The Ghosts of Now

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “Don’t you want some cheese too?” Mom asks. I’m glad that she has begun to eat.

  “Del and I had hamburgers.”

  I guess I expect her to ask where I’ve been, or something about Del, but she’s off somewhere, probably with Jeremy.

  Mom doesn’t need me now, so I go into the den and quickly look up Debbie Hughes’s phone number. The anger burns more fiercely when I hear her mother’s voice.

  Making my own voice light and giggly I say, “Hi, Mrs. Hughes. May I please speak to Debbie?”

  “Yes, dear,” she says, and I can almost hear her thinking that she obviously should recognize the voice of someone who must be one of Debbie’s friends. “Just one minute, and I’ll call her.”

  Debbie picks up the extension in her room. I wait to hear Mrs. Hughes replace her receiver while Debbie says, “Hello? Hello?”

  The click comes, and I say, “Why did you lie to me?”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Why are you lying?’ Debbie, were you the one driving the car that hit my brother?”

  “You stop this! You hear? You stop bothering me!”

  “I’m not going to stop until I find out what happened to my brother. And if your mother gets the police on my back again, I’m going to work even harder to make sure the hit-and-run driver goes to jail—especially if the driver was you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean about my mother!”

  “Why don’t you ask her? And ask her and your father where they sent the mechanic who did the cover-up on your car.” If Debbie answers I don’t hear it, because I’m so angry my hands are shaking, and I hang up.

  I rest my head on my arms for a few moments, taking deep breaths, beating down the anger. Finally I’m okay; so I wander back to Jeremy’s room and sit at his desk. I want to read his poetry again.

  As soon as the drawer is open I see a gleam of gold, a sliver of metal shining under a wad of paper next to the notebook. I pull out a wristwatch. It’s a man’s watch, and I know it’s expensive without looking at the make. Who’s been in this drawer? The watch wasn’t here when I first read Jeremy’s poetry. I would have noticed it. Wouldn’t I?

  There are a couple of paperback books on the desk. They’re not textbooks. And a tennis team schedule. I don’t remember these things being here when I first looked in Jeremy’s desk.

  Where did this watch come from?

  There’s a gold band, and on the back of the watch an inscription in tiny block letters: To Phil with love from Alice.

  I don’t understand. Who is Phil? I glance around the room as though the answer should be written on the walls.

  But the answer comes like a slam between the shoulder blades. I gasp and shudder as I realize this is probably a stolen watch, and someone has put it in Jeremy’s desk drawer. If the watch has been put here, then other things might be hidden here too. So I search.

  It’s hard to look for something when you don’t know what to look for. And I don’t know Jeremy’s things well enough to recognize them. But any item planted here would be valuable, and I can’t find anything that looks as though it wouldn’t belong to a fifteen-year-old boy.

  Except for the watch.

  Who put it here?

  I don’t want to tell Mom. I don’t think she can handle it, and I don’t know yet what it means. So I slide the watch into the back hip pocket of my jeans and go to the kitchen, where Mom is still sitting at the table, staring at some crumbs of drying cheese.

  “Did anyone come by today?” I ask.

  Mom frowns a little as she looks at me. I feel as though she’s trying to remember who I am and what I’m doing here, so I repeat the question. “Mom, did anyone come to the house while I was gone?”

  “Oh,” she says. “Boyd brought a couple of books that he thought Jeremy might like to read.” She shakes her head. “I tried to tell him that Jeremy wasn’t ready for anything like that, but—well, it was very thoughtful of Boyd, wasn’t it?”

  “Very,” I answer, finding it hard to talk through my anger. “I suppose he put the books on Jeremy’s desk.”

  Mom looks at me sharply. “What’s the matter with you, Angie?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean anything. I just wondered who was in Jeremy’s room.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not really.”

  Next step. “I’ve got to do some research. Have we got all last week’s newspapers, or did Dad put them out for the trash pickup?”

