Cammie Takes Flight

by Laura Best

  Ed asks a million questions and then some, like how my grades are and what my best subject is. We laugh about silly things and he tells me some more of his stories. I tell him about the boys sitting on the other side of the classroom and he laughs. Without missing a beat, I tell him that the boys learn piano tuning and chair caning. The best way to avoid certain subjects is to keep the conversation moving. He asks how the food is and what time I have to go to bed. Just when I start thinking that this whole nonsense about adoption is just that—nonsense—Ed starts to get serious on me. His voice drops and he rubs the back of his neck. He clears the phlegm out of his throat a few times and I kind of hope he doesn’t spit.

  I jump up from the table before he has time to drop any bombshells on me. “We should probably get back,” I croak, as something squeezes my throat. Ed tells me to sit back down; he’s got something to talk over with me.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you,” he says, like he’s about to make a business deal.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I cut him off. “Aunt Millie already blabbed. I talked to her on the pay phone a few weeks back.”

  I can’t say the word “adopt” out loud. It wouldn’t make it past my tonsils. All those years thinking no one wanted me—I’m too scared to let myself hope.

  “Should have known Millie wouldn’t keep quiet,” says Ed, shaking his head. I pay attention to his coal black hair instead of what he’s saying. If I concentrate on something else maybe it will be okay. He touches my hand.

  “I’m just asking you to think it over, Cammie. It would mean I’d be responsible for you. Millie wouldn’t have the whole say in things—she wouldn’t have any say. That might not be such a bad thing.” Ed clears his throat. “It wouldn’t be just you and me, though. I met someone a while back…Her name’s Miranda. You’ll really like her.” There’s a spark in Ed’s voice I’ve never heard before. I haven’t got the heart to tell him Aunt Millie blabbed all that too. No one wants someone raining on their parade.

  “Would I have to live with you?” I’m not looking to leave the school, not after the rigmarole I went through to get here. Then, too, there’s Miranda to consider. Maybe she isn’t as gung-ho about this as Ed is. Not to mention I’m settling in and have lots of friends at the school. This business of weighing out the pros and cons of Ed’s idea is of the utmost seriousness.

  “Only during the summer months. I think it would be best if you stayed here at the school the rest of the year—you would come home for Christmas, of course.” I squirm in my seat. “That’s if you want to. Really, it’s up to you, Cammie. You’re the one who’ll be affected the most.”

  My head is a wrinkled mess of thoughts and I try to iron them out. When something sounds too good to be true it usually is.

  “What about Aunt Millie?”

  “She’ll have to get used to it—if you say yes, that is. She’s not your mother…but I’m your father. That should count for more in any court of law.”

  “But how? I mean, what would we do?” If I get my hopes up and this thing falls apart I’ll die for sure. Aunt Millie can put the binders on anything when she sets her mind to it. She’s already told Ed no.

  “I could apply to the court,” says Ed. He stops and I know there’s something more coming. “There’s just one thing—I need your birth record and Millie won’t give it up.”

  Big surprise. Did Ed really expect Aunt Millie to cooperate?

  “I’m at a dead end for the time being, at least,” says Ed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Miranda wrote to the Registrar General but they have no record—nothing to show a baby was born to Brenda Turple on December 3rd, 1939. Millie says she doesn’t have it but I don’t believe her. There has to be a record somewhere. And look at me: this isn’t your problem to solve. I’ll figure something out, I promise.”

  A blast of hope bursts inside me. “Aunt Millie has a wooden box in her room…The rhinestone necklace Drew bought her. I used to take it out when she wasn’t around. There was a paper. I remember it. At the bottom. But I couldn’t read it.” My tongue is going at a hefty rate as it tries to keep pace with my brain. I might not even be making sense.

  “That could be it.” Ed sound cautious.

  “Aunt Millie never keeps papers. It would have to be important. I can look…at Christmas when I go home.” If I’m the one who has to get this show on the road then so be it. I look up at Ed. He’s smiling.

  “Do you think Miranda will like me?” I ask.

  “What’s not to like?” he says, and I think maybe I’ll explode with joy right on the spot.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I whisper that the coast is clear. In one slick movement, Nessa opens the hall closet. “Hurry!” I say, waving her on while craning my neck to make sure the hallway is still empty. From the kitchen comes a string of tiny pops, and the smell of fresh-popped corn wafts up the hallway. My mouth waters. I haven’t had popcorn since last Christmas, when Aunt Millie got it into her head to make some way late at night. When the smoke started rolling from the pot, I grabbed it out of her hands.

  Aunt Millie makes popcorn the same way she looks after me: without paying too much attention. She squawked and gave me a slap on the arm, snatching the pot away like she was grabbing up precious stones. She insisted on adding the melted butter even though the popcorn was ruined—burnt black as the bottom of a kettle by the smell of it.

  “Ruined, schmuined,” she snapped. “It’ll be just fine.” When I refused to try any she made a wild dive for the bowl, and the popcorn went flying through the air.

  “Now look what you made me do!” she cried. Storming out of the kitchen, she left me to clean up the mess. The smell of scorched popcorn was still in the kitchen the next morning.

