The Ghosts of Now

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “Jeremy?” Mom mewls like a kitten.

  Dad puts an arm around her shoulders, giving her a little squeeze. “He’s our son,” he says. That’s all. But the confidence in his voice seems to pump into Mom, and she slowly raises her head.

  Dad’s in command now, with the right kind of questions about Jeremy’s care. The doctor attempts to convince him that Jeremy’s in no condition to be flown to Houston to the medical center, that the safest thing to do is to let him rest, let his body begin to mend itself, and wait for him to regain consciousness.

  Dad leads the doctor back into the hallway, leaving Mom and me and the nurse in the room with Jeremy. Mom’s eyes meet mine. I’d like to have her hug me and tell me that everything will be all right, but instead I find myself saying, “Hey, it’s going to be okay, Mom.”

  “Jeremy can’t hear us.”

  “That doesn’t matter for now.”

  “He’s unconscious.”

  I remember once when I had the flu and fainted on the bathroom floor. I was dizzy, and wanted to call Mom. I had closed my eyes and could read the words in my head, as though my thoughts were typed on lined paper. But the lines were suddenly broken, the words spilling apart, falling into a tunnel that hummed. It wasn’t dreaming. It was another world, as I slid into a shattered part of my head. Is it this same kind of weird world where Jeremy is now?

  “Don’t cry, Angie,” Mom says, and I realize that tears are running down my cheeks. I try to rub them away on the back of my hands.

  Dad joins us with plans and decisions. “We’ll go home now and rest,” he says. “There’s nothing we can do for Jeremy here.”

  “I want to stay,” Mom says.

  “You need some sleep,” he tells her. “I’ll bring you back here in the morning.”

  “I’d like to be with Jeremy until then,” I say, but Dad shakes his head.

  “You have school.”

  “Dad! Tomorrow is Saturday!”

  “Let her stay,” Mom says. “I’d like to know someone is with Jeremy.”

  “The nurse is with him,” Dad says. “She knows what to do.”

  The nurse steps forward. “Hospital rules,” she said. “Usually we allow only ten minutes each hour with a patient in intensive care.” Her lopsided smile is probably intended to be conciliatory. “Your brother may be transferred to his own room by tomorrow,” she says. “Then you can stay with him.”

  “We’ll fly a neurologist in tomorrow,” Dad says, as though that settles the whole thing. He propels Mom and me into the corridor, where the policeman is still waiting.

  “What are you going to do to find the hit-and-run driver?” I ask him.

  “Turn in my report, for one thing,” he says, looking at me warily, as though he thinks I’m going to pick a fight.

  “And the sliver of paint.”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “What paint?” Dad asks.

  “There was a scrap of paint under Jeremy’s thumbnail.”

  “Don’t prove anything much,” the policeman says.

  “It might have come from the car that hit him!”

  “Maybe not. We don’t know where it came from.”

  I take a step closer to the policeman and stare up at him. “Are you going to try to find the driver of the car?”

  “Y’all asked me that already,” he says. “That’s not my job. That’s someone else’s department.”

  I let out a word I’ve been told never to say again. Mom gives a little sigh, and Dad frowns. “She’s understandably upset,” he tells the policeman. “This is a difficult time for all of us.”

  The officer shoves his hat back, and it leaves a red, greasy stripe across his forehead. “Sure. I guess so,” he says.

  I don’t have time to add anything else. Dad’s got a grip on my right arm and I’m practically flying down the hallway, Mom’s high heels clattering like an accompanying drumroll as she tries to keep up with us.

  “I’m going to find out who did it,” I say, but Dad doesn’t answer for a moment.

  It’s not until we’re in the car that he says “The police will find out. What we need to focus in on for the moment is Jeremy’s care. I thought of Dr. Branning.” He turns to Mom, and they talk about specialists.

  I can’t get my mind away from that sliver of paint. Light blue. There must be hundreds of light blue cars in this place. Maybe the car came from somewhere else, driven by someone just passing through. But at least it’s something to check out. It’s better than wondering what happened.

