Emily had chosen this moment to enter the crowded lecture hall. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind her with a huge echo, causing all eyes to lock on hers. She began her silent descent into the huge dungeon pit of a room, passing row upon row of ancient desks and chairs: torturous one-piece rack-like devices that made sitting for any length of time sheer agony. The absence of windows and the dank smell of mildew completed the veritable prison.
Contemporary Psychology was a huge haul from the bus stop clear across campus. Out of breath from the run and with her nerves still on edge from her ghostly encounter, she nearly tripped down the steep steps, eliciting her fair share of sniggers from the surrounding students. Unfortunately, the lone available seat was directly in front of where the hulk of Dr. Vandin loomed.
His hand ceased its theory-espousing conducting and remained poised in the air when he saw her, as if he were holding one of his trademark cigars. The rumple of his black turtleneck, the reddish shine of his forehead, and the sloop of his uncombed hair bore testament to another night of his notorious drinking.
“Miss Thomas?” He raised his cunning, albeit bloodshot, eyes to her, visible even behind his reading glasses, and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. “Miss Thomas, you are always so ready to offer your opinion. Go ahead, amaze us. It is a Monday afternoon. What else do we live for but to hear your, what is the word in English…oh, ah, that’s it—perspective.”
Apparently he was sober today.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”
“Well, if someone had their head in the game and could tell time, we would have enlightenment, would we not, class? I suppose I’m going to have to tell you then. Take good notes, everyone. Oh, and Miss Thomas, you might want to take a seat. Make yourself comfortable, by all means.”
Emily tripped over a sorority sister’s hot pink toes and nearly upended three laptops in an attempt to get to her chair. Dr. Vandin cleared his throat and positioned his papers, peering at her from over his black-rimmed reading glasses.
“First, telepathy, the transfer of information or emotions between individuals by some means other than sensory perception.
“Miss Thomas, you will be a good sport, won’t you, and serve as an illustration, since you missed half the class. Good. Now, one would say she appears anxious, fidgeting with her bag like she does as she retrieves her notes.” Here he shook his notes for effect, a lock of his black hair tumbling across his forehead. “See how she doodles in her book and drums her fingers?” Emily’s eyes flashed to his; he took no notice but chose to begin pacing back and forth in front of her row. “I mean no offense to Miss Thomas, I’m merely trying to illustrate how she is perhaps able to communicate with me telepathically. Perhaps she is telling me how attractive the female student body finds me? How much she—how much they—long for the presence of the university’s sexiest professor?” Snorts and guffaws peppered the class. “Or perhaps not?” He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned the pages of his notes with an attempt at a smile.
“Ah, but if she wasn’t telepathic, I could use my clairvoyance, that’s right, clair-voy-ance, scribble that word down. You too, Miss Thomas, right next to the doodles of Prince Charming or whatever secrets you have adorning your notebook.”
His eyes found hers this time, and she flattened her hand over her notes. A sketch she didn’t remember making of Andrew lay hidden underneath her palm.
“Clairvoyance: a supernatural ability to retrieve information about people or places or even events. But that is not good enough. Miss Thomas doesn’t want anything to do with me. See how she sits, straight-backed and rigid? No slamming her books shut and storming out the door, no such drama for her. How do I know that? I have precognition—scribble again you monkeys—an understanding of information about future places or events before they occur through extrasensory means.
“I see she will not slam her book shut and storm out the door, but wait instead until after class to upbraid me. So I apply psychokinesis, another phenomena, class—no, not just the mind’s ability to twist and turn spoons, but the ability of the mind to affect time or energy by means unknown, and so I have her fall madly in love with me.”
He stood directly in front of Emily now, as if awaiting her reply. She met his stare and said nothing. “Ah, but I tire of her,” he said and dismissed her with a smile and a flip of his hand. “She grows clingy. Unable to bear the pain of being separated from me, she, of course, ends her life, hoping for reincarnation, that’s right, another phenomena, the rebirth of a soul in a new physical body after death. Perhaps one who could tell time?
“But alas, she merely becomes a ghost. Which brings us to our last phenomena, haunting. My area of expertise, as you well know, wherein the deceased individual frequents his former home or, pardon the pun, haunts.”
Several of the girls in the class had ceased taking notes, enamored by Vandin’s commanding stage presence. Like any performer, he used his physical prowess and resounding voice to his benefit, and Emily could remember how easily it was to fall under Vandin’s spell. The sexuality of the intellect, Margot had branded it. The brilliant, Russian bear of a man. Emily had almost fallen for it. Almost. The reality of the man had won out. Even his accent was an affectation, practiced to complete the image of “the hard biting, worldly professor,” but in the end it proved yet another demonstration of his boorishness and arrogance. He could fake a Boston Brahmin just as well. Who knew if even his last name was authentic or just manufactured for a dustjacket?
