’m not?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is this? You’re not dead. Why are you pretending to be dead? Are you in trouble with the mob?”

  “Why would I be in trouble with the mob? Dewey told you how much money I—”

  “Maybe it’s their money. They’re going to want it back aren’t they?”

  “Heavens, you’re so dramatic.”

  “Me. You’re the one who just showed up…not dead.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t dead. I’m dead. I’m very dead.”

  I sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re standing right in front of me.”

  “Look at me. Look at me closely.” I looked. As he had the night before, Mac looked just the way he looked when we’d last seen each other. No, younger. He looked like he did when we first met, which is to say pretty damn sexy in a bookish, professorly kind of way. Strangely, he looked younger than I did. Which he shouldn’t, the last time I’d seen a photo of him (three years before when he was nominated for a Tony) he looked actually, well…old. And yes, I admit it, I’d taken a mean delight in his decrepitness, but now—

  “How old do I look?” he asked.

  “Really? Vanity? Now?”

  “It’s a serious question. How old do I look?”

  “You found a really good plastic surgeon, big deal,” I said. Part of me wanted a referral. I wondered for a moment if I could squeeze a procedure or two out of Mac when all of this was sorted out. He has actually damaged me, I thought. He owed me something. Then I remembered something even more important. I’d sold my truck. I was an Angeleno without transportation. My life was ruined—

  “I sold my truck to get here. You owe me a truck!”

  “Cal, I’m a ghost.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Apparently, when you die you get to look your best. That’s why I look like this.”

  “What? No.” I decided to put an immediate end to the whole idea, so I walked over and tried to stick my hand through his chest.

  “Ouch! Stop that!” Mac screamed when my hand hit his sternum.

  “See. You’re not a ghost. Ghosts are…un-material.”

  “Do you know a lot of ghosts?” he asked, snidely.

  “Of course not,” I said, pushing past him to go into the bedroom. I went to my bag and pulled out a pair of briefs.

  “Even though you don’t know any ghosts you know you should be able to stick your hand through one?”

  “Well…”

  I really didn’t want to say it, so he did, “You saw it in a movie.”

  “It seems logical that you should be…un-material if you’re a spirit. Which I don’t believe you are for a minute. Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to put my underwear on and I don’t want you gaping at me. Turn around.”

  “I just got a good look in the bathroom. And I want to say again you’re looking—”

  “Shut up and turn around.”

  Finally, he turned around. I dropped the towel and stepped into my underwear. “Thank you,” I said when I was ready for him to turn back around. He did, took a good look at my designer briefs, and said, “Oh my, snazzy. You almost look better with those on than you do in nothing at all.”

  “Shut up.” And then, partly because he was annoying me and partly because it had to be true, I said, “You’re not a ghost.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do to prove it to you.”

  “You don’t—okay, do something ghost-like. Disappear, levitate, turn the room a chilly five degrees.”

  He scowled at me and said, “Boo.”

  “Very funny.”

  Then I had an idea. An important idea. I went over to the nightstand and grabbed my smart phone. I looked up the lawyer’s number and hit it.

  “What are you doing?” Mac asked.

  Dewey picked up. “Hi. This is Cal Parsons. You mentioned the possibility of seeing Mac’s body before he’s cremated. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to do that.”

  “You have?”

  “It’s not too late, is it?”

  “No, the cremation is scheduled for around eleven. There’s time. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  “Great,” I said, and hung up. I turned back to Mac and said, “I’m going to see your dead body. Want to come?”

  “Good God no. That’s just too morbid.”

  Chapter Four

  A Room with a Viewing

  When I arrived at Mac’s house, Cal Parsons was standing outside. He wore the same black, sixties jacket he’d worn the day before. This time with a baby blue polo shirt underneath. He was visibly shivering. I couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t had the sense to wait in the house. Quickly, he climbed into my SUV and I couldn’t stop myself saying, “You know I think there’s a nice parka in the front closet.”

  “I’m not wearing Mac’s clothes,” he said.

  “Technically, they’re your clothes now,” I said, then realized my mistake. “I mean, you could wear the parka until you get your own...winter, um, coat.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be here long enough to need a winter coat.”

  Which seemed to me a good reason to wear Mac’s parka. I didn’t say that, though. I kept my mouth shut. Somehow I had to bring up the idea of giving the Barnyard Players at least enough money to get through Heaven Sent. It would be nice if he’d donate the theater to the group or even endow it—there was a way I could structure it that would provide a nice tax benefit—but I doubted he’d want to give up that much of his inheritance. Three million is a decent amount of money, but it really couldn’t be called a large fortune. It would be easy to run through the money if you weren’t…tidy.

