Five Stories

by Richard George

his green teeth. I noticed one had a gold cap. It twinkled in the last ray of the sun.

  At home, I poured myself a shot of bourbon, checked the bathroom to see if Sampson had showed up yet. Since he hadn’t, I promptly forgot about him. The longer I was away from him, the more likely I thought I had dreamed him up in some eucalyptus induced haze.

  Nothing happened for three days. That’s how long it took him to cross the road. It was a Friday night. Molly Ann had just gotten in from work. I was in the kitchen working on supper, stuffing mushrooms with shrimp, when she came out of the bathroom.

  “Okay,” she said, “how do you do it?”

  “Well, I mix the ketchup with the shrimp, garlic, cayenne, just a touch, onion juice—”

  “Not that. I mean the other.”

  “What other?” She studied my eyes for a moment. “What is it?”

  “That man, or whatever it is standing in the toilet.”

  “In the toilet?” Then I guessed. “I haven’t seen it,” I said, “but I’ll guess that it’s the ancestral spirit of your great-great-grandfather.”

  “My ancestral what?”

  “Your ancestor. He said he’d drop in.”

  “Back up. You’re leaving something out.”

  “About three days ago, I met your great-great-grandfather Sampson, in the spirit, at the edge of the grove. We had quite a visit. He said he’d drop in soon. When he didn’t come right away, I figured he couldn’t make it. His senses of time and space are a little shaky. I didn’t expect him quite this soon, and certainly not in the toilet.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t some trick you’re doing with a camera?”

  “No, it isn’t. You know I’m not clever with things like cameras. Your great-great-grandfather returned with a message for us.”

  “What message?”

  “I’ll let him tell you.”

  “Does he have to stand in the toilet to do it?”

  “Ask him that. He’s your ancestor.”

  “That’s irrelevant. Get him out of there. I want to use the bathroom.” I sighed, and put down my shrimp and mushrooms.

  “Come on. I’ll try,” I said. We went into the bathroom.. There was Sampson, in his Prince Albert cutaway, smack dab in the middle of the toilet tank. I turned to Molly Ann and said, “But he’s not using the part you want to use.”

  She failed to appreciate my humor.

  “Get it out of there!” She had that tone in her voice that she gets when she thinks a joke has gone too far.

  “Sampson,” I said, “this is your great-great-granddaughter, Molly Ann. She wants to use the water closet you have materialized in. Can you zap up or move forward or something and leave the room?”

  “Water closet? In your home?” His shock was obvious. “In my day we did such things out back. We had a special building for the purpose. How unsanitary to have such a facility indoors!”

  I had a hunch he was about to start a lecture on basic sanitation as practiced in Victorian California. I wasn’t interested.

  “Sampson,” I could see Molly Ann getting grimmer and grimmer under pressure, “you’d better leave this room. We can talk better in a few minutes in another room.”

  He disappeared in a shower of purple sparks right through the roof. I left the bathroom hurriedly, and Molly Ann slammed the door. Sampson was re-materializing in the family room next to the fireplace. The purple sparks were still running along his green phosphorescence.

  “She’s a woman with a mind of her own,” I said.

  Sampson said. “Harrumph. We taught women their proper place in my day.”

  “My mother-in-law claims she gets her independent streak from her father’s side of the family,” I said. That was a sneaky shot. Sampson is Molly Ann’s father’s ancestor, and that side of the family has always been proud of its independence.

  “Harrumph!” I could feel Sampson beginning to build a real anger. Besides, there were gold sparks shooting along with the purple ones in his phosphorescence. “I should think for stubbornness she takes after her mother’s people.”

  I didn’t point out to him that he could hardly know what Molly Ann was like from a two minute confrontation under adverse conditions, or even know what Molly Ann’s parents were like, since they hadn’t been born the last time he was around. I was afraid he’d set fire to something if he sparked too much.

  Molly Ann came out then. “You can shut that thing off now.”

  “I can’t shut it off since I didn’t turn it on. This is your ancestor in the ectoplasm.”

