Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  Pete backpedaled into the Audi, his calves making contact with the front bumper. He stared at the dark outline of the house. If he backed up a few feet more—or better yet, drove away—he wouldn’t see it at all. His mind hit the one-eighty mark; it won, screaming at him to get the hell out of there. Fine. He continued to choose to run.

  Pete turned for the driver’s-side door, keys in hand. He dropped them, his gaze catching on the beat-up car that belonged to the girl. “Fuck. The girl.” What the hell happened to her? Pete hit the flashlight on his phone again. Two percent battery. He tossed the phone through the Audi’s open window, onto the seat, and started for her car. Light caught in his peripheral vision. The barn.

  A glow radiated through its rotted slatted sides. The fog felt as if it had weight—an ability to push or pull, like a strong wind. Pete had the sensation of moving uphill, fighting gravity. It was like being forced into a fun house and the trappings of the dark unknown. He wiped his fingers over his eyes. His imagination was getting the best of him. Fucked-up people could spook themselves, maybe more so than normal ones. He continued uphill on what he knew was a flat plane of yard. He looked back. The mist devoured objects. Pete couldn’t see his car or the girl’s; he couldn’t make out the house. But he was right about the light in the barn. Sliding over the wood plank, he dragged the weighty door over weedy grass. A lit lantern hung from one of the many hooks built into the truck’s metal awning.

  Pete moved farther inside and called out Ailish’s name. There was no one. Climbing onto the truck’s running board, he lifted up the lantern, which he assumed Ailish had lit. Maybe someone had come for her after the July sun had set. He moved the lantern to a wall hook.

  Straw crunched beneath his sneakers. The barn siding could pass for kindling. The whole place would go up like . . . well, like a decaying old barn, filled with dry straw. Pete flirted with a sure way out. Drop the lantern. Done. He closed his eyes and struggled for composure—not the mind-fucking mess that was driving him. Concern for the girl’s safety shoved him center. “Guess I should be grateful ‘total prick’ didn’t carry over from one life to another.”

  There was a shift in what was present: the barn and the time in which he stood. Pete listened, his ears assaulted by tinny, old-time carnie music. They were the same sounds he’d heard yesterday inside the house. They grew louder. Dizziness swamped him, the sensation of being thrown onto a spinning carousel. The barn reeled underfoot, and Pete reached for the truck’s door to steady himself. Mentally, he dug hard into the here and now: maybe the girl had fallen asleep inside the truck. He slid the heavy metal door open. The interior was empty.

  There was no accounting for what Pete did next. He climbed inside the truck and settled onto the seat. He’d sat here before. Pete ran his fingers over the smooth leather seat and stared at the antiquated dash, an undersize steering wheel, and a few large gauges, lots of pedals. None were the gas. That was controlled by a lever on the steering column. How the hell did he know that? But like the parts of the saddle and wet plate photography, it was all there in his head—like a file he simply needed to click on. He ignored unsettling fears and pained validation, the shower of sweat that ran down him—a stomach that couldn’t be in a greater knot. Then Pete smiled at the antiquated mechanics. “It’s not possible.” He mashed his foot into the tiny starter button on the floorboard. The engine did not hesitate—age, the elements, and time having no effect. Without thinking, Pete knew where to find the truck lights. Without hesitating, he imagined a different route of escape and drove forward.

  ACT III, SCENE I NEW YORK CITY 1917

  Phin was the rare seashell on Coney Island’s shore—not native to New York City. For Esmerelda, and almost everyone she knew, life was about survival. Phin was motivated by living, or at least, this was her impression. It was all born from a single afternoon of talk on the beach, followed by a walk through Luna Park. At the carousel, Esmerelda had sat atop a fierce faced pony impaled on doom, the creature destined to go round and round. Phin stood at her side, patting the horse’s mane as if it might respond to his touch. “Seems to me,” Phin said, “this horse’s ill expression is all about being trapped. I think he wants to be free.” The notions—about choice, about touch—dizzied Esmerelda a bit.