  “Come on,” I urge as Nessa reaches up on the closet shelf. It won’t be long and the corn will all be popped. Mrs. Maxwell could show up at any moment.

  “Got it!” says Nessa, pulling it down. We scurry for her bedroom like field mice. I can tell she’s done this a time or two.

  To say I was relieved when Nessa sent her mother down to the kitchen to make popcorn would be an understatement. I’m not used to having someone hovering around asking questions. But you can hardly tell someone to get lost when they’re in their own house, especially when you’ve only just made their acquaintance.

  Ever since I arrived, Mrs. Maxwell has been hanging to us like barn scrapings to a shovel, asking me every question under the sun: where I’m from and do I have any brothers or sisters; whether I like it at the school; do I eat everything that’s put in front of me; and how long have I been going to the school—since Nessa has never once mentioned my name. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she was interviewing me for the newspaper.

  At least Mr. Maxwell’s working, even though it’s Saturday evening. No worries about him putting in an appearance. Nessa says crooks don’t take time off for weekends and neither does her father. To hear her talk he’s the one out rounding up the bad guys, not helping to get them off scot-free.

  Never in a million years did I think I’d be asking dead people for their help. When Evelyn used to tell me about his brother, the shivers would start walking up my spine. Being in the same room as someone who’s vapour and spirit is enough to put me on edge. Only Nessa says there’s nothing to it.

  “It’s like having a conversation with an old friend.”

  I’ll believe that when I see it—or don’t see it.

  “Dead people have a right to communicate too,” she added. I ended up agreeing, like our conversation was making sense.

  “You stay here and guard the board while I go for the popcorn,” says Nessa, leaving me all alone. I don’t bother to ask who she thinks I’m guarding it from. Taking advantage of her absence, I remove the top of the cardboard box and take a look inside. I shake my head the way Ed sometimes does. Hard to believe something that small
can hold the answer to all the questions in the world. There are two words at the top. Yes on the left and No on the right. In the middle of the board are the letters of the alphabet. There’s a star and a moon on the board. A heart-shaped object with three little legs is in the box. I pick it up for closer look, but decide it’s best not to go poking around things that don’t belong to me. Besides, I don’t want to upset some ghost by playing around with things I know nothing about. Putting the lid back on, I wait for Nessa to bring on the popcorn. What can be taking so long?

  I get off the bed and mosey around. The walls in Nessa’s bedroom are enough to make most people gasp.

  “Periwinkle,” said Nessa earlier, like she could read my thoughts.

  “Not bad,” I said, trying not to sound too impressed.

  I can hear Nessa in the kitchen talking to her mother, but can’t make out what they’re saying. The Maxwells have a fancy enough home, with lots of furniture and lacy white curtains, and blinds to keep the neighbours from looking in. There’s a piano in the parlour and Nessa with a whole shelf full of dolls she doesn’t seem to care about. Her father likely gets paid a bundle for getting thieves and murderers off the hook.

  “Mother keeps on buying me dolls, but I’m too old,” Nessa said when we first settled into her room. I caught myself ready to start gushing over them.

  “Dolls are for kids,” I agreed, reeling in my enthusiasm, pretending not to notice the pretty getups they were wearing. It must be nice to have so many dolls you don’t give a care, though. I’d have settled for just one growing up.

  Finally Nessa shows up toting a big bowl of popped corn. Shoving my hand in, I grab up some of the greasy goodness. My teeth squeak against a popped kernel as I chomp away. Just the right amount of butter and a smidge of salt; delicious. Mrs. Maxwell sure has Aunt Millie beat in the corn-popping department. I shove more into my mouth while waiting for instructions on summoning up spirits. Talking to ghosts is serious business. I have to stay on my toes. If there are any ghosts hanging around this board, they’d best be prepared to speak. Cammie Turple isn’t about to be duped by some spirit she’s never once met.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Can you get it, Cammie girl?” Herb Winters would say. He’d stretch his palm out flat, and I always knew there’d be a shiny coin in the middle. I’d make a wild grab for it but he’d be too fast. He’d open his hand, tempting me to try again, and I would every time. We’d laugh, and at the end of it all he’d give me the coin. But having the coin was never the best part of our game.

  Herb was kind of happy-go-lucky, always laughing and joking about something. He’d tell silly jokes that he’d heard at the Texaco station over in Sheppard Square, ones about wives and husbands, and people knocking at your door in the middle of the night. I never understood his jokes, but I’d laugh along with him. He’d sit at the table and drink moonshine until Aunt Millie would tell him it was time to go home. She usually didn’t allow people into the house during the week, but for Herb she’d always make an exception.

  The night Herb died, he’d sat at the kitchen table with Aunt Millie. They talked about sensible things, like the roadwork going on in Tanner and Aunt Millie thinking she might just get a telephone one of these days. Their discussion turned serious as the evening wore on, like is there life after death and just who would ever make it into heaven if there were?

  I liked the way Aunt Millie sounded like a regular everyday person those times, a person who was someone’s aunt, or neighbour, maybe even someone who knit socks on winter evenings or visited people who were sick. I got the idea that Herb knew more about her than the rest of us did, or else saw something in her we couldn’t. Kind of like he knew the worst about her, all the prickles she showed the rest of the world, but he didn’t care about any of that. I used to feel that I was the only one who’d take Aunt Millie the way she was until the night I heard them talking in the kitchen.

