Give Up the Ghost

by Cherie Claire

  Gorton waves from beneath a towering pine.

  Chapter 4

  “What the fudge,” I exclaim but I don’t say fudge.

  I leave out the front door — the one on the lake side facing the woods, — still gripping my pepper spray, and head toward my Wisconsin ghost. He’s waiting for me on the lake’s edge, glancing around nervously.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  He swallows hard, no doubt still trying to master the art of verbal communication.

  “Did you follow me here?”

  I’ve heard that ghosts will attach themselves to you or antiques and you may unwittingly bring them home.

  “I want to help,” he says so quietly, I’m not sure I hear him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Y’all,” he says with a funny smile that takes me aback, “need me.”

  I’m so confused I don’t know where to start.

  “Dude, usually I’m the one helping apparitions get to the other side.”

  He shakes his head. “We help too.”

  I know this, and he did warn me about Dwayne. And there’s that opera singer in the New Orleans airport who sends me messages as I’m coming and going. Still, this one’s following me.

  He senses my apprehension. “Talk to MB.”

  That last sentence takes all his strength and he fades.

  “I don’t know who MB is,” I yell to the woods.

  “Talking to yourself?”

  I jump at the sound, turn and find a giant of a man standing at the end of my dock.

  “You’re early.”

  Clayton checks his watch. “It’s five after noon, so technically I’m not.”

  I head his way, and even though it’s not appropriate, give the tree of a man a hug, my face landing in the middle of his chest. I’m used to tall men since my husband’s six feet two to my five foot seven. But Clayton’s NBA tall. And thick. And wide. And solid as a brick. If this man has my back I have nothing to worry about.

  I try not to linger but boy does he smell good. Like a forest on a spring morning. Earthy and manly at the same time. I try not to blush as I invite him in.

  He follows me down the dock and on to the deck surrounding my floating home. Stinky greets him upon arrival, sniffing his ankles intently.

  “Who’s this?” Clayton asks, leaning down to give Stinky a proper scratch behind the ears. My cat eats it up, rolls on his back, and immediately starts purring.

  “He doesn’t like most people but boy he likes you.”

  “Is this the one you brought on your trip across Texas when I first met you?”

  “Have cat, will travel. He’s more like a dog, really, but don’t tell him that.”

  Stinky winks at Clayton.

  “Amazing.”

  I offer coffee and pull out some Oreo’s I nabbed at the Piggly Wiggly yesterday. I’m embarrassed to expose my affinity to the cookies everyone’s saying has trans fat and are horrible for you, but I’m pregnant and I’m playing that card as long as I can. Clayton lights up at the sight so I’m relieved to find a cohort in my trans fat crime. I know I’m supposed to avoid caffeine, too, but when the French Press is ready I pour us both a cup and add a ton of milk to mine. One cup of coffee full of milk can’t hurt, right? I’ll sip it slowly.

  “When is your husband getting home?”

  I sit on the couch across from Clayton and grin slyly. “What are you insinuating?”

  He takes a sip of his coffee and I spot a smile behind the rim. “Aren’t you peppy today.”

  I place mine in my lap and sigh. “Actually, I’m quite discombobulated.”

  “I love writers. Such big words.”

  I explain my trip to the doctor, how Touché violated my privacy by calling my husband. I relate how the town’s been unfriendly and Maribelle’s reasoning for their coldness, although I only know half the story. I top it off with Gorton in the woods.

  Clayton shakes his head. “Wow, girlfriend, you’ve had a week.”

  “No, I’ve had a weird three-and-a-half years. Ever since that bitch of a hurricane blew into New Orleans in 2005.”

  “So, you never had psychic experiences before the storm?”

  “Yes, but I repressed them.”

  “Is that difficult to do?”

  I’m not sure why he’s asking but it feels weird since it’s been on my mind lately.

  “A bit, but it can be done. If I hadn’t repressed them, however….”

  “You wouldn’t be a SCANC now.”

