Dying on Second

by E. C. Bell

  She acted like I felt, to be honest. The office was a whole bunch better when James was there. But he had to work, so there Millie and I were, trudging through our days.

  The evenings were better.

  Greg set up more one-on-one practices for me. Focussed on the batting which was all right because I was actually starting to see some improvement. Plus James came to most of them, helping out, which made it all even better. And in our Thursday game Greg moved me up so I was batting fourth again. Clean up. And, for the most part, I did okay. We won that one, seven to three.

  He left me in right field, but that was okay, too. I was effective there. Effective. Never thought it would happen, but it did.

  Because of all the exercise I was getting I was sleeping more. Not a lot more, but some. So, I put away the bottle of Seroquel and decided to fire my shrink. I was not going to take the drugs, and the IRT still wasn’t working. She wasn’t helping me, so I decided it was better to let her go.

  On the day that I was going to Calgary for the tournament, James took Millie to the groomer so I had some alone time. I spent it carefully typing “it’s not you, it’s me” letters to Dr. Parkerson but none of them quite seemed right, so I blew them all away when James came back with a freshly coiffed comfort dog.

  “She looks great,” I said.

  “I’m trying a new place,” he said. “The groomer’s nice. Millie seems to like her, anyway.”

  “That’s good. And she looks cute with the little bow.”

  “She better,” he said. “I spend more on her hair than I do on my own.”

  I laughed. ”Your hair looks great, too.”

  To be honest, I liked his hair when he let it grow. It got all wavy and sexy and, well, I liked it. But I didn’t think I’d ever tell him that. No ego boost from Marie. Not about his hair, anyhow.

  “I thank you, Ma’am,” he said. Then he glanced at the clock. “Isn’t it just about time for you to go? You don’t want to miss your bus, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Even though I could have walked to the Red Arrow bus station, since it was just a few blocks from the office, James insisted on driving me. I figured he wanted to give me all the last minute advice he could.

  “I wish I was coming,” he said, for about the fourteenth time. “Come on. Let me. It’ll be like a little holiday. We can get a hotel room—”

  “What about the dog?” I asked. Millie, who was curled up in the back seat of the Volvo, lifted her head and whined. “See?” I said. “She doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay here, with you.”

  “That whining is new,” James said, glaring briefly into the back seat. “She started it on the way home from the groomer.”

  “Maybe you’re going to have to find an even newer groomer,” I said.

  “Maybe.” He sighed, Millie whined again, and I laughed. “It’s not funny,” he said.

  “Yes, it actually is,” I said. “Don’t worry, she’ll probably stop soon.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “Because it’s pretty grating, I have to tell you.” He pulled the car over in front of the huge Red Arrow bus and parked. “All right, so you don’t want me to come. Fair enough. Just promise me you’ll call me when you get there.”

  “Will do.”

  “And after every game.”

  “Sure.”

  “And before you go to bed.”

  I turned to glare at him. Saw he was grinning, and grinned back. “I’ll be fine, James. I told you. I’m staying with one of Sylvia’s friends. She’s driving me around and everything. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You told me.” He leaned forward and kissed me. “But I’m going to miss you, you know.”

  “You better,” I said, and kissed him back. I grabbed my suitcase and the big black bag that carried all my equipment out of the back seat, being careful not to disturb Millie, who’d gone to sleep.

  No good-bye from her. I didn’t know whether that was a good sign or a bad sign. Decided it was good. That she knew, somehow, that everything was going to be hunky-dory. That I didn’t need her comfort or support.

  “I’ll call you,” I said to James, and shut the door. Stepped up to the bus, and as James drove away, got on board. Ten minutes later, I was on my way.

  I was excited, if I was going to be honest about the whole thing. A little bit nervous, but mostly excited. I was pretty sure Millie was right. This weekend was going to be fun.

  “MARIE? MARIE JENNER?”

