“Okay,” I started, but I raced to the bedroom where I grappled for the pencil intent on running away from my fingers.
“Well, I was just offered a full-time faculty position at the university over here. No more adjunct life!”
“That’s amazing, June Bug! Congratulations, your father is going to be so proud.”
“Yeah, he would be.” She cleared her throat.
My hand was poised, holding the pencil. I really needed to get a paper pad. The walls would fill up.
“Mom, did you hear me?”
“What?”
“I said I need to start prepping for the spring quarter.”
“I see.” I still wasn’t sure what to write.
“What?” she asked.
“I said, I still don’t know what to write.”
“Mom, is the connection bad or something? I’ll call back tomorrow, but I just wanted to let you know sooner than later that I won’t be able to make it for Christmas.”
The phone hung up. I’m not sure if I did it or she did. I paced, whispering, “Christmas, Christmas, Christmas,” and eventually I found it in the kitchen. The note on the wall. I cross it out. Three “Christmas” notes crossed out now.
“They haven’t seen the house yet,” it reminded me.
“I know,” I said. “Probably a good thing. Look at this mess.”
The shadows moved, and I knew it agreed with me. I spent my time reapplying the orange paint to the walls. It just faded so fast.
The coffee maker beeped, and I thanked the ghost for being thoughtful enough to put some on.
“I didn’t,” it teased.
I sipped the coffee. It wasn’t as warm as I usually liked it.
I caught a glimpse of it, the thing, slithering across the floor. I grabbed the broom and smacked it down on it before it could float away. I pinched it between my fingers.
“I told you to quit this madness!” I bellowed. I let the soft strand of silver slip from my fingers, hoping it would land in the shadows and the thing would be forced to look at it. “Well?” I repeated.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Quit lying,” I said. “You cut my hair.” I checked my hair—it was still there—but I knew it cut it at night.
“I never lie,” it said.
I searched my notes on the wall and couldn’t find anything to tell me if it is true or not.
“You’re whispering again,” it said.
I didn’t answer. I continued scanning the corners for more of what it stole from me. I got distracted by the note on the wall. I’d meant to check this earlier. Auggie. I closed my eyes and tried to place a name with the face. The ghost pushed the button on my phone for me and it rang.
“Hello?” Auggie answered.
“Hi! Yes,” I said. “Just wanted to call and see how it’s going over there for you.” I thought over there was vague enough.
“Things are going,” he said. “Marla is doing fine. We went and watched the kiddos in their school play the other day. You haven’t called in a while.”
He paused and waited for me to say something equally interesting, and I froze. I searched the scribbles on the walls for clues. When I wait too long, he asked, “What have you been doing over there? What did you do last night?”
I grasped the olive branch and clung to it. Last night, only hours ago. “Well, I had some people over,” I said.
“You lie,” it whispered in my other ear.
“Hush,” I mouthed.
“Oh, how fun. Got a good little group of friends over there now. It’s been what? Three years?” Auggie asked.
“Almost,” I said, but I scribbled the number down for me to double-check later. “And yeah, had some friends over last night. We just visited.” I was sure that’s what happened. The ghost didn’t say anything. Maybe I was right.
“Are they still over now?” Auggie asked. “I think I hear people.”
“No, I think I have a bad connection. June Bug called earlier and said something like that.”
“Oh, okay,” he said.
We chatted a little more about this and that. I told him about my friends, mostly about the one I saw most often. I explained how he was rather shy, but as still in good shape, nimble and quick, and always there with a witty remark. I told him how we went on walks to my bench and how we watched the sea. I told him he lived close, even though I didn’t know if that was true or not. I saw the ghost smile as I explained this, but I ignored it.
“Look Mom, I gotta run. Time zones are strange, and we are just sitting down for dinner.”
“All right then.” I thought he could hear my smile. Mom. That was my boy.
I checked the wall one last time for anything I might have missed. I didn’t see anything. I went back to painting that lovely shade of orange across the walls.
“You already painted that spot,” the ghost said.
“I missed a spot.”
“Soon the walls will have so many layers they will close in around you and keep you trapped here,” it chuckled.
“They already do.”
I picked up my feet and ran. I sprinted to the beach and kicked off my shoes in the sand, and like a child bounding to the waves, I raced to a rolling and roaring sea. I crashed into it and let the cold, salty sting wash over me. I held my breath and forced myself under. I opened my mouth and let the water fill my throat. I screamed and pushed it out again. Salt stung my eyes. I thought about inhaling, forcing the water into my lungs. It could have been that simple. A sharp breath of the cold sea and it would be over, no burials needed. No damned orange tulips. I’d float away, leaving an unfinished house and chocolates somewhere.
And I saw June Bug walking down her own coastline. I’d float across the ocean, the currents, and wash up on her own shore. Maybe I’d wash up on Auggie’s doorstep. I’d be long gone. My skin would be eroded and melted away, food for the fish. But she’d recognize me. I wouldn’t want her to see that. So, I forced myself up.