  “Exactly.”

  Clayton thinks about this. “So, you’re sure Gorton died by drowning. And he said it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Appears so.”

  He pulls out a notebook and writes something down. “How old do you think he was when he died?”

  I describe his outfit and the L.L. Bean boots, the three-fish earring on his right ear that seemed more modern for a man. The heavy beard, yellow slicker, and the fact that he resembles a grocery store product.

  Clayton takes it all in. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  I hear heavy boots on the dock and Stinky rushes to the door.

  “Told you, my cat’s like a dog.”

  My cat sends me a stink eye but turns his attention to TB when my husband waltzes across the threshold. TB effortlessly pulls Stinky into his arms while greeting Clayton and shaking his hand. Two oversized, handsome men in our small living room. I’m thinking — at least, in this moment — that life is pretty darn good.

  I retrieve an extra cup and pour TB some coffee while he and Clayton get comfortable and make small talk. I watch from the periphery, absorbing it all, noticing TB’s body language change as he studies Clayton. For one, TB hasn’t released Stinky from his lap and the cat’s giving both he and I a strange look as if to say, “What’s up with Dad?” Second, he moved the living room chair further away from the couch, sitting a distance apart from Clayton. And to top it off, he’s not smiling.

  I hand TB his cup. “School okay?”

  He doesn’t look up. “Just dandy.”

  I return to my seat next to Clayton and feel strange sitting next to this gorgeous sequoia of a man while my husband looms way over there, balancing a cat and a cup of coffee. Clayton senses that something’s amiss and leans forward toward TB, elbows on his thighs.

  “Dwayne’s on the move. He was staying in a short-term rental in Lithia Springs, Georgia, but when we caught up to him, the place was empty. All except for a pile of clothes in the corner of a room.”

  “If you knew where he was, how’d you miss him?”

  There’s almost an accusatory tone from TB but Clayton ignores it. I send him a frown, but TB ignores me.

  “It was the morning Vi spotted him at the airport. We checked flight records, to see why he would have been in Atlanta the day she was there, but found nothing.”

  “How could you find nothing?” TB asks, that tone again. “You can get inside the Atlanta airport without a plane ticket.”

  Clayton takes a sip of his coffee. “The man has an elaborate underground network. People love him and he has many followers. He’s been using fake passports and IDs, no doubt derived from his fan base.”

  TB shakes his head. “We’re in post-9-11 America with tough security at airports and y’all can’t find this man?”

  I’m a bit uncomfortable but Clayton takes it in stride. After all, it is an appropriate question.

  “We’re on his trail.” Clayton turns his cup around and around in his hands, finally looking up and giving us both a steady look. “I assure you, this man will be caught.”

  If only he was just a man, I think.

  TB and I go silent. As if Clayton reads our minds, he asks, “Is there anything either of you can tell me about Dwayne Garrett?”

  I look at TB and wonder if we should divulge Dwayne’s angelic background but he’s not talking, so I don’t swing at that pitch.

  Clayton brings TB and me up to date about the places Clayton’
s been, some of the people involved with Dwayne that the Bureau did catch, and where they think Dwayne might head next.

  “We’ve got men watching the area, both outside Atlanta and in this vicinity.”

  My husband takes it in, nods his head.

  “I tried to get your wife to get a gun but she won’t hear of it,” our Fed adds.

  “I have one,” TB answers.

  The comment flies out of left field so fast I literally shake my head. “What?”

  TB doesn’t look my way, continues staring at Clayton. “I have one. And I know how to use it.”

  Shivers run up my back because if I’m not mistaken, TB’s letting Clayton know that he’s armed and prepared. What is happening here?

  Clayton senses it too. His eyes narrow looking at TB and there’s tension in the air for several seconds. Finally, Clayton pats his tree trunk thighs and stands, turns to me.

  “Thank you, Vi, for the lovely coffee and Oreo’s.”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” I’m not ready to be left loose in the world without his giant safety net.

