The Ghost Slept Over

by Marshall Thornton

  That made Mac glower. “I doubt it, but can I point you to another ghost? No.”

  “Interesting,” I said, because it was. “What can you do? Appear and disappear, obviously. You can physically accost people. Apparently, you’re only seen when you want to be. Could you leave Marlboro if you wanted to?”

  “I haven’t tried.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “Because I want to be with Cal. I’m here for him. I love him and I want him to come with me and spend an eternity of bl—”

  “Come with you?” I asked.

  “Yes. Come with me.”

  “You mean, die?”

  “Yes, of course, is there another way to spend eternity with someone?”

  “Well, vampires exist for eternity,” I pointed out.

  “I’m not a vampire,” Mac said. “That’s revolting. Besides, don’t they die eventually? If you read enough of the sequels...”

  “So you want Cal to die so he can join you?” I asked Mac.

  “Yes.”

  ”But what makes you think that will actually happen?”

  Mac shrugged. “He has to die eventually.”

  “No, I mean, why do you think he’ll become a ghost? You just said you hadn’t seen any other ghosts. Maybe he’ll pass over without a problem.”

  “Could we not talk about my death quite so casually,” Cal said.

  “Sorry,” I said, then stared Mac down.

  “I think it’s worth a try,” he said.

  “Worth a try!” Cal yelled.

  “Relax, I’m sure it will work. Trust me.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Gut feeling?”

  “Make him go away,” Cal said to me.

  “I will not!” Mac yelled.

  “Basically the situation is this, Mac would like Cal to die. Cal would like Mac to go away. So we’re negotiating,” I said, suddenly on familiar ground.

  “We are not,” Mac insisted.

  “I’m not so sure—” Cal said over him.

  “Point number one,” I proceeded, ignoring them both. “Cal would like you to go away. What will that take, Mac?”

  “I refuse. Categorically.”

  Now I turned to Cal. “What are you willing to offer Mac if he goes away?”

  He thought for a moment. I was afraid he was going to stonewall just like Mac had, but then he said, “I won’t sell the house. And I’ll consider a large donation to your little theater troupe.”

  “That’s a consolation prize. I want you.”

  “How about, after I die naturally I’ll consider spending eternity with you?”

  “Consider? You want me to give up on the basis of you’ll consider...”

  “What about strongly consider?” I suggested.

  “I’m not liking this,” Mac said.

  He turned to me and said, “And he has to promise not to try and kill me. The other day when I was at the top of the stairs he—”

  “I did not try to kill you. You tripped.”

  “Only because your foot was hooked around my ankle.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that you tripped.”

  “I think my client’s request that you not kill him is reasonable.”

  Mac glared at me for a moment. “Your client? But you’re my attorney!”

  “I was your attorney. When you died I became your heir’s attorney.”

  “Why? Because he’s paying you?”

  “That would be one reason, yes.”

  He sputtered for a minute about how mercenary I was. This happens every so often when you charge two hundred dollars an hour. Then Mac said, “Who’s representing me in this negotiation?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Who’s available...on your side?”

  Mac got red in the face, like he might explode.

  “I told you! I haven’t met anyone!”

  “Oh. That’s a shame. It might have been nice to go up against Clarence Darrow or Thurgood Marshall.”

  “You expect me to just conjure up some old supreme court justice?” Mac screeched.

  “You did just disappear in front of me. It’s not exactly an unreasonable idea that you might have some connections on the other side.”

  “This has to be a violation of my civil rights,” Mac said.

  “Being dead or not having an attorney?”

  “Attorney!”

  “Well, we’re not preventing you from having an attorney.”

  “You have all my money.”

  “Even if you’d left the money to yourself you wouldn’t have it, now would you?”

  “I’m going to have to think about this. I’ll get back to you,” he said, and then disappeared in a cloud of pink smoke.

  I looked at Cal and asked, “What’s the deal with the pink smoke? That didn’t happen last time he disappeared.”

  “He’s just showing off.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Things That Go Bump On Opening Night

  There are several nightmares that actors commonly have. One is a dream in which you appear on stage naked. I stopped having that one after I did Lust/Anger/Joy. Exposing my junk to an audience was no longer terrifying. Another common nightmare is being on stage and not having the slightest idea what play you’re doing. That dream I have. That dream is terrifying. That dream pretty well sums up opening night of The Barnyard Player’s Heaven Sent.

  After Dewey’s attempt to negotiate with Mac, my un-friendly ghost laid low for the next two days before opening night. It was an incredible relief. I’d just spent an entire week with him. If I had my doubts about spending eternity with him before, they’d tripled in those seven long days. There were many things I’ve been uncertain of since this whole thing began, but the one thing I knew without doubt was that Mac and I did not belong together. I couldn’t face the possibility of spending centuries with him and not be able to wring his neck—at least not with any lasting effect.

