The Ghosts of Now

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “The sliver of light blue paint, for instance.”

  “There’s lots of light blue cars.”

  We turn down a residential street. The bright sunlight and dark shadows from the overhead elm branches rapidly flicker against the windshield, making my eyes water.

  “If your cousin could find out, so could the police.”

  “You don’t know how small towns work, do you?”

  “No! I don’t!” I turn to stare at Del. “Why should a small town be different from any place else? People are the same everywhere, aren’t they?”

  “Nope.”

  I fling myself back against the seat, anger making my throat hot and tight. “Look, it ought to be simple. The mechanic who told R.B. about Debbie’s car could tell the police, couldn’t he?”

  “But he wouldn’t. R.B.’s another good old boy, but the police are somethin’ else.”

  “And everybody around here says police! That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. It’s poleece!” My fingernails have dug into my hands, so I rub them.

  “It’s different hereabouts in lots of ways from what you’re used to,” Del replies so calmly that I feel a shiver of guilt for insulting him. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Angie. You oil people aren’t used to our ways. You’ll find the police will be more comfortable believing Debbie’s father, ’cause he’s grown up with them, gone away to school and then come home to them. He takes care of their banking and loans, and he’s big in their church.”

  “Are you telling me that they’d protect him if he’s committed a crime?”

  “No. I’m just saying that, the evidence being what it is, they’d believe him before they’d ever believe you.” He pauses. “Maybe the police will get on this one. You found out what you wanted, Angie, so why not just stand back and see what happens?”

  I notice that we’ve stopped, and are parked in front of our house. It takes me a few moments to get all the pieces back into place, and Del says, “Angie, about tonight. I know you won’t feel like going dancing, so we could do something else. Anything you’d like.”

  “Del, you were good to help me this afternoon. I owe a lot to you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I—I’d rather just go to the hospital tonight by myself. Okay?”

  “Sure,” he says. “But if you want me to, I’ll go with you. Just call.”

  Before he can get out of the pickup I open the door and jump down. “Right now I’m not much fun to be with. Why do you want to go with me?”

  His words are as direct as his gaze. “I asked myself that same thing,” he says. “And I don’t have a real good answer. There’s just something about you that makes me want to get to know you a lot better.”

  I’m startled, so I actually blush and stammer, “I’ll see you, Del.” It’s an empty saying, and I trudge into the house wishing I had asked him to stay, yet knowing that it’s best for me to be alone for a little while.

  Dad greets me with “Where have you been, Angie? We’ve been concerned about you!”

  “With Del,” I say quickly. “Tell me about Jeremy. What did the neurologist say?”

  “I thought you’d be waiting here to find out.”

  Mom comes up beside him and says, “Greg, will you just please tell her!”

  Mom’s smile doesn’t match the vague look in her eyes, so I know she’s had a few drinks. She rests a hand on Dad’s shoulder to balance herself and says, “Dr. Branning thinks that Jeremy’s got a good chance.”

  “Just a chance?”

  “There’s no way of being sure in a case like Jeremy’s,” Dad says. “Not at first, that is.”

  “Not until he’s conscious,” Mom adds, slurring the last syllable into a hiss.

  “I’d like to see him now. Will they let me?”

  “Don’t you want something to eat first?” Mom asks. “I was thinking of making dinner soon.”

  It’s strange to think about being hungry at a time like this, but I realize that I am. I’d forgotten about lunch. And I need to tell my parents what I found out with Del.

  “I guess so,” I say. “But I’ll make dinner.”

  “You’re a good girl, Angie,” Mom says. Her hug is scented with the wet vegetable smell of her expensive nonallergenic cosmetics, her perfumed body lotion, and fifteen-year-old Scotch.

  Later, after I’ve served dinner, we pick and push at the food on our plates. It’s a chore to chew and swallow. I stare at my food, feeling the same frustration a termite must feel in a redwood forest. Finally I give up, put down my fork, lean my elbow on the table without either of my parents reminding me not to, and tell them about Debbie Hughes’s car.