  And where.

  In the east the dark sky is fading into a ragged smear of yellowed gray. Morning already, after a night that shouldn’t have been. “Where did it happen?” I ask.

  “What?” Mom’s voice is startled. I’ve broken into their conversation, and it takes her a moment to react. “I don’t know,” she says. “Did the policeman tell you, Greg?”

  “I didn’t think to ask.” His voice becomes louder, stronger. “It doesn’t matter. What counts is getting Jeremy well again.”

  But it does matter, I tell myself.

  Mom suddenly points at the garish green neon sign of an open-all-night grocery on the next corner. “I’m out of coffee,” she says. “Could we stop?”

  “I’ll get it,” I say as soon as Dad pulls up in front of the store. Mom stuffs a five-dollar bill in my hand, and I hurry into the store.

  A fat woman with grease spots on her dress sits on a stool behind the counter. She stops talking to a man in overalls who is hunched over, elbows on the counter. They both stare at me.

  I spot the cans of coffee on a nearby shelf, grab a familiar one, and hurry to the counter. “Here you are,” I say, handing the woman my money. “I don’t need a sack.”

  Slowly she pokes keys on the cash register. “You don’t talk like you’re from around here,” she says. “You oil people?”

  It sounds like a swear word. I just grab up the change and the coffee can and run from the store.

  The morning is a blur of snatched sleep and tiptoed hospital visits. We carry our hushed tones back to the house, behaving like timid intruders afraid of stirring the shadows. It’s hard to sort out my thoughts, but the shrill ring of the telephone gets through.

  “I heard about your brother.” Del’s voice is solid and comforting. “I’m sorry, Angie. Can I help? You want me to come over?”

  My first thought is to say no, but I realize that Del knows this town and the people in it. Maybe he will be able to help me. “Yes,” I tell him. “I would like that.”

  He doesn’t ask questions. He just says, “See you in a couple of minutes,” and hangs up the phone.

  Dad comes into the room as I replace the receiver. “Was that for me?”

  I shake my head, and he pulls his flat leather car key case from his pocket.

  “Dad, where did Jeremy tell you he was going last night?”

  He scowls. “Out with friends. Maybe Boyd. Jeremy’s with him often, isn’t he?”

  “Didn’t he tell you? He told me you and Mom knew.”

  “I suppose he said something, the way kids do. It didn’t seem terribly important—someone’s house, a movie—I don’t know.” His eyes hold so much pain I wonder how he can bear it. “I wish—” he says softly, as though he’s talking to himself. “I guess I didn’t pay attention.”

  “Does Mom remember?”

  “Not exactly. We had other things on our minds.” He looks at me, and his tone shifts abruptly. “Don’t pester your mother with questions, Angie. Barbara’s in bed for a rest. She needs some sleep.” He takes a step toward the door, then stops. “I’m going to the airport to pick up Dr. Branning. I’ll be with him at the hospital for a while.”

  For just a moment I get the strange feeling that he’s asking for my approval, but before I can answer, he straightens, adjusts the knot in his tie, and strides toward the back door.

  There are two more calls I have to make. I look up Boyd Thacker’s number and dial it. I recognize the
voice that answers. It couldn’t be anyone else but Boyd.

  “This is Angie,” I say. “Have you heard about my brother?”

  In the pause that follows I almost expect him to say “Angie who?” He finally answers, “Yeah.” There’s another pause, and he adds, “I heard he may not make it. Sorry it happened.”

  I clench the telephone and try to keep my voice from wobbling. “Exactly what did happen to Jeremy?”

  I can’t hear him, so when I yell “What?” into the phone he says it again.

  “I don’t know, Angie. What makes you think I should know?”

  “Weren’t you with him?”

  “No.”

  “You’re the only friend he’s been spending time with.”

  “We just play tennis together. We’re not exactly friends.”

  “Okay. I’m only trying to find out what happened to my brother. Isn’t there anything you can tell me that might help?”

