Her smile was stiff, brittle.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I said, trying to be reassuring. We said our goodbyes and I shut the front door behind her.
I turned to Mac and said, “Show off.”
“Do you believe me now?” he asked.
“All right. Maybe you’re a ghost.”
“Maybe?”
“You could be a figment of my imagination.”
“Your imagination put the briefcase under the sofa?”
“Maybe none of this happened. Maybe the real-estate agent is a figment of my imagination, too.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. You’re so destroyed by my death that you’ve been pushed over the edge and you’re seeing things. And I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t care. And now that you’ve said that…well, you’re probably not a figment of my imagination. You’re probably a ghost.”
“Finally. That’s settled.”
It got very quiet in the living room. I stared at him. Waiting.
“What?” he finally asked.
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you’re here.”
He gave me a blank look. “I don’t know. As I’ve explained, I wasn’t given any information.”
“Oh I don’t mean that. I mean, why are you here? Why are you haunting me?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m haunting you. We’re hanging out.”
“Fine. Ghosts ‘hang out’ because they’re angry about how they died. Or there’s something left unresolved.”
“Well, I’m not angry. I’m actually in a very good mood.” He smiled happily at me.
“So you’ve left something unresolved. Great. Let’s figure out what it is and resolve it. I’d like you out of here by dinner.”
He put a hand on his hip. “What? You have dinner plans?”
“No. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’m just wondering if you want me out of the way for a reason.”
“You’re a ghost. It’s normal to want a ghost to go away.”
“I think that’s discriminatory.”
“We’re not going to go there, okay? Just think. What have you left unresolved?”
“You’re a bigot. I won’t have a bigot in my house. Get out.” He plunked down onto the sofa and pouted.
I sat down across from him. “Mac. It’s not your house anymore. It’s mine. If you don’t like me, then you should leave.”
“Give me my house back.”
“There’s a problem with that. Dead people can’t own property.”
“I’ve been stripped of my human rights?”
“Because you’re not human.”
“This all seems terribly unfair.”
“Why don’t you start a movement? Somewhere else.”
“How can I start a movement? I haven’t met a single ghost. As far as I know, I’m the only one.”
“Why don’t you work with me, Mac? Let’s figure out what you’ve left unresolved and then you can go on to heaven.”
“I don’t believe in heaven.”
“You don’t believe in an afterlife either and you’ve got one of those.”
He shrugged. “I’ll happily believe in heaven as soon as I get there.”
“And you’re not going anywhere until we figure out what you need to resolve. So, out with it. What needs resolving?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
Chapter Six
Sleeping with Fishes
I did my best with Mac’s memorial, I did. Still, I can’t honestly say it turned out well. Following his wishes, there was no religious service. The only recognition of his passing was to be the spreading of his ashes, or rather, in accordance with his will, the “pouring.” I was still kicking myself about the wording of his will. But I was sure he’d actually used the word “pour,” so it must have been important to him.
In the winter, the ice on Lake Marlboro gets to be roughly two feet thick, in some places three. During the winter festival there is ice-skating, ice sailing, and sometimes even a stock car race on the ice. The ice is that sturdy. Thick ice is great if you’re driving a modified stock car in a repetitive circle, but not so great if you want to pour someone’s ashes into the lake.
About two miles up the west side of the lake, Shell Wrigley—who for some reason I’d never quite grasped was my godfather—had a fishing hut placed about two hundred feet out in front of his summer house. With a chainsaw he’d hacked a hole about three feet wide in the ice and then set the hut on top of it. The hut resembled an over-sized outhouse and Shell dragged it out onto the ice every year on a special sled.
Ice fishing has always been a big deal in Marlboro and we’ve even developed a little bit of a tourist trade around it. The lake trout get up to about twenty-five pounds and can be quite delicious when broiled in butter. During the winter, if you look out onto the lake you can see a smattering of ice shanties. Even from a distance, though, you can tell which are locals and which are tourists. The locals use huts and equipment passed down generation after generation. The tourists bring bright blue thermal tents and propane heaters; augers that cut delicate eight inch holes in the ice; and cameras they slip into the water to find the fish.