  He pulls a card from his wallet. “I’m in Birmingham so I’m not far away. This has my direct line so call if you see or hear anything.”

  I nod staring at the card, but he places a finger at my chin and raises my gaze to his. “Anything, Vi.”

  TB rises and Stinky takes off, no doubt happy to be let loose. “I’ve got her back.”

  Clayton glances at TB but doesn’t refute his protectiveness, simply nods and says, “Great. I feel much better for it.”

  The two glare at each other while I study the weird scene before me but Clayton ends up smiling, holds out his hand and TB takes it. Clayton makes his goodbyes and off he goes, his footsteps sounding loudly on the houseboat’s deck.

  I close the door behind Clayton and look back at my husband. “What the hell was that about?”

  TB shrugs. “What?”

  “You were practically rude.”

  TB stares at the door as if Clayton’s still on the other side. “He smells weird.”

  I shake my head. “What?”

  “There’s something not right. I don’t trust him.” And with that remark, he heads to the bedroom.

  I look down at Stinky. “Smells weird? Clayton smells wonderful.”

  “You would say that,” I hear from the bedroom.

  I follow TB and he’s exchanging his shirt for a thick sweatshirt. I feel it too. The oncoming cold front’s dropping temperatures.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Something happen at school?”

  He throws his shirt in the hamper a little too hard.

  “Sure, Vi. I failed a paper I wrote for English class. We have little money in the bank and my second round of tuition is due. And my wife’s pregnant with a due date around the time I graduate. Likely without a job, I might add.”

  I sigh, sit on the edge of the bed. “I have checks coming in, TB. Did you forget that I work too? Don’t worry about tuition.”

  He throws his hands up. “And taking care of a child? On a library science degree?”

  In addition to rarely seeing my husband mad, he hardly worries. But these are not ordinary days. I take his hand and urge him down on the bed next to me.

  “First of all, we’re fine. Tuition will be paid. We still have the house sale in savings.”

  “That’s for emergencies.”

  “And if we don’t have enough for tuition and the baby, that’s an emergency.”

  “But….”

  “What happened with the English paper.”

  TB sighs, then rises and heads to the living room. He’s so nervous the air feels electric, or maybe it’s the oncoming storm. I secured my nappy hair in a ponytail but if I let the curls loose right now they may stretch out like Buckwheat’s afro.

  I follow TB and find him rustling through his backpack, pulling out a paper with red ink scratched everywhere. He sighs looking at the mess.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, Vi. I’m not a college student.”

  While he starts pacing the living room, I grab the paper and check it out. Yes, it’s poorly written and TB’s made freshman-style mistakes. Short, simple sentences. Lots of grammatical and spelling errors. Even the punctuation screams failure. The paper reads like he rushed through the process. At the top is a big fat F.

  “Why didn’t you ask me to help you?”

  He pauses in his pacing. “You were in Wisconsin. And if I can’t do this on my own, how am I going to be a librarian? Or whatever the hell you do with a library science degree.”

  “That’s your family talking.”

  “My family’s right.”

  I throw his paper down on the coffee table, grab my husband by the shoulders and force him to look me in the eyes.

  “The only thing that’s right is following your dream. And then showing your children how it’s done.”

  He pauses because even though he’s wallowing in pity and fear right now, he knows I’m right. But then he shakes his head.

  “I’m thinking of dropping out.”

  “What? Why?”

  He pulls his fingers through his hair and rattles off a list as he paces the room again. “I’m not cut out for this. I’m not smart enough. I’m spending all our money on a degree that’s not going to pay. I could make more money in construction. Plus, we need the health insurance.”

  I land a flat hand on his chest and force him to stop.

  “When did you talk to your parents?”

  He frowns like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, avoids my eyes. “It’s more than that.”

  “TB?”

  He shrugs. “Monday. A conference call with my uncle.”

  “Uh huh. And they put those ideas into your head.”