“There is a whole mythology surrounding ghosts,” Vandin continued, “encompassing how a ghost can communicate with the physical world, what they are forbidden to say or do, to even the ridiculous notion of what can and cannot destroy them. Say what you want of the rest of this questionable science, but as you know from my research, I have spent the greater part of twenty years repudiating this particular fallacy. I have, in all of my cases, been able to prove that what was first purported as a haunted house is nothing more than a—”
“I saw a ghost,” Emily said. Why the words left her mouth, she was unsure. Perhaps a semester of being Vandin’s favorite whipping girl had finally taken its toll and she had reached a breaking point. Perhaps she wanted to see him proven wrong, discredited, embarrassed.
“Miss Thomas?”
“The old Victorian I just moved in to. My closet—it’s haunted by a woman. I’ve heard her.”
The announcement created quite a stir in the classroom as expected. Heads twisted between Emily and Vandin as they waited for his response.
“There has never been any reproducible scientific evidence to support—”
“She spoke to me. She knew Walter de la Mare—and she liked my clothes.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. A hanger in my closet…it levitated, and I distinctly heard a woman’s voice.” The more she spoke, the greater her conviction grew.
“Miss Thomas, do you usually drink this early in the day?”
“No. I’m not a professor yet.”
The class laughed, but Dr. Vandin did not.
“And nor will you ever be at this rate.”
“Thank God for that. I’d hate to aspire to ghost-busting as my academic career.”
A susurrus of shock filled the room. Emily didn’t realize she was standing, her hands balled into fists.
“Please see me after class.”
She slammed her books, grabbed her satchel, and stormed toward the aisle.
“Going so soon?” Vandin remarked offhandedly.
That’s when she heard them. Footsteps. The sound rifled down the lecture hall and stopped halfway. An eerie quiet descended on the class as Dr. Vandin looked up from his notes; his smirk soured to an irritated stare. Emily heard a few girls next to her gasp, and she turned.
“Might I suggest you change the style of your lecturing method?” Andrew said, his voice deathly cool as he stood there with his arms at the sides of his black leather jacket. “I b
elieve you have heard of the term sexual harassment? You seem to possess a passing intelligence. I suggest you look it up.”
By now the class had leaned forward like spectators at a boxing match. A few began to whisper among themselves, evidently aware of who Andrew was.
“Miss Thomas, class isn’t over. Given your poor grades, I suggest you ask your boyfriend here to leave.”
“You’re all right, yes?” Andrew asked her, ignoring the hisses around him. She raised her face to his and nodded. “Let’s get you out of here, then.”
“Miss Thomas,” Vandin warned.
But Andrew had offered his hand, and she took it, and together they walked up the steep stairs and back out into the day.
They stood outside in the quad. The sunlight danced off Emily’s face as she smiled demurely at Andrew. All of his courage from a few minutes before had vanished. Storming the castle was one thing—but now…
“I was about to leave, you know. He was a—”
“A shite?” Andrew couldn’t stop himself.
“That’s the word I was looking for.” They laughed together, their prior awkwardness slowly dissipating like bubbles rising from champagne. “Thank you. He was just being particularly brutal today. It’s part of the persona—he likes to get a rise out of…he likes to see his students squirm. It must be a Russian thing, I guess. But what brings you here? I mean why were you—I mean, you aren’t taking a class, are you?”
“I was on campus looking for a place to rehearse, actually. Didn’t think you’d care for that kind of late night entertainment. Good neighbors and all…Margot had mentioned you had a class here. Thought maybe you might need a ride back home.”
“How did you know I didn’t drive?”
“I took a chance.” Christ, he thought, how easily the lies came when he needed them.
She tilted her head to look up at him and a wrinkle formed between her eyes, and something melancholy passed through them. Her auburn curls danced about her face, a few strands getting caught in her old fashioned sweater, twining about the top button.
“Actually, I took the MUNI. I better be going if I’m going to catch the next one though.”
“Have you had lunch?” he said a bit too quickly. “Would you care to join me? That is, if you don’t have any other plans.”
Her hands slid into the pockets of her jeans and she rocked on her toes. She smiled now, more settled. “I’d like that. There’s this little place not far from here. They serve tea the proper way.”
His grin ignited hers. She almost sounded British.
In retrospect, Andrew couldn’t have remembered the way to the shop if someone had put a gun to his head. He was too busy listening to her, gazing at her as she pointed out the shops and the restaurants.
“And that’s where the witches are.” She nodded to an alley between stores at the corner.
“Witches?”
“It’s one of my favorite shops. You can have your palm read and collect all your coven related material inside. It looks like something out of Hawthorne. Do you want to see it?”
They wandered down the alley, where bougainvillea and jasmine ran wild along the surrounding brick walls. A small fountain sat sentinel in the courtyard, and the top of a Dutch door hung open at the far end. A sign bearing the words The Bell and the Candle hung overhead. Andrew almost expected to see a grizzled-haired witch poke her head through the opening and cackle.
Instead, a heavily hennaed man with a preponderance of facial hair nodded in their direction as they entered: part surfer dude, part Black Sabbath cover band drummer, by Andrew’s guess. Emily made quick work of looking over the antique display counters, scrunching her nose up at the odd selection of jewelry, then turning her attention to a collection of old leather-bound books.
“I found a first edition Poe in here, believe it or not. They carry the oddest treasures. Odd and old, my favorite things.”
“Odd and old?”