  “Just what I don’t need after a hard day at the office is an ancestral visit, in or out of the ectoplasm. Sampson, go back, wherever you came from.”

  “I can’t.” Sampson was subdued; just green phosphorescence with only occasional purple sparks.

  “Why not?”

  “I have unfinished business with you.”

  “Can’t it wait until after supper?” I asked. “The mushrooms will get soggy if we don’t eat right away. You’re welcome to try some, if ectoplasm can eat."

  “It can’t. I’ll sit here by the fire and wait. I have all eternity.”

  “Forget the shrimp. I guess it’s not every day I have a visit from my ancestors. What message do you have for me, Sampson?”

  “I am much displeased,” he began in a manner suitable to royalty, “that you have not borne a child by this young man. He informs me it is because you take a medication to prevent conception. Is that true?”

  “It is. I don’t want any children. I don’t want the bother of raising them. “

  “That is unwomanly.” Sampson was off on a purple spark binge again.

  “Call it whatever you want. I don’t want any children and I’m not going to have any children. Period. Now, you’ve delivered your message. You can leave. Thank you.” Molly Ann turned her back on Samson. “Now let’s eat those mushrooms and shrimp.”

  “Young miss!” Sampson was all purple and gold sparks again. I wondered if the sparks were an ectoplasmic manifestation of high blood pressure. Molly Ann ignored him. “Harrumph!” he went. That got her attention. She turned back to him.

  “Sampson—” she got no farther.

  “Young miss, you will speak when requested to do so. Now is the time for you to listen. You will have a child by this man because I command it. You will make this family atonement so that I may rest easy in my grave. Do you understand?” Sampson was nearly screaming. His voice still sounded hollow and horrible. I backed away from Molly Ann and Sampson. I don’t believe in interfering in family discussions, particularly when there’s a chance of getting hurt. I expected Molly Ann to start throwing things at Sampson. Not many things make her really angry. Being talked down to is one that does. She surprised me. She laughed a long laugh, like she’d heard the most ridiculous joke.

  “Sampson,” she said to him, “you sound just like I would imagine an ancestor would. I have just one question. Why is it any interest to you whether we have a child or not?”

  “Great-Great-Granddaughter, it is so I may rest easy in my grave. You are impertinent and pert, and I am gladdened to know that the family spirit is yet much alive. You will make an excellent mother, once you curb your independence.” Sampson was trying very hard to maintain his dignity. He was pale and watery looking, as if he were losing hold on his ectoplasm. I guess laughter is hard on ghosts.

  “I will not be a mother, Sampson. That is final. You will have to find some other way to be laid to final rest.”

  “You don’t understand.” Sampson was beginning to plead like a like a small child, all dignity gone. “Destiny requires a child from the cross of my blood and this young man’s blood. It is commanded. I was to have married his great-great-grandmother, Lucy May, and I left her and married your great-great-grandmother instead. Now it is for the two of you to fulfill destiny. Then I can rest easy in my grave.”

  “Sorry, Samps
on,” Molly Ann said firmly, “but I am not going to have a child. You can take that refusal and leave. I’m not sorry for you. You made your own problems. Live with them, or be dead with them, or whatever.. I’m hungry. I want to eat my supper.”

  “I’ll stay here until you conceive the child!” Sampson was sputtering purple sparks again. I knew how frustrated he felt. When Molly Ann says “no” she usually means “NO!” and there’s no changing her mind.

  “Do whatever. I’m going to eat my supper. After that maybe I’ll call up same friends and have them come look at you like you were some freak in a side show.” Sampson harrumphed again, but Molly Ann paid no attention. She grabbed my elbow and steered me into the kitchen.

  Sampson muttered in the family room while we ate supper. I wasn’t quite sure whether he was sobbing or harrummphing or both. Molly Ann was thinking. Then she got an inspiration over dessert (brandied pears from a tree family legend claimed Sampson had planted).

  “Exorcise him,” she said to me. “You’re a clergyman.”

  “I’m not sure how to do that. Presbyterians have never been much into the departed spirit dismissing business. That’s always been the specialty of a