  The Boudreauxs are good people but they haven’t supported our move to Tennessee or TB leaving the family business. I say good people but right now I want to throttle them. For the first time in his life, my husband has a dream and is happy. At least he was until this week.

  He still won’t look at me, no doubt thinking of their words and the new life we’re expecting in August. Guilt will do that to a person.

  At this point, my mommy voice comes out. I forgot I had one.

  “You listen to me Thibault Boudreaux, we came here to start a new life and for you to do what you love. You are going to get in your car, head back to campus, and talk to your teacher. You tell her that your wife is having a baby and your head wasn’t clear and ask for a rewrite.”

  He’s balking — and yes, I’m full of baseball puns today — but he’s also considering what I’m telling him.

  “Do they do that?”

  “The good ones do.”

  “I like this teacher. She’s helpful.”

  “Then ask her.”

  He takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay.”

  The wind’s picking up outside and we both glance at the horizon, which has become dark with clouds. “Maybe do it tomorrow,” I add.

  He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. “No, I want to get this over with. I won’t be long.”

  I give him a bear hug and he rests his chin on my shoulder.

  “Love you BooBoo,” I say.

  He finally smiles as he gazes into my face, then places both hands on my cheeks and plants a hot kiss there.

  “Hurry back,” I whisper when we finally break apart.

  That adorable dimple emerges. “I won’t be long.”

  He grabs his paper and backpack and heads out the door, turning back with that old serious face. “Lock it behind me.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “I mean it, Vi. Lock everything.”

  I nod, because I realize that on top of the financial fears and the failed paper, there’s Dwayne on our minds.

  After TB leaves, I remember the laundry. The clouds linger on top of me now, low and menacing as if they’re trying to commune with the lake. I grab my pepper spray and exit the side door, fi
nish throwing the clothes and laundry detergent into the washer and pushing the on button.

  As I turn to head inside, I spot Maribelle on the back side of her motel, placing lawn equipment inside the tool shed, no doubt due to the coming inclement weather. When she finishes her chore, she turns and sees me. I wave but she doesn’t smile and her back straightens as if her hairs have risen to attention. There’s an intense look in her eyes as if I’m Dwayne come to steal her soul. Then she starts marching away.

  I rush down the dock and head over to her place, meet her just as she’s about to go inside her apartment.

  “What’s happened?” I ask.

  She stops abruptly, still fuming. “What happened is I trusted you.”

  I scour my brain trying to think what might have occurred since breakfast. “I don’t understand. Of course, you can trust me.”

  She plants hands on her hips, shakes her head menacingly. That old saying about if looks could kill? Seriously, I feel like I’m disintegrating on the spot.

  “What are you doing here, Vi? First, Touché. Now, the Feds.”

  I relax. A little. Attempt a smile. “Clayton? He’s here for me. Has nothing to do with you or the town.”

  She’s not buying it. “Really?” she says sarcastically.

  “How did you know he was with the FBI?”

  She looks heavenward as if she’s talking to a moron. “I can smell the Feds a mile away.”

  Again, with the man’s aroma.

  “Seriously Maribelle, he was here for me. I have a crazy person stalking me and Clayton came to give me an update.”

  Nothing.

  “I was attacked in Natchez, Mississippi, last fall and the man’s still on the run.”

  Again, she remains silent, staring at me accusingly so I exhale loudly, because I’m tired of this game.

  “I’m a medium and this man tried to use me for some nefarious purpose and failed, but he’s still looking for me. Clayton’s helping.”

  She crosses her hands across her chest and her gaze remains cold as steel.

  “You have to believe me,” I insist.

  “I don’t have to do anything.” She brushes past me, opens her door, and slams it shut.

  And that’s when the sky decides to fall. The rain pelts down so hard it burns my face. I rush back inside, soaking wet, and lock the door behind me. I’m dripping on the welcome mat we keep on the inside of our houseboat to clean off our shoes and I think how apropos that is. Folks are welcome inside our little home, but not in Emma’s Cove.