  Henrietta Kendall—no relation to the pitcher, Miriam Kendel—was waiting for me at the bus terminal when the bus pulled in. She was about the same age as Sylvia Worth, and just as fit. She didn’t look tired, though, and she didn’t look haunted. She just looked happy to see me.

  “Call me Henry,” she said, as she grabbed my suitcase and led me to her car. A late model Beamer with all the bells and whistles. “My dad named me. He chose Henrietta, after Henrietta Lacks, he said. But I don’t like it much. It’s so old-fashioned.” She grinned. “However, it is hilarious when clients meet me for the first time, and finally figure out that they’re dealing with me and not an old man, like they expected.”

  “That would be funny,” I said. Pointed at her car. “Nice.”

  “What can I say?” she said as she tossed my stuff in the trunk. “Life’s been good, down here in oil country.”

  “I thought Edmonton was called Oil Country,” I said. “Isn’t Calgary Cowtown, or something?”

  “Only in July,” she said. “The rest of the time, it’s all about the oil.” She pointed out her side window, at the city’s downtown core. At all the towers, doing all that oil business. Then she laughed, her mouth open, wide, and her eyes sparkling. It put me off a bit, to be honest. I almost felt like she was trying to play me.

  It didn’t help that she looked nearly perfect. Her hair, cut short, was perfect, like she’d just come from the stylist. Just like Millie, I thought, and felt a teeny bit better. But only a teeny bit.

  Her clothes were perfect, too. In fact she looked like she’d just come from working in one of those office towers, even though it was nearly eight thirty. And her shoes? They probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

  The only thing that gave me any hope about her was her fingernails. Someone like her always seemed to have perfect nails, acrylic or gel or whatever, but not Henry. They weren’t perfect. Far from it.

  Her nails were short, serviceable. Clean, of course, but it looked like she didn’t use polish of any sort. Just like me.

  “I’m going to take you to my place first, so you can drop off your suitcase,” she said. “With any luck, you’ll be able to meet the old man. Then, we’re going out for drinks with the team. They can’t wait to meet you. Sylvia’s been singing your praises, let me tell you. Absolutely singing!”

  I couldn’t imagine Sylvia Worth singing anything, especially my praises. And what had Henry meant about meeting an old man?

  “What old man do you want me to meet?” I asked.

  “Why, the ghost, of course.” She laughed again, showing me every one of her perfect, perfect teeth. “Didn’t Sylvia tell you? My house is haunted, and I want you to get rid of the ghost for me.”

  The only thing I knew for sure, in those next few horrible minutes as Henry chattered on about the tournament and the bar where we would be meeting the rest of the team after I dropped off my stuff at her place and met the ghost that she wanted me to “expunge,” was that I hated Sylvia Worth more than anyone else in the whole world.

  The whole world.

  HENRY LIVED IN an upscale borough somewhere in Calgary. I never could keep directions straight in Calgary, even with the mountains to the West as a rough guide. The city was built on a four quadrant system that drove me crazy the few times I’d been forced to go there. But Henrietta—Henry—seemed comfortable as she and her crazy expensive car dipped and dove through the evening traffic. She never st
opped talking the whole way.

  Sometimes she talked about the sights we were blasting by at light speed, and sometimes about the ball team and the tournament. She never asked me a question, so I didn’t have to even think about answering her. I just listened to her chatter and fumed.

  Finally, she stopped in front of a two storey house with a built-in garage. It looked exactly like every other house on the block.

  “I painted the front door red when I first moved here,” she said. “Just so I could find the place.” She laughed and pushed the single button of the remote clipped to her visor and waited for the double door of the garage to open. She pulled into the garage, which was empty except for a bike that looked really expensive and mostly unused. “Of course, that was against the rules. So I had to paint it black. Thank the good Lord for GPS, is all I can say.”

  She pressed the remote again, and as the door rattled closed behind us, hopped out of the car, popped the trunk, and pulled out my suitcase. “Come on,” she said, and laughed again, whitely. Hugely. “Your stuff won’t get itself inside!”