  “I don’t think he did,” she answers. “They ought to be stacked up just inside the garage.” I have my hand on the doorknob when she suddenly says, “And Del.”

  That stops me. “Del what?”

  “You asked who was in the house. Del was when he came in for a drink of water.”

  “I know that, Mom. I meant anyone else.”

  She just shrugs, so I hurry out to the garage to get on with what needs to be done. I sit on the warm cement floor of the garage, the newspapers piled around me, and bless the small town reportage that covers every crime on the last page of the front section.

  I read back through three days until I come to the story I think I’m looking for. The home of a Mr. and Mrs. Philip Dickery was burglarized on Wednesday. Among the items taken were a portable color television set, a small stereo radio, and some jewelry. The story gives the Dickery address, and I memorize it, feeling that’s the safer way to do things. I check out the crime stories for the entire week, but can’t find another “Phil”; so I put the stack of newspapers back the way they were.

  Once more I check Jeremy’s room for cufflinks, a ring, anything else that might be incriminating, but the only item that doesn’t belong seems to be this watch. Philip Dickery’s watch was put into Jeremy’s desk drawer for a reason. Why? How does it tie in with what happened to Jeremy? For a few moments I press the palms of my hands against my forehead, trying to stop the ache of too many questions with no answers.

  I’m sure of only one thing. If someone has a plan to hurt Jeremy even more, then I’m going to ruin his plan, because I’m going to return the watch.

  Then I’ll find out who did this.

  The doorbell rings, and Mom’s footsteps go trip-trapping across the entry hall. In a moment the door opens, and I hear her startled “The police? What is it you want?”

  And there I stand, in the middle of Jeremy’s room, with the watch in the pocket of my jeans!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The policeman says something to Mom. I can’t hear him. But Mom shuts the door and her voice is so high and taut that it throbs. “Angie? Where are you?”

  Slowly, I manage to walk into the entry hall and stand slightly behind Mom. Unless I turn around no one will notice the bulge in the back hip pocket of my jeans. And if I take long, deep breaths, maybe no one will hear my heart pounding.

  The officer takes off his cap, leaving an angry-looking red band across his balding forehead, and rubs an arm across his face, blotting up beads of sweat. There are large, wet stains under the arms of his shirt. “Hot out there,” he says.

  “Oh.” Mom reacts politely on cue. “Would you like to sit down? Would you like some iced tea?”

  “Thanks, I sure would like some tea,” he says. His glance skips around the entry hall and on into the living room. “I better not sit on y’all’s good chairs. I’ve just got a few questions to ask.”

  “Angie,” Mom says. “Will you bring the officer a glass of tea, please?”

  They both look at me, and I take a couple of steps backward.

  “Angie?” Mom says. “Some iced tea, please.”

  “Uh—sure,” I stammer, taking another couple of steps. “Right away.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Mom asks.

  Why couldn’t she concentrate on the policeman? “No,” I say. By this time I’m nearly at the entrance to the living room. In a couple of steps it will be safe to turn around.

  Mom looks at me as though I’m creating problems, but the policeman c
oncentrates on tugging a notebook from his shirt pocket. I make it out of the room. I shove the watch behind a stack of plates on the top kitchen shelf.

  I bring back the iced tea, and the officer gulps it greedily, his head back, his cheeks puffing in and out with each swallow. Finally he gives a long sigh, hands the empty glass back to me, and turns to his notebook.

  “Why do you need to know where Jeremy was going?” Mom asks.

  “Just a matter for the record,” he says. “It just helps us to fill out our information.”

  “I don’t know what his plans were,” Mom whispers, and she looks so lost that I hug her.

  “Okay then,” he says. “Sorry to bother y’all.” He stuffs his notebook into his shirt pocket and turns toward the door. “Thanks for the iced tea.”

  Mom closes the door and leans against it. “Angie, I can’t believe that I didn’t know where Jeremy would be that night.”

  “It’s not your fault, Mom. I didn’t know either.”