Nonetheless, the locals out fish them.
Shell’s shanty was definitely that of a local. Inside, there was a small wood-burning stove in one corner, a disgusting smelling bucket of bait, and enough room for about four fishermen. Unfortunately, nine of us had crowded into the hut to see off Mac’s remains. There was Shell, of course, me and Cal Parsons, Jane and Grady—Grady had gotten his ankle put into a cast and wobbled around on crutches threatening to knock us all into the fishing hole—Constance, who kept giving Cal strange looks, Wendell, Kirby, and Doctor Albertson, who couldn’t help but frown at the lot of us. He hadn’t much confidence in the broken ankle scheme.
I was squeezed next to the wood stove, which had a few embers still burning from Shell’s early morning fishing but wasn’t too hot. Very close to me, Cal was holding Mac’s urn. He smelled good, like cinnamon and wood chips and something muskier underneath. I tried to step away, smelling clients is never a good idea, but there was nowhere to step away to. Making matters worse, Cal kept bumping into me and then saying he was sorry. Except he didn’t seem sorry at all. Directly across from us, Jane and Grady were huddled up against the bait can. I could see they were trying not to inhale its rank odor. I decided we’d better get through this as quickly as possible.
“Well…thank you all for coming. We should probably go ahead and start.”
“Wait,” Shell said. “There’s no minister?”
“Mac was an atheist,” I explained. “I thought if anyone—”
“That’s no reason not to have a minister,” Shell blurted out. “Reverend Cannell enjoys saying a few words over a dead atheist. He’d have come.”
Strangely, Cal giggled beside me. It was humiliating. Obviously, he was laughing at Shell’s provincialism. The area was full of people like Shell and as much as I sometimes disagreed with their ideas, I didn’t think they should be laughed at. But then, Cal whispered, “Sorry. Funny thought.”
Not quite believing him, I turned back to Shell and said, “These are Mac’s wishes. We have to follow them.”
“Well, I suppose there’s not much the Reverend could have done anyway,” Shell said.
“I’ve heard Reverend Cannell speak,” Grady said. “He’s a lot more inclined to condemn you to hell than he is to save you from Satan’s grasp anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shell asked.
“It means no sane person would want that crackpot dancing on their grave,” Grady shot back.
“This isn’t the time—” I began trying to keep things from getting worse.
“It’s a well known fact that atheists take the express train to hell and Reverend Cannell would have said—”
Suddenly, Cal went “Shhhhhhhhh! Could you stop?” Ev
eryone went silent. Cal looked around the small shanty and then said, “Sorry.”
“No, I think that was an appropriate response to the way the conversation was going,” I said. “Since there’s no minister, I thought if anyone wanted to say a few words, tell a story, you know, some remembrance…”
Everyone went quiet. Suddenly, Cal said, “No, I will not.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “This is informal, whatever people are comfortable with is fine. Maybe I should start. I met Mac when, um, Constance introduced us. Shortly after he moved here she called me up and said that she had someone she’d like me to meet and, um, well, we had dinner.” I suddenly wondered if a story about an unsuccessful blind date was really appropriate for a funeral. Certainly, the next part of the story—in which Mac was excited by our twenty-odd year age difference and I was, well, not—wasn’t part of the story I wanted to tell. Constance though looked thrilled that I was telling a story in which she featured. I began blushing. I was acutely aware of Cal staring at me. “Anyway, that, um, dinner, led to my working for Mac over the years and my becoming involved with the Barnyard Players after he took an interest in…them.”
There was a brief silence then Jane said, “He came in every Wednesday and ordered egg whites scrambled with turkey sausage. Given the way things worked out, I wish he’d ordered the whole egg. You know?”