  Then, she leaped up the stairs, unlocked the door separating the garage from the rest of her house, and disappeared inside. I could either sit in the car hating Sylvia Worth, or I could go inside and tell Henrietta—dammit! Henry—that she had been misinformed. I was not going to help her with her ghost. I’d just come to Calgary to play ball.

  But first, I had to pee. That was a long bus trip, no doubt about it. I sighed, got out of the car, grabbed my suitcase, and trudged up the stairs into Henry’s McMansion.

  All I could think as I looked around, trying to get my bearings, was that my sister Rhonda would have loved this place. She really would. Every room I saw was tastefully decorated, and everything was so clean it positively gleamed.

  Looked like Henry had a lot of people working to keep her world all neat and tidy while she did whatever she did every day.

  Henry showed me to my room. It had its own ensuite. That bathroom was bigger than the one in Jasmine’s little house that five of us used, and for a second, I kind of fell in love. Then I remembered that there was a ghost hanging around somewhere, and my mood went right back to glum.

  I called James, because I’d promised I would, and told him I’d gotten there safely and that I was going to meet the rest of the team. But I didn’t mention the ghost.

  “Have fun,” he said. Then he hung up, and I was back to being alone and feeling glum.

  “You want to have a drink?” Henry called from the kitchen. “Before we go meet the rest of the team?”

  “I don’t think so,” I called back. “Henry, we need to talk.”

  “About the old man, yeah, I know,” she said. “I’m amazed that you’re not all creeped out by him, but I guess if you work with ghosts all the time, you get past that, right?”

  I didn’t answer her. Just trudged out of the room with the fantastic ensuite and down the stairs to the huge kitchen where Henry was making a blender full of something green.

  “Come on,” she said, giving the green mess another quick pulse before she poured it into two glasses. “Nobody can say no to a margarita.”

  She wasn’t going to back down, I could just tell. So, I took the proffered glass—a regulation margarita glass, I was sure—and put my lips to the salt encrusted rim. “Nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “For business I drink martinis,” she said. “But on the weekends, this is my poison of choice.” She downed her drink and poured another without setting the glass on the kitchen counter. Marble, of course. I wondered if I was going to have to be the one to drive to the meeting with the rest of the team, but she only took a sip from the second glass, and then set it down with a small thump.

  “I guess I have to talk business, even with the margarita,” she said. “So, let’s talk.”

  “Business?”

  Her smile was nearly gone. Just a small shadow of her former toothy grin. It was unnerving. “Yeah,” she said. “Business.”

  She pulled an envelope from a nearby drawer. “Sylvia said you charge a grand,” she said. “I certified the cheque, hope you don’t mind. Just to put your mind at ease.” She almost smiled again. “After all, you don’t know me from Adam, do you? I know I shouldn’t be showing my hand like this. Paying you before you’ve done the job, but I want to demonstrate to you just how serious I am.”

  A wooden thunk sounded from the next room, but Henry didn’t react. I wondered if she had a cat, or something. Wondered distantly how Millie would treat me if I came home smelling like a cat. Probably badly, I guessed. She hated it when one of us petted another dog, so a cat would probably be right off limits.

  Another thunk, and then a crash and a tinkle. Henry sighed.

  “I was hoping he’d wait until after the get-together with the team,” she said. “But I guess he wants to meet you now.”

  I blinked. “Are you telling me that a ghost is doing that?”

  “Yeah,” she said. She picked up her glass and drained it. “It was hell, until I figured out not to put anything breakable anywhere in there. I even had to move the TV, even though it’s the TV room, for heaven’s sake. He hates TV. Well, CNN, anyhow. He was better whenever I turned it to CBC, but that was a no-go for me, so I moved the TV to the den.”

  “The ghost hates CNN?” I asked. My voice didn’t really sound like my own. She had a poltergeist in the next room. A poltergeist throwing stuff around.

  “Well, all the American channels, actually. But I mean, really. Have you tried watching Canadian programming? It’s painful.”

  “I don’t watch much TV,” I said, distantly.