  With the heat blowing full blast, I pulled out of the driveway and onto Lakeview. The mortuary was just outside Marlboro proper. A few miles flew by before I asked, “What made you change your mind? About viewing Mac’s body?”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  That was illogical. “He’s, um, passed away,” I pointed out. Even the most dishonest person was trustworthy after death.

  “I just have to be sure.”

  “You have to be sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That he’s…passed.”

  “Yes.”

  “I completely understand,” I said, though I didn’t. I decided not to say anything else. When people suffer a loss they’re not necessarily logical. He wouldn’t be the first person who needed to actually see a dead loved one in order to accept their death. The only thing that bothered me was that he’d been so adamant the day before that he never wanted to see Mac again. And now, here he was demanding to see the body. Strange.

  Heart’s Rest Mortuary was on Ridge near Piney. The building was relatively new—dating back to the nineties—one story, made of red brick and nearly windowless. The front doors were painted in doleful black lacquer. The parking lot was empty except for Scoot Rogers’ black Lincoln Town Car and an aging hearse. Scoot was our local mortician, who during working hours was always called Reginald. Scoot was a name that didn’t work for the bereaved. He was also one of the few local gays around my age. Though it had been
suggested many, many times, we’d never gone out and, if I had anything to do with it, never would. Scoot was a nice enough man but I happened to know there were two shots of Jameson in his coffee every morning. And his coffee became paler as the day went on.

  A bell chimed when we entered the funeral home and very quickly Scoot came out from the back. We said our hellos and then I turned to introduce—

  “Cal Parsons!” Scoot screamed. “You’re Cal Parsons!”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Cal blushed. I didn’t know actors could do that.

  “I love your movie! It’s my favorite of all time!”

  Now I blushed. I should have known he was well-known. But I’m terrible at those things. Scoot turned to me and said, “You’re one lucky guy. What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes.” He winked at me and added, “Or should I say…saddle?”

  Neither Cal nor I laughed. I didn’t even understand the joke. Was Cal’s movie a western?

  “You’re misunderstanding, Reginald. We’re here to view Mac. Cal was once his partner.”

  “Oh. You must be terribly broken up. If you need a shoulder to cry on…” I wanted to slap Scoot. He was coming on to Cal before a viewing? I could hardly believe it.

  “I’m fine thank you,” Cal said graciously. “Could we just take a quick look?”

  “Of course you can.” Scoot’s voice was thick with sympathy.

  He led us back, past the viewing rooms and into a long hallway, at the end of which was the crematorium. A large metal machine sat in the center of a relatively small room. An inexpensive pine coffin sat on the conveyor belt; Mac lay inside covered with a sheet. He was about to make his way down to the oven.

  “We got here just in time,” I said.

  “You gave me the go ahead.” Scoot shrugged.

  “I know. Mr. Parsons had a change of heart.”

  “How romantic. You want to see him one more time.” He paused to take a breath. “Now, I don’t want you to worry. This is the Cremo-4000 shipped directly from China. Works like a charm. Mac’s transition will be efficient and sanitary. If anyone knows about disposing of lots of bodies it’s the Chinese.”

  Cal stared at Scoot blankly. I don’t think anyone ever worries about how a cremation goes. It’s assumed that they, well, they go. Cal leaned over the coffin and studied Mac’s corpse.

  Scoot turned to me and whispered, “How are rehearsals going?”

  “Just fine. Just fine,” I whispered back. Scoot would be doing the makeup. Normally it would be an appropriate question, but at that moment it wasn’t.

  “I’ve been researching makeup for Lord Essex. I’ve got some ideas. I’m still thinking we should go for at least a blue tint. Nothing obvious, but still—”

  “Wendell already said no.”

  “But the audience has to know he’s a ghost.”

  Cal turned to us and said, “This isn’t right.”

  “Is there a problem?” Scoot asked.

  “He doesn’t…I mean he does…but he shouldn’t…” He thought a moment and then said, “Mac has a crab tattoo on his hip. He and a bunch of his friends did them in college.”

  “Yes, he does. I thought it was very—”

  “May I see it,” Cal asked.

  Scoot seemed a little put out. He’d just said it was there after all. Frowning, he lifted the sheet above Mac’s right hip. Just inside his hipbone was a blurring, green tattoo of a small crab.

  “That’s the tattoo,” Cal said. Something about his face suggested that was the wrong answer. “I need to go back to Mac’s house.”

  “You don’t want to watch? I was just about to start the process.”

  Cal thought for a moment, then leaned over the coffin and did the oddest thing, he poked Mac’s corpse hard in the chest.

  “I’ll let you press the button if you like?" Scoot asked brightly.

  “No, I’m fine thanks.”

  I shrugged at Scoot and we left. On the way to my SUV I asked, “Did you want to go into town and switch the bank accounts over?”

  Standing at the passenger’s door, he thought about it for a moment and then said, “Probably not a good idea. I need to get back to Mac’s.”

