Vintage: A Ghost Story (3 page)

The porch light at my aunt’s house was a welcome sight. I was exhausted, confused, and still shaken over seeing someone vanish. The distant sound of the television came from the den, and I walked in on my aunt sitting on the couch working on some paperwork spread out on the coffee table before her. She turned and smiled at me. “Hey, kiddo.”

I gave a wave and went to my room. I had yet to decorate the walls and the closet and dresser seemed almost empty. At my folks’ house, my room had been a pleasing chaos: hours of nailing and gluing strings of white lights from the ceiling like fake stars; power cords crisscrossed the corners. I had scribbled over the wallpaper with charcoal and crayons when bored, gouged into the sheetrock with knives when angry

I took my keys out of the jacket’s inner pocket. They were on this cool toy I bought last October, a cheap plastic coffin with
R.I.P
. in raised letters on the clear top. Inside, rattled a tiny skeleton.

When I had decorated Trace’s nails, I also blackened the key to my folks’ house. It became the forbidden key, the one I’d never use again. If I hadn’t run away, my folks would have thrown me out. Keeping the key served as a bitter reminder in case I weakened and felt homesick. I hadn’t yet. The other keys, so bright and shiny, worked the locks in my aunt’s front door. She didn’t know why I left home. I made her swear not to ask my folks. I didn’t know how she’d react to learning I’m gay, yet I regretted keeping secrets from her. She was my favorite relative and deserved better.

I fingered the old-fashioned key next to the ones to the shop where I worked. Trace had bought the snaggle-toothed cabinet key, all dark with age, for me at the local flea market as a “welcome to town” present this past summer.

I had tossed them onto the dresser top and hung up the jacket when my aunt knocked on the door.
“C’mon in.”
She opened it only wide enough to stick her head inside. “Did you eat dinner? I could throw something together for you.”
“No thanks, I had a bite.”
She nodded. “Okay. I’m headed out.”
“Anything interesting?”
Aunt Jan shrugged. “Maybe, if I ever dyed my hair like you do,” she said with a wink. She tugged at a loose curl, stared at the gray edges, and sighed. “No, I’m just going down to Atlantic City to lose some money.”
“Slot junkie.”
“I’m a professional.” She matched my grin with a laugh.
I put away the borrowed suit, checking the trouser cuffs for smudges and the sleeves for wear. I had to take it back to the shop the next day.
In the bathroom I washed off the dark eyeliner Trace had applied for me, and stared at myself. All bony, average skin, bleh face. Why would a boy bother with me?
Back in my room, I took out the hematite rod dangling from my left ear and opened the junk drawer of the dresser. Pushing aside the bottles of nail polish—too many black and not enough weird colors—and the pile of dark ribbons and fortune cookie slips, I found the tin in which I kept the little bit of jewelry I sometimes wore. The earring looked lonesome next to a heavy necklace shedding cheap, red enamel from every link and some 12-gauge studs.
As I slipped under the covers, my thoughts strayed back to that empty highway and the strange but beautiful boy I had met that night. Ghosts aren’t real. So then what happened? Try as I might to stay awake and think of an answer, I could not resist sleep.

I spent the morning walk to work trying to convince myself I could not have met a ghost last night. But though crazy, no other explanation made sense. I wanted the guy to be a ghost. To be different. Otherwise, I’d be afraid to talk to him again; a ghost I could handle, not someone attractive and normal.

Malvern’s Olde Clothing rests near the very end of Scarborough Street. Few people ever come in to browse. Back when I started working there, the front windows were so grimy, it was hard to tell what the shop sold. Sadly, it seemed that few people in town shared my eye for vintage clothes.

As soon as I entered the shop, an eager Malvern rose to greet me. My boss reserved his afternoons for meeting chums over drinks with names like Dusty Gibson, Rob Roy, or Pisco Sour. He never looked unkempt, never staggered or acted ill-tempered like storybook drunks. My aunt once re ferred to him as “that dashing old boss of yours.” I pieced together through brief chats that he had inherited a fortune from his

family, who once owned a good portion of the town. The shop was leftover from those days, once a trendy boutique run by his mother. Malvern never needed to sell any of the stock; I think he kept the shop running more for the fond memories and something to do when not drinking highball lunches and single-malt dinners.