Cal suddenly squeaked and said, “Goddammit.” For the first time, it crossed my mind that he might have a case of Tourette’s. It would explain a few things.
“Well,” Wendell said and then cleared his throat several times. “Mac and I became very close over the years we worked together at the Barnyard Players.”
Suddenly, Cal bumped into me again. Hard. “Sorry,” he whispered. Could Tourette’s also be physical? I wondered.
“Mac’s love of theater is what always struck me,” Wendell continued. “He’d do just about anything the Barnyard Players asked of him. Anything. If we were in trouble, financially or otherwise, but mainly financially, he was always there for us. I think it was his dream that there always be a community theater in Marlboro. A community theater that may one day become a semi-professional theater. Or even a well-respected regional—” He’d managed to collect a few glares from the other players. “And, of course, that’s my dream, too.”
Before anyone else jumped in, I turned to Cal and said, “Would you like to say anything?” Then I realized he’d already indicated that he didn’t want to. “Oh wait, you already, I’m sorry...”
“No, it’s okay. I should, shouldn’t I?” he said, obviously not enthusiastic. “Um, before coming here I hadn’t seen Mac for a decade and a half and I have to say that this experience has brought him back to me. Very vividly, in fact. I have to admit it’s not an entirely pleasant experience…”
Suddenly, he lurched forward and nearly fell into the fish hole. He turned and said, “Really? Is that necessary?” to no one in particular.
It went deadly silent in the hut. Constance was white as a sheet. We all stared at Cal. “Is everything all right?” I finally asked.
“Yes, everything’s fine. I suppose I should explain…” he said. Though from the look on his face I wondered if he could. Then he brightened and said, “It’s an acting exercise. What I’ve been doing. Mac invented it actually.”
“Really?” Wendell asked suspiciously. “I don’t remember him—”
“What you do is…um, pretend someone is annoying you, someone invisible.”
“Like an angel on your shoulder?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” agreed Cal.
“Or a devil,” suggested Shell.
“Or that, yes,” said Cal. “In fact, more likely that.”
“Oh my God,” Constance exclaimed. “That’s what you were doing the other day, isn’t it? It was an acting exercise. Oh dear, you made me think…well, I don’t know what I thought.”
“Maybe I do remember,” said Wendell. “Yes, I’m sure he discussed this with me. I think we even tried it once.” He looked over his shoulder and said to no one, “I’m busy, leave me alone.”
“What a wonderful way to remember Mac,” said Jane.
“He’s hard to forget,” Cal said.
Abruptly, Grady turned around and said, “Goddamnit will you be silent?” Then he looked at the group, “I don’t really see the point.”
“Focus,” Wendell explained. “It’s about focus. In life, people never think about one thing the way you do when you’re acting. They think about many things at once. This exercise splits your focus and makes you seem…well real. Or at least that’s the way Mac explained it to me.”
With a glance at the empty space next to him he began to laugh as though his imaginary angel/devil had just said something very funny.
I noticed that Kirby and Constance had begun to mumble to themselves. Doctor Albertson looked at us all as though we were a bunch of lunatics. I wasn’t sure he was far off the mark. I gave Cal a “what have you done look” and he just shrugged.
“All right then,” I said, trying to get things back under control. “I think it’s time to pour Mac into the lake.”
Scoot Rogers had given me Mac’s ashes that morning in a special wooden box faced with birch bark. I had no idea what I’d do with the box once I dumped Mac out of it. I doubted Cal would want it. I had a moment of imagining it sitting on a table at the inevitable estate sale with a three-dollar price tag. That was too sad to think about, so I decided I’d simply take it home with me.
I lifted the lid and inside was the clear, heavy-gauge plastic bag full of Mac’s ashes. Around me people were still playing Mac’s odd theater game. I took the bag out of the box and tried to pull it open. It didn’t open. I tried again. Still nothing. “Does anyone have a pocketknife?”