  “Look, I already said I’m sorry it happened.”

  “Let me ask you again. Can you tell me anything about where Jeremy might have gone, or who he might have been with?”

  “No,” he says. “Nothing.”

  I slam down the phone, wishing the table top were Boyd Thacker’s head. Is he lying to me? Why would he? I need more than ever to find out what went on last night.

  After a couple of deep breaths that don’t seem to help a bit, I telephone the police station. Some slow-speaking clerk first establishes that I’m “family” to the hit-and-run victim, then drawls the information through her nose. I write it down—the corner of Avenue G and Huckleberry—and stare at it long after I’ve hung up the phone.

  I hear a car drive up in front, so I get to the door before Del rings the bell. Without a word he puts his arms around me, and I lean against him, burrowing into the warmth of his comfort. This is the first time he’s held me, and I feel guilty for wanting this instead of thinking about Jeremy.

  I step away from Del and say, “I have so many questions about what happened to Jeremy. I have to find the answers.”

  “Let’s get off our feet,” Del says, “and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

  So I do. I tell him everything from the beginning. Then I hand him the scrap of paper with the address on it.

  “That’s a strange place,” Del says, “unless Jeremy was going to visit someone over there.”

  “Why is it strange?”

  “Remember the neighborhood?” I shake my head, and he adds, “I took you around there last week. It’s where some of those big old homes are.”

  “Do you think someone Jeremy met might live in one of those houses?”

  “Not someone his age. Mostly old folks in those homes.” He hands the paper back to me.

  “Will you take me over there?”

  “Sure, if you want.”

  “It’s as good a starting place as anywhere else. I just wish there was some way to find that car.”

  He thinks a minute. “Would that satisfy you?”

  “What do you mean, satisfy me? I want to know whose car hit Jeremy.”

  Again he pauses and seems to study me. Finally he says, “No big deal in finding the car.”

  I’m surprised at his answer. “But the policeman didn’t seem to think the scrap of paint would help, even if they were able to find the car it came from.”

  “Hey, Angie, wait up,” he says. “Don’t go getting so upset until you find out what I’ve got to say. There are four body shops in Fairlie, and my cousin, R.B., works in one of them. If a light blue car’s in for repairs, we can probably find out.”

  “Body shops aren’t open on Saturdays.”

  “My cousin’s shop is.”

  “If the car’s not in his shop, how will he find out?”

  “He’ll know how.” Del shakes his head and pulls me out of my chair. “Don’t argue, Angie. We’ll find out. I promise. And then you can get this off your mind.”

  I don’t understand what Del means by getting it off my mind. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a starting place, not an ending. And it’s not a promise to count on. Maybe I’m feeling too cynical. But when Del drives me through a back alley, over an oil-stained driveway, to a corrugated-metal building with one side wide open, I begin to believe, and it’s hard to breathe, I’m so shaky.

  He holds my hand, and we enter the shop. Naturally, I search for a light blue car, but the two dark sedans in the shop don’t fit the description.

  Del introduces me to a large-boned, grease-stained man whose skin is the burnt color of red earth. He pulls off his gimmie cap and rubs the back of one hand across his forehead, scattering droplets of sweat and leaving streaks of grime.

  “Heard about you from Del last week,” R.B. says to me. He nods his head in approval.

  Del tells him about Jeremy and our search for the hit-and-run car. I listen and wait for what he’ll say.

  “Sure sorry about your brother,” he says, and I know he means it.

  “Can you find the car for us?” It’s hard to talk.

  “Can’t say that. I can ask around, and if there’s a blue car in for repairs, I can learn that much. If it’s the car you want, that remains to be seen.” He looks at me carefully. “If I do find out anything, y’all’uv got to keep me out of it.”

  “Of course,” I tell him. “When can you do this?”

  He nudges the tire of the car next to us, rubbing the worn toe of his shoe up and down the tread. Finally he says, “Guess I’d be in a hurry too, girl, if that was my brother that done got hit. Y’all find a place to sit, and get yourselves a Coke or somethin’ from the machine, and I’ll be back directly.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Wait and see if there’s any thanks needed.”