  Later, they walked through paths of minarets, stopping at Royal Photography, where the Manhattan business rented a summer booth. Patrons from the upscale hotels farther down the shore would pay good money for holiday photos. Phin knew the photographer on duty—an English fellow who had little use for American “nobility.” For free, he let Phin use the camera and costumes. Esmerelda was flattered to be his subject, and Phin chose a lavish gown with a train and tight pearl bodice from a rack. Then he handed her the prop of faux red roses. “The idea,” he said, “is to make one’s St. Louis cronies believe this is how everyone in New York dresses and lives.” Painstakingly, he posed Esmerelda on a velvet chaise and spent a good bit of time fiddling with the equipment. He snapped a few photos, assuring Esmerelda he’d seen precisely the Esme he wanted to preserve.

  Phin’s sensibilities fascinated her, everything from his interest in art to the deep emotions he saddled to a carousel horse. In Esmerelda’s experience, men—even showmen—were only interested in art, and women, and time in terms of profit. While Phin was clearly a hard worker, money was not the focus of his ambition.

  A week passed after Luna Park. Phin didn’t show up at Hupp’s Supper Club to take photographs, nor did he appear like a ghost in the alleyway. Instead, an older man who smelled of Barbasol and shoe polish stood with a camera in Hupp’s lobby.

  Esmerelda asked about Phin and the man snapped at her. “This is my beat, missy. Damn influenza kept me out for weeks.” He coughed into a handkerchief and swiped at his nose. Positive she couldn’t catch the flu, Esmerelda stood firm. “Charlie Carlisle might have lost his job to death.” He thumbed at his chest, clearly indicating he was Mr. Carlisle. “I ain’t losin’ it to street scruff.” When she tried to ask another question, he cut her off. “What do you want with Seaborn anyway? They’ll ship him overseas before long. Let ’em, I say. Let every younger man go before they come for me.”

  After this, Esmerelda wondered if the government’s new army had sent Phin to Europe—soldiers were leaving in what now seemed like a sea flooded with boys and men. She and Cora had seen them at the docks. She overheard a man explain how first the men spent weeks training before they departed. “Our boys will be ready,” the man bragged. “Krauts won’t know what hit ’em.”

  “Training to kill another person,” Esmerelda said to Cora. “Can you imagine such a thing?”

  Cora shrugged at the ship of new soldiers, packed like cattle and cheering as the steamer was led from the harbor. “And they seem right pleased about it too.”

  Thinking about Phin on a boat like that put Esmerelda’s insides on rough seas. Would he really be plunked aboard a ship, moved about on a battlefield like a pawn on a chessboard? Had he left without so much as a goodbye? She knew little about Phin, other than that he was a fine painter and photographer. She’d been amazed by the photo he’d taken at Luna Park, never envisioning herself as the songstress he imagined through a camera lens. Since he’d said it, Esmerelda often considered the idea of setting carousel horses free—even if it wasn’t possible. She was riveted, wondering if life could be more than a play for your next meal.

  What she could not fathom was Phin setting out on a journey where the objective was to take another man’s life. Although, she suspected he could fend for himself, if only from the hooligans that chased his shadow. Indeed, everywhere around her, war was the mind-set of men, which also included an ever-present Benjamin Hupp. When she was listening—whether it was at the dinner Benjamin invited her to or the stroll he insisted on—he’d brag about his number coming up. Esmerelda wished him no harm, but she also did wonder when that might be.

  During her tête-à-têtes with Benjamin, Esmerelda did her best to stay engaged. He was
her employer; she owed him respect. Regardless, she often found herself apologizing, remarking, “Sorry. I missed that. What did you say?” He’d prattle on about his mother’s docent activities at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or his father’s latest business conquest. He sometimes talked about Ingrid, an immigrant girl from Germany that the Hupp family had sponsored. His talk led Esmerelda to believe that Benjamin was rather fond of her. She wanted to ask if he fancied Ingrid like a sweetheart, but bringing up love interests felt counterintuitive. What if he said no?

  A week became ten days, and Esmerelda verged on hopelessness. Then Phin turned up in the alley behind Hupp’s. She’d come outside to breathe smoke-free air, to get away from everything inside the supper club. She was surprised but quickly steadied by Phin’s blue-gray gaze, which appeared as unlikely as the rest of him—wavy, dark hair and his lissome frame, which caught her glance.