“Did you impress her?” Malvern pointed at the suit I carried in on a hanger.
“Who?” I asked.
“That pretty girl you’re always with.” He gave an exaggerated wink.
Embarrassed, I turned away. “She still looked better.” Few in town knew I’m gay and they were all Trace’s friends. Though I’d never heard a single homophobic remark from him, men of his generation never accepted “fags.” I didn’t dare lose the first job I ever liked. He sipped from a mug. I doubted there was much, if any, coffee inside. “Well, there’s always next time. If that 1901 suit with the rounded collar ever comes in, that’ll do it. ’Course, the damned widow up in Boston could be just teasing me with it…”
“Do any business?” My asking was part of our daily routine. If I saw one or two customers a week it was a shock. I hoped Malvern would mention selling 50’s clothes to a kid for a costume.
He offered the usual response, “Nothing,” with a shake of his head. He put down the mug and wiped at his oiled gray mustache with a silken hand kerchief. Then he puttered about for a moment, looking around, patting at the sides of his vest, before finally grabbing his fedora and beige topcoat from the wrought-iron coat rack, another antique.
“There are some new boxes the UPS fellow brought upstairs. I think they’re cheap percale frocks that the college may want for some play. Best take a look. I don’t really trust the dealer. Once he sent me some wool and worsted. In great shape he said, but I found moths had attacked nearly all. If they’re good, unpack them and I’ll price them tomorrow.”
Disappointed at failing to uncover who the mystery boy was, I muttered, “I’ll take care of it.” Malvern must have thought it griping. I started climbing the steps, careful not to snag the suit I carried on any stray banister nails. “Should I come in early on Monday?” I tried to sound eager, so he would know how much the shop mattered to me.
“Not before ten.” He tipped his hat at me and left.
On the second floor, Malvern kept the more expensive garments. A rack with clothes from the 1950s reminded me of the boy from last night.
Regretful, I returned the wool suit back to the oak armoire where I kept clothes I ached to buy: a pair of elbow-length black gloves I wanted to give to Trace for her birthday; the matched set of tie and handkerchief that had my monogrammed initials; and, best of all, a bone-colored summer suit, unlined and tropical.
A sound like a swarm of giant wasps came from downstairs. The electric buzzer from the front door.
Trace balanced a black bowler on her head and looked in the floor-length mirror. “You missed a grand séance last night.”
“Oh?”
“No, not really. “ She returned the hat to its spot on the shelf. “Liz brought an old Ouija board on our outing. She loves to play Occultism 101.”
She wasn’t the only one. Anything dark and mysterious caught Trace’s attention. “She should know better than to invite the expert.” Books on ghosts, spirits, and even mortuary science filled my best friend’s shelves. I’m not sure where she got those last few, but they’re great reading when you’re wasted.
Trace mock bowed, accepting the compliment. “All we found was a twisted dead tree. ‘Supposed’ suicide-pact lovers had carved initials all along the trunk. Dull, dull, dull. Stopping Kim from spray painting ‘Lame’ across the tree was more exciting than watching Liz and Maggie hand flirt over the board.”
“Ah, young love.” I sighed dramatically. “Any messages from Beyond for you?”
She shook her head. “The marker kept returning to the R every time.”
I could imagine her frustration. “Perhaps you contacted a spirit that stutters?”
Trace met my grin. “Or R stood for revenant? So,” she leaned over the counter and rubbed my arm. “Did you end up curled around your pillow the entire night?”
My turn. I fought the urge to rush through what had happened and appear nonchalant. “I think I saw a ghost last night.”
Her eyes widened. “Do tell.”
I smirked a little. While she stood there all expectant, I removed a crin kled twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. “Let’s do take out. I’ll buy if you pick up. Chicken with garlic and… hmmm… egg drop soup?”
She considered a moment, then snatched the money and returned my grin with one of her own. “Eel and California rolls for me.”
Trace and I actually met over a Tim Burton film. I had been in town for just a few days when I stopped to check out the video store: A small place with much too much “family viewing” and barely anything good. I had reached out to grab
Sleepy Hollow
when someone’s sigh made me turn. The girl had painted eyes. She wore this black glass-beaded choker above an old black silk nightgown. A black leather jacket shielded her from stares.
“A new boy in town. Who would have imagined? And I’m lucky to find him.” She moved closer to me. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” When she reached out, I thought she intended to grab my arm, but she slipped past my shoulder and took the videotape from the shelf. “Not fair.” I tugged at the tape in her hand. “Don’t you like to share?”
“Share?” Her giggles could intoxicate. “I love to.”
I followed Trace back home; I was a puppy happy to have a new master. That afternoon, we sat close together on the shag rug in her den and watched the movie. We gorged on popcorn she had drenched in melted butter and encrusted with sugar and salt. I remember struggling over whether to comment on Johnny Depp’s inherent hotness—for some silly reason I worried that Trace might think we were on a date—but I kept quiet. Weeks later she asked if I liked manga or vamp boys and I realized she had known I was gay all along.