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t answer. She looks so bewildered and vulnerable that I ache for her. So I add, “I’m finding out there’s lots about Jeremy I didn’t know, like his poetry.”

  Mom raises her head and looks at me blankly. “He reads poetry?”

  “He writes poetry.” I reach out a hand to her. “Come with me, Mom. I’ll show you a book of Jeremy’s poetry. It’s pretty good.”

  I lead her into Jeremy’s room. She sits on the edge of his bed, gingerly, like a trespasser, and takes the notebook I hand her. She reads the first poem, then looks up at me, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “I had no idea that Jeremy wrote poetry.”

  “Maybe we’re intruding into his private life,” I say, “but I don’t think it’s wrong. I think we should learn more about him.”

  She reads another poem. “His poetry is so sad,” she says.

  “I think he’s writing about what he feels.”

  Her eyes are shimmery with tears. “He’s lonely. I didn’t know how lonely.”

  “Mom,” I tell her. “Don’t start tearing yourself apart over what Jeremy has written. Just read it and understand a little bit more about him.”

  The book lies open on her lap as she stares at me. “I don’t know about either of my children. What about you, Angie? Do you write poetry too?”

  “No, but I guess I feel somewhat the way Jeremy does.”

  She’s still staring. “I don’t know you. I don’t know you or Jeremy.”

  I stoop down to hug her. “Hey, Mom. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to shake you up. I just thought you’d like to read this.” I take the book from her and turn a few pages. “Here. Read this one. I think it’s one of his best.”

  She obediently reads, and I say, “Mom, I’m going out for just a few minutes to run an errand. I’ll be back soon.” She just nods absentmindedly.

  I’m going to take back the wristwatch.

  Before I leave I fish out of my drawer some awful, huge sunglasses with mirror lenses that I wore the summer Meredith and I were sixteen and thought we were the greatest things to hit Malibu Beach since they invented movie stars. And I grab a faded scarf I should have thrown out a long time ago. The watch goes back into my hip pocket.

  It’s easy to find the right address. It’s easy to find anything in Fairlie, because the town is so small. I have to smile as I think of the contrast with Los Angeles. Our car is the only one in sight, except for a couple of cars parked in driveways. I think of the L.A. freeways and the broad streets filled with traffic. A lot of people complain about all that traffic, but I wouldn’t. You take the bad with the good, and the good is the city and all that it offers, all that it’s going to offer to me next year when I’m at USC.

  I pass the Dickery house. It’s a fairly expensive, large, white-brick tract-type house with a neat little boxwood hedge outlining the front lawn. Good neighborhood. It’s logical that Philip Dickery would own an expensive watch like the one in my pocket. I drive to the next street behind theirs. I can’t just walk up and hand over their stolen watch. Would I ever have the police on my back if I pulled a trick like that! I can’t put it in their mailbox or leave it on the doormat. I’ve got a plan in mind that I’ve got to make work.

  I park the car, palm the watch, and put on the mirror glasses and scarf, tying it to cover my hair. I walk briskly around the corner and down the Dickerys’ street, slowing as I near the house. I don’t know who might be watching, so I’ve got to make this look good. I stop in front of the house and stare at a spot halfway up the walk, under their boxwood hedge. I like that hedge. It’s going to come in handy.

  After standing there for a moment I move a few steps up their walk. The front door opens. Great. I thought I’d have to do this alone, and now I think I’ll have help. I glance up to see a little boy, about six years old or so.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” he answers. “What do you want?”

  “There’s something shiny under your hedge,” I tell him. “I noticed it glittering in the sunlight. At first I thought it was a garden sprinkler—something like that —but it’s yellow, like gold. Do you see it?”

  He looks at me suspiciously. “Where?”

  “Right there. Look.” I get to the spot at which I was staring before he can get down his porch steps. I kneel and reach in, under the hedge, coming up with the watch, which I dangle in front of him.

  His eyes are wide. “That’s my dad’s watch!”