  Phin explained that his work had doubled at the Tribune, with able-bodied men dwindling fast. He’d been farmed out to oversee distribution—a plum assignment, perhaps, if your last one hadn’t involved photographing one of Manhattan’s most popular venues. The Tribune had him going from the four a.m. edition through the afternoon paper, and back to the four, which started at two a.m. In between, Phin photographed rallies and the rising taste for conflict abroad. If war was bad for heartbeats, it certainly caused the newspaper business to thrive.

  That night, and during others that followed, Esmerelda would slip away. She and Phin would go on their own walks. The sooty city was never entirely quiet, but this was fine. The heavy night air and streets that didn’t empty became their canvas. In the chatter of these excursions, Phin remained mum about his life beyond the Tribune, beyond her. And it wasn’t as if Esmerelda was shy about asking. But when she pressed, Phin only turned the question back on her. “So, Esme, you’ve worked your way up to second billing at Hupp’s. Oscar must be pleased.” Then he’d stop walking and ask, “And Benjamin Hupp, how pleased is he?”

  She guessed cat-and-mouse conversation was the way of courtship—girls engaging but keeping a suitor at arm’s length. But Esmerelda had no desire for games. A foreboding sense of time running out wouldn’t allow it. “I’ve told you, Phin. Benjamin’s my employer, perhaps friendlier than some. I don’t see it any other way.” Then she would insist, “And neither does he.”

  In response, Phin made no mention of further defining a courtship. He never took Esmerelda’s hand when they walked, always bidding her a good night at the edge of the alleyway. Behind her were the late-night sounds of Hupp’s Supper Club, endless rumblings of well-to-do gaiety—which, when sozzled enough, sounded no different from working-class drunks.

  On these nights, Phin would slip silently into the darkness, taking with him all the things Esmerelda wanted to embrace. He generally left alone, but sometimes Hassan would show up. During one walk, Phin had explained that Hassan was a Choctaw Indian, expressly imported by the United States Army. Each week, Hassan reported to a Lower Manhattan army post, and each time the post would tell Hassan to come back in seven days. In the meantime, they did nothing to support him, not providing food or shelter. If he tried to leave, he’d be considered a deserter. According to Phin, Hassan was turned away from most every attempt at employment. “It’s curious if you think about it. It’s his land. For a Native American, most people treat him worse than the Negroes and the Chinese.”

  The pattern between Phin and herself frustrated Esmerelda, as did the attentions of a man she did not want. Phin left her mystified, the way you’d wonder what came after the stars in a night sky—something beyond her reach. And Esmerelda wasn’t the only person curious about Phineas Seaborn. Everyone in Oscar’s troupe had an opinion. Cora said he and his gang of thugs ranked lower than the dubious trade at the Elephant Hotel. Apparently, Cora had figured this much out, aware of what an Elephant Hotel “appointment” entailed.

  Nightly, after returning to the hotel room at Hupp’s, Cora doled advice out like penny candy. “And they say I’m the ninny. You might be takin’ a long gaze in that looking glass.” She’d stab a finger in the direction of the dresser mirror while unwinding Esmerelda’s plaited bun. And because Cora gripped one end like a rope, Esmerelda had no choice but to keep still and listen. “If Mr. Benjamin Hupp learns you fancy that boy, he’ll drop you and your act like hot manure from Go and Fish.” By then Cora had unraveled the braid, picking harshly with a comb at a nasty knot. “You’ll have lost a job and the best chance that will ever come your way.” She’d yanked hard on a last tangle, and Esmerelda had yelped. “Got it!” Cora said, holding up a sizable chunk of Esmerelda’s hair. Then she eyed their reflections. “Even a stupid girl like me can tell that future.”

  The future did come and go, another week’s worth. Cora’s concerns began to wane when Phin didn’t appear in the alleyway or near the fruit vendor on Stillwell Ave. He’d surprised Esmerelda there one Sunday with a shiny apple in hand. One he’d readily admitted to stealing. Phin wasn’t in the audience in Luna Park’s venue, where she continued to perform on Saturday afternoons. She walked the beach at Coney Island and spent a nickel’s worth of pennies riding the fierce white horse, scanning the summer crowds. Phin was nowhere.