I fought the ocean’s embrace and managed to stand, only to be knocked over by another wave. It pulled at my heels and sucked me under. The pressure around me crushed the air from me. I clawed my way to the surface. The sandy shore was yards away. My jeans were soaked, acting as weights, rooting me down. The ghost watched me struggle.
“You wanted this,” it shouted over the waves.
“Not like this,” I cried. On my own terms.
The current’s tentacles wrapped around me and pulled me under again. The thunder of the waves beating the sand echoed in my ears.
And then all was still.
For a moment, I was content, suspended in the vibrations of the waters, but it jarred something loose, and I climbed my way out. I reached for the ghost’s hand, but it didn’t move.
I forced my shaking legs to carry me beyond the reach of the rolling waves, and I collapsed in the sand. I only had to open my lips the barest bit for the air to rush in and inflate my crushed lungs. It burned like whiskey. The sand smelled like whiskey too.
And the water lapped over me, spilling onto the floor. I was in the bathtub, whiskey in hand, lips just above the surface. The salt I tasted came from the ocean behind my eyes.
“807 Friends way,” I whispered.
The rain hit the window, and the drops ran down the glass, creating rivers and veins on this living house.
THE GHOST
Dear June Bug and Auggie Boy,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sure it will, at some point, eventually. Probably. Everything is a probably. There are a thousand roads in the ocean, but you two move around enough that I am sure it will find you. Or maybe it won’t.
I just wanted to let you two know that your mother has died. I was once part of this world, but I can see that it is not the world fading, but myself. And I don’t think anyone else knows that I am fading from this place.
I am dead but somehow living. It is hard to know your mind is dying and memories leaking out when your body is still breathing.
But
take comfort in knowing that, if I wait a minute, I will forget this pain.
I just wanted to let you know that I love you both. I wanted to say that before your faces escaped my own mind.
* * *
She folded the note. She took her time on it, making sure each line was even and neat. She wrote and rewrote it several times over. The bare spaces of the walls were filled with this letter to no one.
I scanned the walls, I knew she saw me. She wasn’t afraid. They never were at the end. I sat in the wing back chair, which was more comfortable than it looked, and settled in, still watching her draft the notes on the wall. She held her breath as she wrote, holding the paper against the wall, nearly tracing over her perfect writing. When we were satisfied, she folded it neatly and buried it in her pocket. I smiled and nodded, and I think she found some sense of relief, at least, her shoulders slumped and her hands shook less.
I moved and allowed her to take her seat in the chair. We watched the chandelier’s shadow on the floor.
“Do you think he will come tonight?” she asked.
“Only one way to find out,” I said.
I really didn’t have it in me to tell her it was still morning. But she went upstairs anyway and readied herself for the bed. I left the TV on again, and she fell asleep to the sound of voices below her. She smiled when the voices from the sitcom wafted to her ears, and for a moment, I was happy for her. It was like watching a child finally wrestle themselves to sleep on their own, a new stage in their development.
She slept in that cloud of grief. She breathed in darkness, and it ate away at her. The woman’s insides turned black and died, the disease coursing through her and settling in her brain. Her phone rang from the cushions downstairs. She didn’t hear it.
The television’s voice convinced her she was not alone, and she finally pulled herself into a deep sleep. I slid into the walls and ate some chocolate.
10
Magpies
“Come quick,” Granny screeched from the window. “Get your ass over here.”
I steeled myself and joined her at her elbow.
“You’re too late, brainless girl.” Spittle flew from her loose and sagging lips. “He’s flown away. Gone now.”
“What?” I wiped the wet from my face. “A bird?”
“Yes. A magpie. And only I saw him. Now sorrow will come our way.” She rounded on me. “And it’s all your fault. Stupid, no good thing, you are.” She reeked of vodka, that clear liquid Granny always claimed was water. It was poison. She always found more of the stuff, even after Mom threw out her bottles, and it always made her fangs show worse.
Mom said I had to be nice, even kind. But it was like trying to play with a snake. She was too fast and wicked for me. It was not a fair fight. A snake wouldn’t be kind to me.
“I bet someone dies.” She licked the venom from her lips. “Someone’s going to die, and you’ll be the one to blame because you were too busy sitting on your fat cheeks to get over here and see it in time.”
I didn’t believe any of her nonsense, the hag. It was funny though; Granny had a heart attack that night. She was lying in one of those cold and itchy beds in the hospital now. Mom said things didn’t look too good for her. The snake had finally gone belly up. It was just a coincidence, but it did make me wonder.
I always did like magpies.
11
Peeling Potatoes
The girl bounded up the steps as fast as her twelve-year-old legs would carry her. The sun was beginning to dip and create long shadows across the dried grass. She sprinted away from the shadow’s hands, hoping she was fast enough so the fingers wouldn’t pull her into the darkness. She clutched the plastic bucket with both hands. “Think I have enough?”
Meemaw thumbed through the cherries and tossed a few out. “Lots of these have the devil in ‘em.”
“What?”
“See here, Darby, there are holes in nearly all of ‘em. The little devils get in there and rot it from the inside to the out.”
“So, we can’t use them?”
Meemaw pulled a few of the bright red cherries onto her lap. “Some are good, just look carefully now and help me sort. Don’t want making no tart with little devils in them.”