  “It’s a nice watch. He should have been more careful with it.”

  “Mom!” the boy yells. “C’mere quick!”

  A woman who must go to the same hairdresser that my mother does comes through the open door and down the steps so fast that I scramble out of her way.

  But she stops a few inches from me and glares at me as I stand up. “What’s the matter? What’s going on here, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy hops up and down, narrowly missing my toes. “She found Dad’s watch!”

  The woman’s eyes open wide as her frown seems to slide up her forehead and into her lacquered hair. I hand her the watch.

  “It is!” she says. “It is the watch I gave Phil!”

  Now she puckers into suspicion. It’s like watching someone in a drama class trying to express a variety of emotions. “Where did you get this?” she asks me.

  “Under the hedge!” Jimmy yells, before I can answer.

  “Let her talk.” The woman claps a hand on his shoulder, trying to hold him down.

  “That’s right,” I tell her. “I was taking a walk, saw something shiny down there, and fished it out.”

  “I saw it too!” Jimmy shouts. “It was right down there! I saw it! I helped find it!”

  Dear little Jimmy. He really did his good deed for the day. It might have been a lot tougher without him.

  Now the woman is confused. “Oh,” she says. She says it again.

  That’s enough conversation as far as I’m concerned. “I’m glad Jimmy found his father’s watch,” I say and turn to go.

  But she takes a step next to me. “Please don’t rush off,” she says. “I suppose you’re the one who really found it, and—”

  “I helped! I found it too!” Jimmy interrupts. “I bet the burglars dropped it!”

  Now I’m the one in acting class. I try to look amazed. “Burglars?”

  “We were robbed Wednesday night,” the woman says. “They took some jewelry—all sorts of things. And there is a reward for their return. I’m sure you must want whatever part of the reward my husband will give you for his watch.”

  “No,” I say. “I just saw it, and Jimmy”—I beam at him—“Jimmy really found it. Didn’t you, Jimmy?”

  “That’s what I keep telling you, Mom!” Jimmy yells.

  “But the reward—”

  “I don’t want the reward. Thanks, anyway.”

  I’m two houses away when she suddenly wakes up and shouts, “You didn’t tell me your name!”

  I just turn briefly, wave, and smile, and keep
walking, pretending that I don’t hear her. I keep up a brisk pace, and the minute I round the corner I pull off the glasses and scarf. I get into my car in a hurry and drive down to the main street. I pass a sterile, concrete shopping mall marooned in a nearly empty parking lot sea. It’s an obviously new concession to the oil company employees and their families who have swollen this town, because on either side are the older stores, a few with the high wooden false fronts I’ve seen in western movies.

  Less than two minutes later a siren blasts behind me, and a cop car is close enough to hitch a ride on my rear bumper. I pull over to the curb, and the car parks behind mine. A policeman climbs out, so as fast as I can I shove the scarf under my right leg and tuck the glasses in my shirt pocket. They stick out of the top, but there’s nothing else I can do with them. If that woman tells the police about a girl with mirrored sun glasses—if this policeman notices—

  He turns around. I take a deep breath, which comes out in a shudder. “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “Let’s see your driver’s license,” he answers.

  I hand it to him and he copies some of the information from it onto his pad.

  “Insurance identification?”

  I give him the card. It’s already in my hand. He takes it as though he’s sorry I have it available. “Are you giving me a ticket?”

  He doesn’t answer, just keeps writing, so I say, “If I’m getting a ticket, I should know what for!”

  “Sign here,” he says, handing the pad to me, and in a monotone recites, “For one thing, your left taillight is out—”

  “But it isn’t!” I interrupt.

  “If you don’t believe me you can look for yourself.”

  I think about the scarf I’m sitting on. I can’t get up, or he’ll see it. “I’ll take your word for it,” I mumble.

  But he stands back and waits. “Come on. I’ll show you. You can tell your daddy to get it fixed.”

  “It’s okay. Really. You said the left one. I’ll tell him.”