  On the second Saturday evening, the troupe was packing up the wagon. Oscar and the men—Bill, Barney, and Jimmie—would head to the Flatlands. Along with other traveling acts, vagrants, even families with no roofs over their heads, the Brooklyn open land was home through the summer months. If you could stand the mosquitoes, it was better than the city rats. The girls would return to the hotel at the supper club. Cora was locking Licorice in his crate and Esmerelda was doing a poor job of filling canteens from a public spigot. Oscar’s booming voice startled her. She thumped a wet, icy-cold hand to her chest. “For the love of God, Oscar, I’m right here. There’s no need to shout.”

  “I want to make sure I have your attention.”

  She made eye contact.

  “Especially after the way you daydreamed through this afternoon’s performance. Two patrons walked out.” He held up as many thick fingers. “You’re not beyond my governorship, Esmerelda Moon. Keep that in mind.”

  She said nothing and returned to her task.

  “You and Cora may be used to your running-water tub and that fine bed you’ve been sleeping in. But you’re still part of this troupe.” He looked at the puddle surrounding her shoes. “The rest of us would appreciate enough water to keep from shriveling up in the heat.”

  She’d been peering down the dusky sidewalk. “I’m sorry, Oscar.” She turned to the spigot and focused on water going into the canteens. “I’ll have them ready in a jiff.”

  He sighed and came closer, his broad back meeting with the brick of the building. “Listen to me, Esmerelda.”

  The seriousness with which he spoke caused her to abandon the canteens. She stood straight and Oscar shut off the spigot. She glanced over her shoulder. The troupe was deep into negotiations with a competing ensemble, trading food for blankets and whiskey. The activity and chill reminded Esmerelda that soon it would be fall. The air would turn icy. Her contract with Hupp’s would come to an end.

  “Let me ask you something.” Through a bright moon, Oscar arced his arm wide. “What is it you want, girl? To be a singer like Fritzi Scheff or Mary Garden, first billing wherever you went? Your name top on a marquee?”

  She was confused by his questions. Sloppy disinterest in a task, a distracted performance—it was enough to earn an earful from Oscar. She frowned, shrugging. “Wouldn’t any singer?”

  “Not necessarily. Some just prefer it, like Cora’s juggling. It’s a way to avoid an even harder life, less appealing work. But there are plenty of singers, Esmerelda, far less talented than you. They want nothing more than to be that person. First on the marquee, an act too big for my kit and caboodle of traveling wares.”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “And I’ve never asked for a reason. You could do better than me.” Sh
e blinked at Oscar’s bluntness. “Eh, I don’t feel badly about it.” He spit a wad of tobacco into the street. “Any agent would do the same to keep his talent. But after your stint at Hupp’s and the talk I’ve heard, you could have that. A different sort of life, one several grades up from Albee’s. A whole other world compared to Coney Island.”

  “You mean leave you . . . Cora, the troupe? What a silly thought.” She reached for the spigot and canteens. Oscar’s huge hand halted hers.

  “You need to think beyond today and common Brooklyn stages, even the lighted city that’s Luna Park. And if you’re of the mind that you owe me something, then I’m saying you owe me nothing.”

  It was the queerest talk she’d ever heard from Oscar. “After the way you plucked me out of that mess in Saratoga? Making that idiot saloon owner pay me what he owed me?” Bawdy laughter floated over from the performers and she glanced at the ruckus. “Oscar, I’m alive and I’m well because of you. That’s a debt.”

  “If it was, it isn’t anymore. You’re not beholden to me, Esmerelda. But you need to decide what it is you do want to be beholden to. If you don’t make a choice, fate will do it for you.” The laughter stopped as noise of a skirmish rose.

  “You’ll take no less than a pint of whiskey, Barney,” Bill said. “God knows you’ll drink most of it yourself!” For as much as Bill and Barney were together, they could also end up in fisticuffs. Oscar walked toward the growing scuffle.

  She stared at his lumbering moon-washed frame. At sixteen, Esmerelda had been an easy mark. If it hadn’t been for Oscar, she had a fair idea what her fate would have been. She’d arrived in Saratoga already broken, having fled from her own family—her father, a drunk, and her sister, clueless. Esmerelda was working as a singer in a grimy pub near the racetrack for kitchen scraps and the promise of two dollars a week. A second payday came, and the owner only offered Esmerelda another excuse. Oscar stepped in, aiding a hungry and near-hysterical girl. She was awestruck by the swift execution of Oscar’s will. He returned from a back room with her money and a tin pail filled with a real dinner. Oscar said to get her things and meet him out front.