  All night long Herb teetered back and forth on the chair. His eyes were little more than two slits he could barely keep open. If someone had come along and brushed him with a feather he’d have fallen over. When he saw me smiling at him he gave a wink.

  “What’s so funny, Cammie girl?” he asked, grinning.

  The next morning, Aunt Millie came into my room and shook me awake.

  “Herb’s gone,” she said, standing over me with her arms folded in front of her.

  “Gone?” I wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “Gone. Dead. Drowned in a ditch, the poor fool. Didn’t have the sense to get himself out.”

  I burst into tears.

  “Don’t bother grieving over Herb, Cammie. His was just a wasted life anyway,” Aunt Millie said. Her voice had a queer sound to it, one I haven’t heard since. She sat on the edge of my bed and laid her hand on my back for a long while. I’d never known someone who died before. I guess Aunt Millie figured it was a pretty big deal to me.

  ---

  “The dead see everything and know everything, but some spirits are tricksters and like to play games. They’ll make up things even if it’s not the truth, so you have to be careful not to let these scoundrels in,” says Nessa, giving me a quick rundown on what all ghosts can do if the mood hits them, like any of what she’s saying sounds at all fair to me. There should be a few rules you have to follow once you’re dead. Bad enough that dead people know everything about the living; why make up gossip while they’re at it?

  “Do you know someone who’s dead? It works best if you can talk to someone you actually know.” Nessa removes the board from the box, while chomping on a handful of popcorn. I think of Evelyn’s older brother, Beecher, but shoot that idea down. I don’t actually know him. Could be he’d think I was taking advantage of my friendship with Evelyn, seeing how he and I have never been properly introduced. Waiting to get acquainted with someone after they’re dead wouldn’t make for the best of circumstances—not to mention them knowing you were only talking to them in the first place because you want their help.

  Just then I think of someone. “Herb Winters!” I say. We got along pretty good in the past, and other than Evelyn’s brother, he’s the only dead person I’ve had the opportunity to know.

  “Now, you can’t just talk to any old ghost that’s around. It’s got to be someone you’d trust to tell the truth,” says Nessa as she continues to lay out all the rules.

  “Hey, Herb was my friend!” How many dead people does she think I know? The pickings are mighty slim in that department. Besides, Herb can be trusted to tell the truth. That’s the important thing.

  Once Nessa shows me how to place my fingers on the heart-shaped pointer, we’re ready to start.

  “We have to keep our fingers on it at all times, but go lightly…very lightly, like when you’re reading Braille,” she says, without cracking a smile. I’ve never heard her sound so serious—and I’ve never read Braille before. Neither has Nessa for that matter. I bite the side of my lip to keep from laughing.

  Nessa warms the board up by asking questions everyone would know the answer to, even someone who’s been dead a few years. Apparently, like starting an old car, you can’t expect it to take off without grinding a few gears. You’ve got to let it idle a little. I still have my doubts about this. It seems pretty silly to me.

  “Now, you’ve got to be polite and call the spirit by name.” I have to make myself be serious if this has even a chance of succeeding. While talking to ghosts has a lot of rules, I figure, silly or not, it’ll be worth it to get Nessa off my case.

  Eventually, Nessa works her way up to the matter at hand. “Ouija—are there any spirits out there?” she asks, looking out into space.

  I wait for something to happen. I don’t know what. The only experience I’ve had with spirits are the kind that comes in the bottles Aunt Millie used to have at the house, and thinking this makes me want to laugh all over again.

  “I said, ‘O
uija—are there any spirits out there?’” Nothing. No surprises, since I don’t half believe any of this anyway. Nessa repeats her question. Again, nothing. A giggle pushes against the inside of my mouth and rubs against my ribs. I might not be able to hold it in. Just when I’m about to tell Nessa we should forget it, something quivers beneath my fingertips. Small but real, very real. I suck in my breath as the pointer all but floats across the board and stops on Yes. I yank my fingers off the board and shake them out. Nessa gives me a stern look, and I make contact with the pointer again. I straighten my shoulders. It’s time to stop acting like a kid. My future is depending upon this. If I want to get my life straightened out, I have to snap to attention.

  “Ouija—do you know the girl sitting beside me?”

  Another Yes.

  “Can you spell out her name?”

  Fright ploughs through me when the pointer moves to the “C” and doesn’t stop until it has spelled out my entire name. This thing really does work! I can’t hide now. Some ghost out there knows who I am. Hard to say what else it knows about me. I hold in another giggle. When you’re starting down a scary path, sometimes the only thing that comes out of you is a laugh.

  We make our introductions, and Nessa tells me to ask Ouija if Herb Winters is here. “He won’t come if you don’t ask him to,” she says. Makes sense; Herb was never the pushy kind. Sometimes when there was a gang sitting around the kitchen he’d hardly open his mouth. He was more of a listener than a talker. Poor old Herb, I could miss him if I thought about him too hard.