  While Dewey and I weren’t speaking, Mac decided we should catch up on the fifteen years, three months, and one week we’d been apart. Apparently, he’d counted the days. I could never remember exactly. I suppose that means something, but I didn’t have time to think about that since Mac was busy sharing the intimate details of his every professional triumph. He seemed not to notice that I was not especially interested—I’d read about it all in the newspaper, after all—and would have liked to, at least, share one or two of my own less lustrous accomplishments. I also learned, and this was really not so surprising, that he was holding a number of grudges against this famous rat fink actor and that award-winning, motherfucking producer.

  “Perhaps you should tour,” I suggested.

  “What?”

  “I said, perhaps you should tour. Don’t feel you have to keep haunting me if there are others you’d like to torture.”

  “Oh, my...I hadn’t even thought of that. That’s a brilliant idea!” He considered the possibilities for a moment and then rejected the idea, at least for the moment. “No, we’ll do it together. After you pass over. Why should I have all the fun?”

  I didn’t object. I’d stopped objecting to the idea that I’d be dying soon. There seemed to be no point. Plus it cut down on his attempts to actually kill me since my refusing to die was something Mac took as a challenge. The only way I could get any peace at all was to work on my role. Mac may not respect my life, but he did respect the craft so he left me alone to work. That inspired me to be even more disciplined than normal.

  By the time Dewey showed up at the first preview and we made up, I was very confident in what I was doing. I felt good about my approach to the role and not just because I was a professional amongst amateurs. The two days before opening night were a little nerve-wracking. I was sure Mac was not gone for good. I kept waiting for him to reappear. The longer he waited to show up again, the more nervous I became about it.

  On opening night, I asked Dewey to take me to a pharmacy so I could grab a few things. He made a joke
about whether or not I was planning “safe-acting” and I laughed even though the joke was a bit strained. Dewey parked in front of a quaint pharmacy on Towey. I said, “I’ll just be a second” and jumped out of the car. Inside, I went right for the makeup section.

  The theater was intimate, so I wouldn’t need to wear a lot of make-up but I thought I should wear a little. I grabbed a tube of mascara and a lipstick that was one shade darker than my lips. If I needed color in my cheeks I could use a bit of the lipstick. I figured those two things were the most I’d need.

  I don’t know why this happened to me in the makeup section of a drugstore, but I had a sudden moment of clarity. It was all going to end. The play. My whatever-it-was with Dewey. In two months I’d be on to something else. Possibly even someone else. It was a sad thought. Sadder than I wanted it to be. I shook the feeling off. The last thing anyone should be thinking about on opening night was the future.

  When I got to the checkout counter, I was met by a frowning older gentleman. His face was round and his skin pale—he could have used a touch of blush himself. The look he gave me was the kind you might give a cockroach you were about to step on. I slid the make-up across the counter and decided to turn the uncomfortable situation into a promotional opportunity and said, “I’m in a play. With the Barnyard Players.”

  That earned me an even deeper frown and a grumpy, “Oh, them.” Apparently actors were in the same subspecies as men who wore make-up. Just then his register tape jammed and he had to take the entire machine apart in order to complete the sale. He grumbled the whole time. He must have thought the register was made in China because he began to curse communism. I was pretty certain communism had nothing to do with it. Though he hadn’t shown himself, I was sure Mac had something to do with the register breaking down. When I was finally able to pay and leave, I stopped on the salted sidewalk for a moment and said to thin air, “Thank you for that. And no, I’m not spending eternity with you.”

  I got into Dewey’s SUV and said, “I think Mac’s back.” And then told him the story.

  “Well, if he’s going to make himself useful it might not be so annoying to have him around.”

  “Except he won’t. It’s not in his nature.” The SUV stalled and I instantly regretted saying that. Dewey restarted the vehicle and we headed off to the theater.

  “Perhaps I should watch what I say,” I muttered as we drove.

  At the theater, things were buzzing the way they always are on an opening night. I gave Dewey a chaste kiss goodbye—which seemed to surprise him but really everyone knew, so why not—and then I went back to the dressing room. Since it was a small theater, the dressing room was shared and coed. There were half a dozen tables with mirrors and a blanket strung across the back of the room should the need for privacy strike. Given some of the situations I found myself in—for example using the front seat of my truck as a dressing room—these were luxury accommodations. Scattered around the room were tiny bouquets of flowers, one for each of the actors, and cards from Wendell. My table held a separate and much larger bouquet. When I checked the card it was from Dewey. He hadn’t written anything else on the card, other than his name, which was fine. The sweetness of the flowers alone made me go, “Awwww.”

  Instantly, one of the roses wilted.

  “Stop it,” I said to the empty room. And then sighed deeply. I knew my lines backward and forward. I didn’t need Mac as a prompter, which meant I didn’t need him at all. So the fact that he was there did not make me in the least bit happy. He was up to no good and, since I didn’t know exactly what that no good would be, I was nervous. Moments later, the rest of the cast trickled in and we all began to prepare. The mood was good, we felt ready, and it seemed like it was going to be a good show.

  I broke out the lipstick and mascara and began to do a very subtle make-up job. Behind me, I heard a loud gasp. I looked up into the mirror and saw the mortician who’d cremated Mac.