  “Well, I gotta keep up,” Henry said. Sloshed a thimble full of margarita into her glass. Offered me the jug, and set it down when I shook my head. “Clients love small talking about their favourite shows, after all.” She gestured at the doorway to the next room. “Want to meet him?”

  This was all moving way too fast for me. I was going to say no, but then there was a series of thunks from the next room. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. Hurry up, the poltergeist in the next room seemed to be saying. Get in here, so I don’t have to come to you.

  “Dammit,” Henry said. “He’s really making a mess in there. Tina’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Tina?” I asked.

  “My housekeeper,” Henry said.

  Of course.

  “Who is he?” I asked. “The ghost. Has he told you, yet?”

  Henry snorted and shook her head. “I have no idea who he is,” she said.

  “But you’ve seen him—”

  “No,” she scoffed. “If I could see him, I’m pretty sure I could have convinced him to get the hell out, all on my own. No, I just have to deal with the mess.”

  I frowned. “How do you know he’s an old man, then?” I asked. “If you’ve never seen him?”

  “By the smell,” she said. “That old man ‘I forgot to shower for a couple of weeks’ smell.” She shuddered. “There is not enough Febreze in the world, when he gets wound up. Makes Tina crazy.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. My guess was that Henry’s housekeeper was the only one, really, who had to deal with the mess, as well as the smell. But that was not relevant. Not really.

  “Does he go anywhere else in the house?” I asked. Like up to the spare bedroom with the wonderful ensuite bathroom.

  “Sometimes,” Henry said. “He will not leave the candles in my bathroom alone. They’re always in the bottom of the tub. But mostly, he stays in the TV room.” She clicked her tongue. “A TV room with no TV,” she said. “What a frigging waste.”

  For a moment, I thought about demanding that she take me back to the bus depot. Forget the tournament, forget everything, I would just go home. No harm no foul, past having to explain to James why I hadn’t stayed. He’d understand. He would.

  But then, I thought of Sylvia Worth. I was fairly certain that she wouldn’t be so understanding. That she could—and would—make my life a living hell if I di
dn’t help her friend with her poltergeist problem.

  That thought made me hate her all over again. Then I sighed, and set my mostly untouched margarita on the hugely expensive marble counter top.

  “All right,” I said. “I guess I better meet your ghost.”

  HENRY WAS RIGHT. Tina, her housekeeper, was going to be pissed. The TV room with no TV was a wreck. Everything that had been on the shelves surrounding the place the sixty inch flat-screen TV had been was on the floor. The two recliners that graced the wall furthest from the shelves had been moved as well. Shifted, so they faced the corner of the room, where someone would have put a big, fat, CRV television, back in the day.

  The ghost sat in the recliner closest to the wall. He looked angry, which didn’t surprise me at all. Poltergeists, generally, were angry. That was why they learned how to move things. Throw things. Smash things.

  “Tell that bitch to move the TV back in here,” he growled. “I’m missing the games.”

  “The games?” I asked.

  “The ball games,” he said. “Jesus, are you as stupid as her?”

  “Probably,” I sighed. “After all, I am standing here trying to have a conversation with a really nasty ghost. What I should be doing is kicking your butt out of here.”

  Now, I couldn’t do that, as far as I knew, but at least I got his attention. The recliner snapped upright as he clambered out of it and stared at me.

  “You do understand that this is my place,” he said. “And she’s just a damned squatter.”

  “And you understand that you are dead,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “She owns the house, now,” I said. “She bought it, after you died.”

  I watched him carefully, wary that he’d start throwing stuff again. But he didn’t move. Just stared at the spot on the far wall that had probably once held a TV.

  “I know she owns the house,” he said. “But man, I am missing my sports.” Before I could respond, he pointed at the chair. “And I miss my Barcalounger. That was a hell of a chair. Beats the hell out of this thing, even with the cup holders.” He looked at me. “I’ll make a deal with you. Tell her I’ll leave her alone if she brings the TV back, with the sports package, and gets me a Barcalounger.”