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “I think I left the oven on.”

  That was such an odd statement. For one thing, we’d just been standing next to a very large, very gruesome oven. For another, I knew for a fact there was no food in Mac’s house. I’d told the cleaners to empty the refrigerator. What could he have in the oven? Perhaps I should have asked on the way back, but once we were driving I decided to stick to business.

  I tried again to explain the nature of the trust and the steps we’d be taking to transfer the assets. I didn’t feel like I’d done a good enough job the day before. It was a lot of paperwork, but simple enough. Really it should be smooth sailing. We were only halfway back to Mac’s when I noticed that Cal’s eyes had glazed over. I wasn’t explaining this any better today.

  “So, I thought I should mention,” I began, already knowing this wouldn’t go well. “You should know that Mac was very involved with the Barnyard Players. He was their primary contributor for the last few years. There’s a rehearsal later—”

  Abruptly, he asked, “If you’re an accomplice to a crime and you don’t know it can you get into trouble?”

  “Um…well, that really depends. Ignorance of the law is not a defense. However, there are situations in which a person is more victim than accomplice. For instance, if you’re duped into being an accomplice then it’s reasonable to consider you a victim. Provided you report the crime in a timely manner.” I paused and then asked carefully, “I’m charging you right now. That means attorney/client privilege is in effect. Do you need to tell me something?”

  “I’m, um, actually, just thinking about writing a movie or something. About a doppelganger and a possible murder…”

  “Ah,” I said. I didn’t think it would make much of a movie. “So, the Barnyard Pl—”

  “Who?”

  “The Barnyard Players. I just mentioned them. They work out of the Red Barn. The theater that Mac owned.”

  “Oh. Do they want to buy the theater? How much is it worth?”

  “Actually, as I said, Mac was their primary means of support—”

  “Are you saying they don’t pay rent? Because they’re going to have to start, at least until I get it sold.” Then to himself, “Wait, what am I talking about… I’m not even sure what’s happening.”

  Cal seemed confused. And why shouldn’t he be? Despite thinking he wasn’t going to grieve, he was grieving. He was grieving hard. And here I was trying to extract money from him. I felt ashamed.

  Pulling into Mac’s driveway, I said, “Should I come back tomorrow and we’ll take care of those bank accounts? Actually if you’d like a couple of days.”

  “No. Come in now.”

  “Come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Before I could ask why, he’d jumped out of the SUV and was hurrying toward the house. I got out and followed him, calling after, “Did I mention, there’s an SUV in the garage. The keys are in the kitchen. We’ll need to change the title—”

  “You told me that already, but thanks,” he said, disappearing into the house.

  Reluctantly, I followed. Inside, I found him looking around the living room as though he’d misplaced something. Then he bounded up the stairs. “Um…didn’t you want to check the oven?” I called after him as I began up the stairs.

  “Huh? Oh, no, he’s not in the oven.”

  “Who’s not in the oven?”

  “No one.”

  He looked into the bedroom and the office. He didn’t find what he wanted and came back out. He was obviously looking for someone but he wouldn’t say who that someone was. And there wasn’t anyone there. I wondered if he’d managed to pick someone up in the short time he’d been in Marlboro. Had he left a trick in Mac’s place? Had he used the SUV to go somewhere? Or had he g
otten onto one of those phone apps that can get you a hookup anywhere in the world? But who would he have hooked up with? I knew most every— Oh God, I thought, was someone I know going to pop out of a closet?

  I followed him back downstairs again. As we got to the bottom of the stairs he suddenly said, “There you are” to the empty living room as though he’d finally found the trick he was looking for. He turned and looked at me as though he was waiting for me to react to something. I looked again at the empty room. There wasn’t anything for me to react to.

  “Am I missing something?”

  His mouth fell open and he said, “Oh shit.”

  * * * *

  I left Cal at Mac’s house convinced he was mentally unstable. Granted most actors are at least a little unstable, but I was sure Cal belonged in the requires-medication category of unstable. Immediately, I thought how sweet it was that Mac wanted to take care of him. He must have known. They were partners, after all. Of course, he should have told me. I would have set up a conservatorship. A mentally unstable actor should never have been left in charge of millions. It was very likely he’d squander the money, and then what would happen to him?

  As I parked in front of The Steppin’ Inn, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number so I took the call tentatively. I have to take calls like that. They could be new clients. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

  A man said, “Hello, is this Dewey?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “This is Davey Westcott.”

  “Oh, how are you Davey?” We’d dated briefly five years before. I didn’t remember it going particularly well. But I certainly remembered the impossibility of partnering with someone named Davey. Davey and Dewey would not work for me.

  “Fine, thank you. Constance gave me your number and suggested I call you.” I could tell that he was nervous. And the best reason I could think of for that was that he’d forgotten me completely.