“Um-hmm. I like the feel of memories. Antique brooches, vintage jackets—who wore them, what lives did they live? What secrets did they hold? I’ve traveled so little that I love finding things from far, far away. Like this old ring I found at the vintage shop where I work. I’m saving up for it. Can’t afford it, but I’ve got a childish fascination with it. Or this old hat.” She took a stylish fedora off a stand and playfully placed it on her head before turning to a mirror.
“Definitely not Garbo. With this hair, more like Harpo,” she mused, then returned it to its stand and shook her curls loose.
Like no woman in the world, Andrew wanted to say. She was of a different time, as if she had stepped out of an old photograph. Her quirkiness, her energy, her sadness. Odd and old. But in a good way. A good, good way.
He thought about the coat she had worn that night at the Skellar and pictured her in Paris. He pictured them together in the night, and what it would feel like to kiss her.
The man had taken his seat in the corner at a fringed table near a small wood burning stove and asked, “Honeymooners?”
They both stared at each other, and after a very heated pause blurted out, “No!”
“Yo, dude and dudess, that’s not the vibe I’m getting. Old souls. You’ve been together in at least one past life for sure. Here, come on over by the fire and let me take a look. Name’s Dwayne, by the way.”
Emily and Andrew both looked at the other, the deck of tarot cards, and a crystal ball on the table, with a combination of alarm and hysterics, each daring the other to go first. Finally they gave in. Andrew extended his hand in greeting, about to introduce himself, when Dwayne admonished, “No names, please. It damages my visions. Just sit on down. Her next to you. I need both your hands.”
Two small chairs sat empty next to Dwayne. Andrew pulled out one for Emily and sat down himself. Dwayne grasped Emily’s hand in his and pressed Andrew’s next to it.
“Oh man. You see these lines, these lines here?”
Their heads nestled together, Andrew felt her hair fall onto his shoulder and her breath warm his face. He swallowed hard. Emily’s heart was beating a mile a minute.
“That’s your life lines. See how they match, how they overlap in the same exact pattern? I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“What does it mean?” Emily asked.
“Well, it’s pretty flippin’ unbelievable.”
Andrew envisioned the worst. Ages of being brother and sister. Father, daughter…mother, son. Christ.
“Look at the love lines. Just look at ’em—it’s the love lines that tell you everything, everything you’ll ever need. You mind if I call my friend? He’s never going to believe this shit.”
“Do you mind,” Andrew said, trying to hide his irritation. “We’re catching lunch and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, man. Bummer though. Egan, my friend, he’s one major palmist, and I’d bet you this shop he’s never seen anything like this.”
Andrew glanced down at Emily; she was pale.
“You belong to him.” The words froze them, inches from each other. They blinked their eyes at the same time and stared at him. Dwayne beamed at Emily. “You can’t diss this kind of fate. No how, no way. No matter how hard you try and fight it, no matter how far apart you are, it’ll always find you and bring you two together. I mean it’s seriously big-time karmic. You’re his. Always have been. Always will be. There’s never been a lifetime you haven’t been completely and totally his. I mean, like in the core of your being. See here? Slave, concubine, mistress, mistress, lover…goes on and on.”
He turned and laid his all-knowing gaze on Andrew. “Yo, man, this here lady’s your muse! Righteous.”
Emily’s eyes widened in utter disbelief. “What?”
Righteous indeed.
8
* * *
“WAS I EVER EVEN LEGAL?”
Emily stared at Dwayne as though he had just spoken to her in tongues. Her head shook in confusion, and if Andrew wasn’t mistaken, with no small amount of ange
r.
“You see that chain line?” His black enameled fingernail traced a basket weave pattern on her palm. “That’s oh, ten, twenty, thirty lifetimes right there. I don’t think you’re grasping the significance of this. You’re his inspiration, his drive—his reason for being, lady. Don’t matter if it’s legal or not.”
“But a concubine?” she challenged him under her breath. “How can you see that in a bunch of wrinkles?”
She was ticked off, that much Andrew could tell, and she didn’t appear to believe a bloody word. He also thought that if he didn’t move her quickly she might pick up the crystal ball from the table and smash the palmist’s head in with it.
She stared deeply into her palm and swallowed. “If he loved me so much, you think he’d find the decency to marry me, right? Anyway,” she said bracingly, “he already has a muse.”
Dwayne frowned at her in disagreement. “The lines don’t lie, lady. See your mound of Venus, here by your thumb…” His fingernails continued to poke at her hand, and Andrew saw Emily’s shoulders curl around herself in defiance. She was shutting down.
“Why don’t we head over to lunch,” Andrew insisted, almost lifting her up off the chair. “Thanks so much for your time, sir, it’s been…insightful, to say the least.”
He dropped a twenty near his crystal ball and whisked Emily out the door. By the time they reached the end of the alley, he had been holding his breath so long that he should have been rightfully dead. He could barely grasp how a stoner witch could summarize the driving force of his life within moments of looking at each of their hands.
They walked, Andrew not sure where they were going, his mind rushing to put the words together. How could he even begin to explain this to her?
Emily, this is it. My whole life. It starts with a boy. And a girl. Right? That much is easy. But what to say next? How to make her understand?
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 10