  “I’m going to take Angie to the place where the accident happened,” Del tells him. “We’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” R.B. says. He works his way to a door in a cubicle at one end of the shop.

  “Ready?” Del asks, and in a few seconds we’re back in his pickup, heading toward the other side of town.

  There’s not much to talk about. We drive through an elm tunnel to the corner of Avenue G and Huckleberry. He gentles the car to the curb and stops, motor still running.

  I don’t know what to look at, or look for. My gaze sweeps the streets as they intersect, moving over the curbs and grass. There’s a dead end sign on Huckleberry. Down the street a man slowly shovels dirt into a rusty wheelbarrow. But there’s no broken glass on the street, no skid marks, nothing to show the horror that took place here just a few hours ago.

  I glance down Huckleberry, and suddenly sit a little straighter as a thought whacks me like a slap.

  “What’s the matter?” Del asks.

  “Down this street—at the dead end—isn’t that where you showed me the house with the ghost lights?”

  “Yep.” He looks toward the house. “What does that have to do with Jeremy?”

  “I don’t know.” For some strange reason I can feel the pull of that ugly house with its broken windows and scraggly yard. It’s as though the tentacles of its overgrown vines are creeping outward, wiggling toward us.

  “I don’t think Jeremy would have been there,” Del says, his voice so solid and matter-of-fact that it brings me back to reality. “Nobody goes there.”

  Stumbling through my mind for ideas, I ask, “What if he took a dare?” It makes sense, so I stammer, “What if someone dared Jeremy to go to the haunted house at night?”

  Del shakes his head. “Kids were doing that a few years ago, but the neighbors made so much noise about it that the police put a stop to it. Nobody bothers with that old house anymore.”

  “You said we might investigate it some time!”

  His smile is lopsidedly guilty. “I know,” he says, “but before we got there I would have thought of something better to do.”

  “Del!” Maybe I’ve spent enough energy being angry. I find myself laughing instead.

>   “Time to get back to R.B.’s,” he says, and does a wide U-turn around the street.

  It seems to take no time at all to get to the body shop. R.B. is working on one of the cars, and he hunches his way out from under as we approach. “Feller I know works for a dealer, and he knows another feller who works there but does some work on the side, if you know what I mean,” he says.

  I nod, and R.B. continues. “Light blue car came in last night. Left fender dented, left headlight smashed, bumper shot to hell.”

  “That might be it!” I find myself shouting, so I do my best to calm down. “Where do we find this car?”

  “You ain’t gonna find it, girl. That’s how come the feller was paid plenty to fix it. That car’s already taken care of.”

  For a moment I close my eyes. “Then we can’t find who owns it.”

  “Sure we can,” R.B. says. “Weren’t no secret to my friend who’s got a little car like that. Grandy Hughes.”

  The words come in and out of focus. “Grandy Hughes?” The name doesn’t mean a thing to me.

  Del studies me for a moment, and I can’t translate the strange look in his eyes. “Grandy Hughes,” he says quietly, “is Debbie’s father.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  All I can do is stare at Del. He stands with his hands at his sides, frowning into space, not saying a word. R.B. shifts from one leg to the other and clears his throat loudly, so I shake myself back to reality and try to thank him for getting the information.

  “Del, let’s go and see Debbie,” I tell him, but he ignores me and talks to R.B. about being a good old boy and seeing him at “Aunt Lou’s” on Sunday for dinner.

  He takes my hand and tugs me outside to his pickup, which shimmers like a mirage in the afternoon heat. We climb inside, steadying ourselves against the rush of hot air that blasts us before the air conditioner begins to do what it’s supposed to do. I ask again. “Can we talk to Debbie now?”

  “It won’t do any good,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “If that was her daddy who went to a deal of trouble to cover up, do you think she’s going to admit she was driving the car?”

  “But the proof—”

  “What proof?”