Darby nodded and used the last bit of light from the sun to inspect for the little devils.
“What would happen if you ate one?” Darby asked.
Meemaw cackled and stood, cradling the cherries in her apron. “If I ate one? It would probably shrivel up and die. I am mostly piss and vinegar, you know. That’s not too good for devils.”
Darby wrinkled her nose. Neither piss nor vinegar seemed a good thing to eat. But if it killed a devil...
“But you,” Meemaw pinched Darby’s cheek, “You’re made of sugar and honey. The little devils would eat you right up, make you rot from the inside out.”
Darby’s stomach turned. “What if someone was half and half?”
Meemaw shrugged and waited for Darby to open the screen door. “I don’t know.”
They went in and made a cherry tart. A devil-free tart.
“Now stay put with your Meemaw until I get back,” Darby’s father shouted as he walked out the door. He called over his shoulder, “Ma, she’s in big trouble. Got a call from the school again. Make her peel potatoes until she never wants to think about using her hands for violence again.”
“Oh dear.” Meemaw rounded on Darby, staring at her with an expression that could have made a demon wilt.
Those devils were dead long before she ate them. Darby shoved her hands in her pockets.
“What did you do now?”
“Nothing!”
“That ain’t what your teacher said.” Meemaw rolled up her sleeves and put her hands on her hips. “Now what did your hands do?”
“Nothing,” Darby said. “It was that girl Sandy. She was throwin’ rocks from the schoolyard at passing cars. I was just close enough to get in trouble too.”
Meemaw gave the girl a little knife. “Here. Get to peelin’ that bag.”
Darby did, nearly cutting her thumb a few times in the process. They listened to the radio and peeled the skin away to the beat of Elvis’s songs. Meemaw hated that new singer but always happened to have him playing when Darby was helping in the kitchen.
They got to an old bag of russet potatoes, and Meema broke the quiet with her muttering. “Oh dear, this bag is old. Look at all those eyes. These are so green they almost match your own eyes. Don’t worry, yours are prettier.” She held a particularly green-looking potato next to Darby’s head. “Same shade of hazel.”
Darby laughed, and she almost forgot she was supposed to be pouting. “What are those?” She pointed to the green bits and sprouts.
“The eyes? They grow when a tater is old. Gotta be real careful and cut them off real nice and clean. The green parts can make people sick. I even heard the old lady down the road ate too many and had to go to the hospital.”
“Really?”
Meemaw smiled. “No, but it makes for a good story right? But seriously, they can make people sick, especially the old and young, which we both are. So it be best to cut the green away real perfect.”
Darby followed Meemaw’s lead and was generous with her cuts, removing the green stalks poking out of the potatoes and leaving no trace of the eyes.
“Meemaw? Do the devils really make someone rot from the inside?”
Meemaw laughed. “Devils?”
“In the cherries.”
Meemaw cackled again. “Those were just worms. You know that.”
Darby chuckled. “Yeah, I just thought it was funny.”
And when Meemaw wasn’t looking, Darby pocketed a few of the eyes, the especially green ones.
When her father came home, she was sent to bed with no supper on account of her rock throwin’ shenanigans. Once in her room, she wrapped the green bits in a cloth and placed it in her school bag because she was tired of them staring at her. She hoped the eyes would fester and gro
w more potent overnight.
When the morning came, she snuck a peek at them, and they winked at her. These would do just fine. Much better than the little devils did.
At school, when the lunch bell rang and the chaos of kids surrounded her, Darby made her way to the cafeteria. She slid open her lunch ; it was a brown paper bag. Sandy sat across from her with a shiny tin lunch pail.
“Darby, Darby. Whatcha got today? More of those cherry tarts? Maybe a cookie?” Sandy said.
“Just a sandwich,” Darby mumbled. She slid her lunch across the table before she made a scene like last time. Sandy took a big bite of the jam sandwich, just like she had done every day, a little eye poking out from the crust. The worms didn’t work, but maybe an evil eye would do the trick.
12
Splitting Headache
He sat on his mother’s porch, smoking a cigarette. The first puff of the morning felt a lot like the first time he’d had one. A sweet relief. He had been what—thirteen the first time? It was behind the school during lunch, and though he had been suspended, no one questioned his guts after that. It was a currency more valuable than gold. But you could never be too rich, so he chugged a bottle of vodka the week he got back, also behind the school. Vodka never tasted the same.
Zeke puffed on the cigarette a second time, and he was brought back into his thirty-year-old body. He watched as the neighbor paced the street wearing his usual jeans, but slippers? That was new. He normally had a dog with him, a scrappy-looking mutt. The neighbor scratched his skin, blood drying under his nails. “I can’t get it out,” he mumbled over and over.
The man walked to where Zeke sat. “Help me,” the neighbor whispered, pounding on his scalp with his fist. “I can’t get it out.”
“What, you got lice or something? Maybe gnats?”
“It’s not, I can’t get it out.” The man had scratched his scalp bloody, the flesh torn away on one side. He made a decent dent in his scalp too.
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