Within seconds there were four options being held out to me, including a ferocious knife in Shell’s hand—which I quickly realized was not a pocketknife at all but a knife used to gut fish. I ignored it and took the perfectly reasonable knife offered by Grady.
After I poked at the thick plastic bag until it was open, I leaned over the fishing hole and dumped the lumpy gray ash into the hole. Everyone had gotten quiet and finally stopped the theater games. We all stared at the muddy mess Mac’s ashes had made in the fishing hole. Shell reached out for a metal pole with a plastic hook on the end, probably used to pull fish in. As he did, he said, “Let me just stir that up.”
“Oh God,” I said under my breath. “Won’t it just…dissipate? Eventually.”
“Sure,” Shell said. “You wanna wait?”
No one said anything. Shell stirred Mac’s ashes until they disappeared. It was awkward and depressing. As soon as he was done, we burst out of the hut en masse. When I came out, Doctor Albertson pulled me aside.
“There’s something I should tell your client.”
“About?”
“About Mac’s death. There’s something he should know.”
Wendell had latched onto Cal, probably about to make a more direct attempt to extract a check. Something I had to stop. Quickly, I waved Cal over. When he got to us, I said, “Doctor Albertson has something he wants to tell you.”
The doctor nodded at him and then began, “As you know, Mac committed suicide. At this point, I think it’s all right for me to let you know he was suffering from cancer and was unlikely to live for more than a few months. I tried to assure him that—”
“So, it is true?” Cal interrupted.
“You already knew?” I asked. “Was there a note in the house or something?”
“No. Nothing,” Cal said. “Wow, I guess I’m not having a psychotic break.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, sorry. Ignore that,” he said, explaining nothing. He might not think he was having a psychotic break but I wasn’t so sure.
“I did promise I’d be able to keep him comfortable. I’m not sure that made much difference.” There was guilt in the doctor’s voice.
“Don’t w
orry about it,” Cal said. “Mac has always been incredibly stubborn. He has to have his own way. Even over death. I mean, had to. He had to have his own…”
“He was stubborn,” Doctor Albertson said, perking up a little.
“Yes. He was.”
Doctor Albertson walked way and I realized it was time to ask Cal if he’d like to take over for Grady in Heaven Sent. As soon as I had the thought I realized the whole thing was ridiculously silly. He was a professional actor. He wasn’t going to want to join our little community theater for a production. Certainly not if it interfered with his plans to sell Mac’s estate and move on. Still, half the company was staring at me at that particular moment waiting for me to ask. So, I started, “This may not be the right time, but there’s something I’d like to ask you…um, well, the thing is…”
“Yes.”
“Yes? I haven’t asked…”
“Yes, I’ll go out with you. Dinner? Tonight? Pick me up around seven?”
“That wasn’t—I mean, well, yes. All right. Dinner.”
Oh my God, I thought, I’ve just agreed to have dinner with someone who may not be all that mentally stable.
“Great,” he said, smiling at me. It was a smile that could seduce millions into buying toothpaste. Bad toothpaste with an odd flavor. Like watermelon mint. At that moment, if he were selling watermelon mint toothpaste I’d have signed up for a case. At that particular moment, the fact that he was probably insane didn’t matter a bit.
Cal nodded and walked toward the shore where Mac’s SUV waited. Before he got there, Constance practically tackled him and dragged him over to the trunk of her Mercedes. She flipped it open and inside were several file boxes full of forms—like most real-estate agents she had a traveling office in the trunk of her car. Leafing through, she picked out a couple of contracts for him to sign. He did so quickly. Constance shook his hand and tucked the contracts into a different file folder.
As Cal got into Mac’s SUV, someone cleared their throat behind me and I realized I’d been surrounded by the Barnyard Players. Grady spoke first. In a hushed voice he asked, “What did he say?”
“I didn’t ask.”
The Ghost Slept Over Page 7