The Palace served the best Chinese and Japanese food. Open take-out boxes, torn packets of hot mustard, and Styrofoam plates and cups crowded the counter at Malvern’s. Watching Trace eat Asian food was better than television. She always kept a pair of lacquered chopsticks in her purse. Twin sticks of dark cherry wood with a stained-glasslike pattern at the end. She lifted grains of rice, bits of wasabi, and sliced ginger with a jeweler’s preci sion. Smooth, neat, effortless.

I made do with the supplied plastic fork and still managed to spill enough to embarrass myself. “So I was walking back last night—”

She dunked a sushi roll twice into a tiny bowl of soy sauce converted from a lid. She didn’t spill a drop. “I told you to come out with us.”

“If I had I would never have seen him.”
“True. So what happened?”
“I was coming back from the diner out on Route 47, when

“Right, it would have to be on 47…”
“Why?” Her casual reaction surprised me. Somehow, she
had swiped my momentum. “What do you know?” “No, no.” Trace shook her head. “You finish first.” I hesitated but she gave me a crooked smile. “All right.” I
took a sip of green tea to wet my throat. “So there I was walking
along an empty road when I hear someone behind me. I turn
around and there’s this young guy also there.”
“Handsome?”
“Oh yes.” My memory drifted back to every detail of his
face.
“Hmmm…” I could not guess the sentiment behind her
slight smile. “I’ve been wondering who you’d finally fall
for.”
“I’m not falling for him. Am I?” I pushed my food away. I
wanted to talk about ghosts, not love. “He wore these awesome
clothes from the ’50s. I thought maybe Malvern had sold him
the stuff or he found it online.
“So I wasn’t sure if I should talk to him. Part of me worried
how he might react. But it was late and he looked so damn cute,
I had to say something.”
“You’re gloating.”
I blushed. “He didn’t seem to mind.”
Trace’s eyes widened. “He spoke to you?” I nodded, a bit
confused. She stepped back from the counter. “Delicious!” She
began to pace back and forth excitedly. “Just delicious!” “Enough. You’re obviously holding something back. Tell
me.”
“I know your ghost.” She laughed. “Well not know him,
but know of him. As soon as you mentioned 47. It’s an old
urban legend around here.”
“I didn’t think this ’burb was big enough to qualify as
urban.”
“Now, now. So what did he say?”
I shrugged, pretending to be apathetic. “Not much.” In
truth, I couldn’t recall all he said and it drove me crazy. “Something about a party and being late, I think.”
She nodded several times. “Makes sense.”
I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Tell me.” “Well, over forty years ago a kid was killed out on that
stretch of road. Run down.” She lowered her voice to seem
dramatic. “Some say accident. Some say not.
“Since then… well, every kid in town knows that his ghost
keeps trying to get home. We all want a glimpse. Last time I
was out there looking for him was back in junior high with
some friends and we all hid in the woods. I fell asleep.” The
regret in her voice was very evident. “Still, some say they’ve
seen him. A lot of the time they’re truckers out late and pass a
lonesome guy on the road. He’s not in their rearview mirror. Or
some lost couple stops and asks him for directions. He never
speaks though. And he never reaches home.” She shivered in
delight at her story.
“He disappeared on me. Not long after we were talking.
I turned around and he had vanished.” I turned toward the
shop’s windows but saw only that empty highway. “I didn’t
want him to go.”
She patted me on the arm. “Don’t worry. Tonight may be
different.”
“Tonight?” I cracked open a fortune cookie.
Good to begin
well, better to end well.
When had they stopped making actual
predictions and become pithy sayings?
“Of course. We’re both going back there.” Trace took great
care in wiping her chopsticks clean on a paper napkin. “I’ll
pick you up at nine?”
Instinctively, I looked at the old grandmother clock
Malvern insisted on winding every other day. So many hours
until then. “Okay. Well before the witching hour.” She was already at the door, stopping only to blow me a
kiss. I could almost hear her thoughts, turning like gears. No doubt she’d dash home and go through all her books, preparing for tonight. I think Trace had been waiting for something like this all her life—proof that the world is not a sorry piece of
shit. She wanted to know there was mystery out there. As for me, I had been waiting my whole life to meet a boy
different from the rest. Someone special. I closed my eyes, recalling last night. An afterlife spent walking the same stretch
of road night after night seemed so lonely. What would it be
like to be haunted?
I stared at the old clock. The hands had not even moved.
It would be a long day and I wanted to see my ghost.