  I finish by saying “I think we should talk to Debbie and her father.”

  “No,” Dad says. “We’ll do this properly. We’ll inform the police about what you’ve learned.”

  I think about R.B. and his broad, friendly face. “Remember that we’ll have to keep Del’s cousin out of it.”

  “The police may ask for a source.”

  “Dad, it’s not fair. R.B. could get in trouble with the friend who gave him the information. He was helping me out, and I’ve got to help him in return.”

  The food has steadied Mom. Her eyes focus without any trouble as she says, “I agree with Angie, Greg. You’ve got people who tip you off about things going on in the oil business, and you don’t give them away. Doctors keep their mouths shut, and newspaper reporters, and all sorts of people.”

  “And we have to,” I add.

  “Well—Del’s cousin didn’t happen to tell you how to find the mechanic who repaired the car, I suppose?”

  “No, but he said he works for one of the dealers and repairs stuff on the side.”

  Dad frowns. “That doesn’t tell us anything.”

  “But the police might be able to find out.”

  “We have to do something,” Mom says. She automatically looks at Dad.

  “I’ll take Angie to the station,” he says. “She can tell them as much as she wants to tell.”

  I smile at Dad. “I’m ready.”

  But I guess that no one’s really ready to step inside a police station. This one turns out to be a cold, alien room with dull, gray-streaked walls, where a few people who’ve huddled together toss secret, appraising glances at Dad and me as we hurry across the room to an officer behind a desk. Dad tells him that we’d like to speak to the detective assigned to the case. “It’s not called a case,” the officer says. “Purely hit ’n’ run. We get ’em every once in a while. Not as many as you get in the city, though.” He goes back down the hallway, shaking his head, muttering about city people from the oil companies ruining the place.

  Dad is patiently persistent, but I can see his temper rising. Finally we’re led to a small room, where a heavyset man hoists himself to his feet, leans on his desk as though he needs it to support himself, and holds out his right hand to Dad.

  “Detective Tom Fergus,” he says. “How’s the boy doin’?”

  “The doctor’s hopeful,” Dad says.

  “Old Doc Crane can handle things if anyone can.”

  “We’ve brought in a neurologist.” It’s the wrong thing to say. The lines tighten around Detective Fergus’s eyes.

  “Suit yourself,” he mumbles, “but Doc Crane’s been good enough for us in Fairlie for forty years.”

  “I didn’t imply that he wasn’t a skilled doctor,” Dad says quickly. “It’s just that I know Dr. Branning and his excellent reputation.”

  Detective Fergus lowers himself into his worn leather chair, which creaks each time he moves. He doesn’t ask us to sit, but we do anyway, in the two straight-backed chairs facing him. “Now, what have y’all got on your minds?” he asks.

  “My daughter has something to tell you,” Dad says. He looks at me, and I stutter like a reject from speech class. Trying to choose my words carefully, I tell him what I learned this morning.

 
He twists his mouth from side to side as though he’s chewing, and after I finish he holds a pursed-lip pose while he stares at me from under his bushy eyebrows. I can’t help squirming in my chair.

  Finally he says, “Sure would like to know where you got that story, girl.”

  “My name is Angie.”

  “Sure. Angie, then.”

  “Why do you call it a ‘story’?”

  “Because it don’t add up.”

  I think of what Del tried to tell me, and I still can’t believe it. “I want to know why not.”

  “Don’t get riled, girl,” he says. He spreads his huge, fat hands out on the desk before him and leans toward me. “Grandy Hughes reported his car stolen Friday night. Then he calls back and says a friend saw it up against a telephone pole, and got on the horn right away to let him know about it. So Grandy got a mechanic he knows to go pick it up and paid him a little extra to get a few dents out, so Debbie could have it to go to school in Monday, and that was that. No secret. No big deal. No cover-up.”

  Before I can say a word Dad gives a long sigh of relief. “Frankly, I’m very glad to hear the real situation. Thank you for your time, Mr. Fergus.”

  Dad’s halfway out of his chair when I say “But what time was the car supposed to be stolen? Did he report it before or after Jeremy’s accident?”