  “What are you doing here,” I asked.

  “No one told you?” he said, aghast.

  I worried for a moment that someone had died and he was there to pick up a body. Then I worried that it might be me who died. Had Mac succeeded and I’d failed to notice?

  “Told me what?”

  “I, me, I do the make up for the show.”

  “Well, I’m almost done but if you want to finish it up.”

  “What do you mean you’re almost done? Your face is nearly naked.”

  “It’s too small a house to wear very much.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  I pulled him close, close enough that I could smell the booze on his breath. “If you try to put foundation on me, I will break your neck.”

  “Fine. Finish it yourself.” He stood up, very erect, “All I can say is that you and Dewey deserve each other.”

  * * * *

  I wasn’t in the first few scenes, so I had to wait patiently in the dressing room for my cue. An intercom was strung up in a corner near the ceiling and I could hear the show as it progressed. The high school maids did their scene to a bit of giggling and a smattering of applause, letting me know they had quite a few friends in the audience, and then the cousins and their wives entered one couple at a time. In their scenes the laughs came in the right places, giving the cast confidence. They were doing well. I was excited.

  And then it was my entrance. The minute I walked down the aisle I knew that things were not going to go well. For one thing, I tripped. Only a little, bracing myself on a gentleman sitting on the aisle. Of course, experience told me who was responsible and I turned around to see if he was there. Instead, I found myself looking at an elderly woman sitting on the opposite aisle. She rubbed her ankle and looked at me in surprise. Had she tripped me? I wondered. I couldn’t stop to see what had happened though. I mouthed the word “sorry” and headed down to the stage. Upon my entrance, there was a bit of repartee before we sat down for the reading of the will. Mostly it had to do with how surprised the cousins were that I was there at all, and their fantasy that they were about to become rich since they’d been buttering up the Lord for years.

  When we sat down, I felt my chair creak but ignored it. A few lines later, I leaned forward to learn that I’d inherited the Lord’s estate as well as his title and that’s exactly when the chair beneath me fell apart and I landed on the floor. The audience laughed as though this were exactly what had been planned, and for all they knew it had been. I jumped up and, staying in character, asked the Lord’s attorney if the entire estate was in this state of disrepair? The other actors ad-libbed a few jokey remarks about the decline of the British gentry and we got back to the script.

  The next two scenes went well—scenes in which both of the cousin’s wives offered to abandon their husbands in favor of me, and I began to wonder if maybe Mac wasn’t up to any mischief. It was entirely possible that an old lady had accidentally tripped me and that one of the antique chairs had been poorly chosen. Right?

  In the last scene of the first act, the cousins decide to frighten me out of the estate by faking the Lord’s ghost. We’re in the drawing room having tea and they’ve planned to have the lights go on and off and the French doors “blow” open while they pretend nothing’s happening. After they try the trick with the lights, the teapot is supposed to lift off the table and fly around the room. They had not planned for an airborne teapot, of course, and the first act ends with the Lord’s ghostly laughter ringing through the estate.

  The teapot trick was done with nearly invisible wires. Some nerdy kid from one of Kirby’s classes had rigged it up and it had worked especially well in rehearsal. There was some kind of track on the ceiling that the pot hung from as it zipped around the stage. When it was time, the pot lifted off the table just as it was supposed to and began to zip around the room. Except this time it really zipped. Like it was in the middle of some kind of stock car race. It slipped off its anticipated path above our heads and began to fly around the stage with it
s very dangerous looking wires getting longer and longer, coming closer and closer. At first we tried to keep to the script, but as we ducked it seemed to make more sense to simply scream.

  Thinking I was in the clear with the teapot on the other side of the stage, I rose to deliver the last line of the act in hopes the lights would come down, the Lord would laugh, and we could retreat to the safety of the dressing room. Before I could get the words out of my mouth I saw the teapot flying directly at me and was sure I was about to be garroted.

  Suddenly, I was tackled and found myself on the floor. I wasn’t sure who exactly jumped me because the lights went down. The Lord laughed awkwardly. The audience applauded thunderously, apparently enjoying our “special” effects. We hurried off the stage, and when we got to the dressing room there was enough light that I could see Dewey next to me. He’d jumped out of the audience and saved me from death by teapot.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “I hope I don’t have to do it often.”

  “Me too.”

  Then he whispered, “I think we have a problem, though. Mac’s behind all that, don’t you think?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t go back out there.”

  “I can’t not go back out there. What would I say to people?” I was a little proud of myself for having avoided the old cliché “the show must go on” even though it must and that is what I meant. As an actor, I hate saying things that are just too obvious.

  “If he tries anything else I’m jumping back on stage and making sure you’re all right.”

  “That’s okay by me.”

  Yes, the show must go on, but it’s also important to survive until the curtain calls. During intermission, Wendell came back to the dressing room and apologized for the technical problems, explaining he’d already screamed at the tech crew and that if anything went wrong during the second act he was going to personally wring their nerdy little necks. I had a bad feeling that there was more at risk than simply my life.