  “Don’t know what you’re gettin’ at, but I don’t think it matters,” the detective tells me. “Simple fact is, it’s some other car that done the hit and run.”

  “How can you be so sure about that? You’re not investigating! You’re just taking Mr. Hughes’s word for what happened!”

  His voice is as slow and calm as it was when we came into his office. “Grandy’s word is good in this town, girl. I don’t find reason to question it.”

  Dad is on his feet, tugging me to mine. His grip is so firm that my arm aches. “Thank you, again, Mr. Fergus,” he says.

  When the detective lumbers to his feet he stares at Dad, not me. “Things may be done different in Fairlie than what you oil people are used to wherever y’all come from, but we do them right.”

  Dad nods quickly, and I find myself half dragged, half pushed out the door, through the main room of the station, and down the steps.

  I yank myself out of his grasp as we reach the sidewalk. “I don’t believe that man!”

  “Don’t make unnecessary waves, Angie,” Dad says. His voice is tired. “The Hugheses have a logical explanation for what happened to their car and why it was fixed so quickly.”

  “No one checked into their excuse.”

  “It wasn’t an excuse. It was an explanation. You can’t try to do the work the police are supposed to do.”

  The sun is going down in another red and gold explosion across the wide, pale sky. My father’s face is swimming in my sunset-colored tears. I rub them away and see that there are tears in his eyes too. His shoulders sag.

  “We can’t keep going through this. Just let it alone, Angie,” he says. “There is one very important thing you haven’t learned. When you move into a new community, you adapt to the people who live there. You don’t expect them to adapt to you.”

  I don’t want to get into another long discussion with Dad. I touch his hand. “Will you take me to the hospital? I want to see Jeremy.”

  We arrive during visiting hours, and the hospital corridors are buzzing. We edge through chatterers and hum-hummers down a long corridor. I begin to turn toward the intensive care section, but Dad grabs my arm and steers me farther down the hall.

  “They’ve put him into a private room,” he says.

  Carefully, as though we’re intruding, we open the door and step inside. An elderly woman in a nurse’s uniform pulls herself from the straight-backed chair by Jeremy’s bed and smiles at Dad. A wad of bright yellow knitting is clutched in her right hand, and she stuffs it into a large pocket.

  “He’s doing nicely.” The words squeeze through her smile.

  She and Dad stand near the door, whispering as though Jeremy will awake if they raise their voices. I leave them and sit in the chair by Jeremy’s bed.

  He looks so young and vulnerable. I feel a jolt of guilt, remembering the arguments we’ve had. I wish I could take back all the things I’ve ever said to hurt him.

  Once again I hold my brother’s hand. He may not feel it, but it helps me. I study his face, trying to ignore the bandages and bruises.

  “I wish you could tell me what happened to you,” I whisper. “I don’t believe the excuse the police gave me.” Jeremy sleeps on. “If there were just some clue, something to tell me where you were Friday night.”

  I think of his room. I haven’t been in it. Our bedrooms have always been our private sanctuaries. I’ve respected that. Or has the real truth been that I haven’t been interested enough in Jeremy to invade his room?

  “Do you still have model planes hanging from the ceiling? You used to. How many years ago was that? And I seem to remember a terrarium. You were raising tadpoles into frogs. Oh, Jeremy, that was when you were nine years old! What are you interested in now? And where have I been that I haven’t cared to notice?”

  The pressure of Dad’s hand on my shoulder startles me, and I jump. “We’d better go,” he murmurs.

  “Where?”

  “Why, home, of course.”

  “We haven’t been here very long. There are things I want to tell Jeremy.”

  “He can’t hear you, Angie.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  He sighs. “Please be reasonable.”

  I lean toward my brother. “Good night, Jeremy. I’ll be back tomorrow.” There are tiny, blue veins on his eyelids. His lashes lie quietly on his cheeks. I wish I could reach behind that curtain. “Good night.”

  It’s not late when we reach our house, but Mom has gone to sleep facedown on the sofa in the den, her cheek squashed against her nose so that her breathing comes out in a whispery snuffle.

  Dad looks down on her for a few moments, his mouth drooping like an unhappy little boy’s.

  He needs someone. “You want to talk about Jeremy, Dad?” I ask him.

  But he shakes his head. “I’d better get a light blanket for your mother,” he answers. “I don’t want her to catch cold.”

  I wait until he returns and tucks an old, blue, woven shawl around her. “I couldn’t find the blankets.” His voice seems to belong to someone else.

  “Dad, it might help us both to talk about Jeremy. Maybe about what we can do for him.”

  “Everything that can be done is being done, Angie.” He straightens both inside and outside. “Dr. Branning knows what to do.” He moves toward the rosewood desk in the corner. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some paperwork to do.”

  “Do you have to do it now?”

  “Yes, now.” His look is almost conciliatory. “Besides, we don’t want to wake your mother, do we?”

  I wander off to my room, see that it’s only eight thirty, and wonder what to do with myself. I pick up my French book, but toss it on my desk with a groan. Not now. There is no way to forget the accident, the detective, and Debbie Hughes.

  Suddenly I find myself picking up my handbag and car keys. I’ve got to talk to Debbie. It won’t take long. I should be home again before Dad goes to bed and looks for me to say good night. The Grandy Hughes address is in the phone book, and by this time I’m familiar with the streets.

  There’s a car in the Hughes driveway and some lights on in the downstairs rooms. A far upper-left window also gleams in the darkness. It dawns on me that Debbie probably isn’t here. She’s bound to have a date on Saturday night. But I’ve come this far. I’ll give it a try.

  The doorbell’s chimes are followed by the click of a woman’s heels. The door opens, and a short woman with blond hair in a high, teased, out-of-style hairdo smiles at me. “Yes, dear?”

  “My name is Angie.” I deliberately leave off my last name. “I’d like to see Debbie, if she’s home.”

 
“My, yes, she’s home, all right,” the woman says. “But you can’t see her. She has some little virus or something, and you know how catching those things can be.”

  “I won’t worry about that,” I tell her. “It’s very important to me to see Debbie.”

  Her eyelids stretch wide and blink. “But she may not feel up to seeing anyone, dear. She’s broken a date to stay in bed, so she probably won’t want to talk to you.”

  “Please. Could you ask her?”

  “Well—” She looks over her shoulder, then shrugs. “All right. You said your name is Angie?”

  I nod.

  “Wait just a minute, Angie.” The door closes gently in my face.

  A breeze has come up again. It must be a regular thing around here. At least it’s a layer of cool to break up the pounding heat. But the breeze carries a grit of dust in it, which crawls down my neck, sifting into my clothes.

  It’s at least five minutes before the woman returns. I assume she’s Debbie’s mother. I also assume she and Debbie have had some kind of conversation about me, because she has gulped down her smile and she opens the door just a crack. Her eyes are narrowed and wary.

  “Debbie doesn’t feel well enough to see anyone, just as I told you.”

  “Please, Mrs. Hughes. I must see her.”

  “No, no. Not now.”

  The door begins to shut, but I move a little closer and say, “Listen to me, Mrs. Hughes. If I can’t talk to Debbie now, I’ll come back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, if necessary. Or I’ll talk about what’s on my mind in school. Yes. That’s what I’ll do.”

  “What a rude young woman you are,” she says, but her voice wavers. “If Grandy were just here, he could—”

  I don’t find out what Grandy Hughes could do, because a voice behind Mrs. Hughes says, “It’s all right, Mama. Let her come in.”

  “Oh, dear,” her mother says, but she opens the door, and I quickly step inside.

  Debbie’s wearing a pink shortie nightgown, and her feet are bare. Her hair is tousled, and she looks like someone who needs to be in bed. For the first time I have some doubts about what I’ve started.

  The Hughes home is beautiful, with a wide, circular staircase sweeping up from the entry hall, but there’s a fussy, busy accumulation of too many pictures and too many accent pieces. There are even too many people here right now. I want to talk to Debbie, not to her mother.