Vintage: A Ghost Story (5 page)

Damn. Chats were bad. Adults “chatted” when they wanted to tell a kid he’d done something wrong. I grabbed a Pop-Tart and started chewing; with a mouth full, I wouldn’t be able to have this “chat.” Gagging at the sudden taste of some nameless and artificial berry, I washed it down with a gulp of juice.

“At the store I wasn’t sure what flavor you’d want so I bought a variety pack. Made them all. Do you like?”
I managed to make a “Mmm” sound and forced down more of the overdone pastry.
“Try one of the chocolates.” She lifted up a square decorated with icing and sniffed it twice. “Has cinnamon in it too, I think.”
I nodded and drank more of the juice before taking the offered Tart. Maybe the acid would dissolve the crap in my stomach so I wouldn’t be too poisoned.
“So,” she said, sipping from her own glass. “We never get a chance to talk. And after last night I thought it best.”
“Last night?” Brown crumbs fell from my open mouth and into my glass. They attempted to float amid the pulp. Did she somehow know about my ghost?
“Yes and calm down before you choke. You’re always so nervous.” She casually tapped a finger on the wood. “Really, you’re not half as much trouble as I thought you’d be. Nervous and quiet. Too quiet sometimes. But I never worry there’ll be any trouble when I open the door. And so I rarely bother you. But—”
I sighed. There always seemed a “but” in my life. “You want me to leave?” I should have known just as things were becoming… interesting... something horrible would happen to me. What would life be like homeless?
She smiled a bit and shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. When you showed up at my door I said you could stay.” She reached over and squeezed my hand holding the glass.
“Thanks, Aunt Jan—”
“Let me finish. I never spoke to your folks about why you left them. That’s your affair and I’m sure, knowing my sister, you had good reason. I’m not like her, never will be or want to be. I know you’re a good kid, but I have to stress something.”
I opened my mouth to speak but when she saw I had finished two Pop-Tarts she lifted up the next one on the stack and shoved it at me. Too tired to resist, I resigned myself to bitter fate and bit down on something supposed to be apple filling.
“Last night. Yeah I know, Saturday night and you’re young and there are things to do. But you’re still seventeen and I just can’t sleep at night knowing its past twelve and you’re out there. Somewhere.” She waved a hand at the window. “I need to know you’re in bed. Safely home.” She leaned back as if to give me more room. “That’s not too much to ask.”
I swallowed down the last bit of Pop-Tart. Hopefully ever. If my mother had given me a curfew, it would have been with caustic words followed by me cursing. Maybe I wasn’t awake enough to argue. Or maybe I didn’t want to spoil the good thing I had going, staying with my aunt Jan. She had taken me in when she could have easily just let me spend one night and then sent me off. That meant a lot to me, even if I couldn’t simply come out and say so. Some instincts are too hard to overcome.
I wondered if she knew what she asked. Did Trace ever fall asleep before midnight? If so, it was only accidentally. What of the late-night rendezvous with my ghost? Yet, I wanted—no, needed—someplace calm to go when everything out there weighed me down.
“One o’clock Saturdays. Midnight every other night.” I reached over and picked a garish pink pastry with sprinkles and held it out to her. “Deal?”
“Okay, deal.” She brushed my hand aside. “Ugh, can’t stand them.”

Trace would not be up for hours so there was no sense in calling her. Still craving caffeine, I made the long walk over to DeBevec’s, the only coffee house in town and a favorite hangout of mine. Having just opened for the day, the place was quiet.

I ordered a grandé of Nawlins blend and counted out the change, mentally squinting around the notion that payday was over a week away. The steam from the tall cup threatened to fog the horn-rimmed glasses the girl behind the counter wore.

DeBevec’s lacked chairs. Instead, the owner had ransacked every last pil low and beanbag in the state to surround a few coffee tables. Except for one couple lounging at a cheaply gilded block of mahogany, the place was empty. I went to the other end of the room, kicking aside a worn lump leaking stuffing. I sank to the carpeted floor and rested my cup in my lap.

The bite of chicory nipped my tongue on the first sip. I added another packet of sugar and burned my fingertip stirring the coffee. A giggle interrupted my second taste. I glanced over the rim of the cup at the source.

The couple across the room had entwined themselves around one another. Her shoulder-length red hair poured over the side of his shaved scalp. Her legs wrapped around his, and she had one hand behind his head, nudging him forward to drink from her mug. The many silver hoops worn around her wrist jingled as they both moved. His upper lip came back stained a pale brown.

Public displays of emotion are like chicory. Seeing too much leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth and a sour stomach. I always feel envious. Why did they have to remind me how alone I really was? The idea of romancing a ghost now seemed like a silly plot from a late-night movie.

The girl giggled again, obviously pleased with herself. I finished my cup just as they began licking hot chocolate from each other’s mouths.

You can’t bring a spectral boyfriend for a night out on the town or to a coffeehouse to share a mocha. Even if something happened between Josh and me, it would always be a secret.

That afternoon, I walked past Trace’s house but didn’t see her car parked outside. I took a chance on the town flea market. Trace enjoyed hunting for lost treasures there. I rarely went with her since the place depressed me. Everything from the food stands to the long tables of crap to the vendors themselves looked trashy and rundown.

That afternoon, a thin crowd meandered in the aisles. One old man barely had the strength to pick up a chipped plate, and a little girl no more than glanced at a bin of stripped dolls set on the tarred ground. The market was a tetanus infection’s dream with all the rusty nails poking out from old wood tables and ripped cloths.

While roaming, I caught sight of Trace beside a table of shoes. I tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around, cascading long dark hair behind her and smiling when she saw me. She wore leopard-print leggings and a fuzzy black top.

She held up a single high-heeled shoe, one toe decorated with a garish faux ruby bigger than my thumb.
“I have something better,” I said trying to keep my voice low against the excitement filling me.
One eyebrow rose. “And that would be?” She put back the shoe. The old woman behind the table never moved. I wasn’t sure she was still alive until she leaned over and spat on the ground.
“Josh.” Before I could say another word, Second Mike appeared at Trace’s side, his face grinning with excitement. Her little brother held in his hands a stack of old postcards and he held one up to show his sister. I caught a flash of faded handwriting on the back.
“They were only a quarter each!”
Trace smiled at me and took a proffered card. On one side a team of horses pulled a cart with some sort of crane. “Water Tower on Parade,” Trace read aloud.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Second Mike staring at me. He looked away when I faced him. Trace ran a hand through his short, spiky brown hair. “So what does this make? Two hundred?”
“Two twenty-nine.” He began shuffling through the cards. He unbent the corner of one.
“Want to do lunch?” I asked.
“Sure,” Second Mike answered without even looking up.
Trace laughed. “I thought
you
wanted to earn millions raking leaves around the neighborhood.”
Her brother made a sour face at her. “But—”
“Who wanted me to take him to the art supply store? You’re not borrowing from me.”
“Fine.”
On the car ride to Trace’s house, I felt Second Mike tug at my sleeve a moment from the backseat. I looked back and he held out one of the antique postcards. “I thought you might like this one.”
I took it. On the front was a sepia-toned photograph of an old building. A burly looking man with a thick beard stood out in front on a dirt road. The sign on the building read Grace & Sons Funeral Parlor. I smiled at the macabre image and checked the back. In small cramped writing someone named Lucinda had sought forgiveness for marrying Erlton, who was buried on a Sunday.
“You sure you want me to have this?”
He nodded emphatically. “If you like it.” He bit his lower lip a moment.
“It’s great, thanks.”
Not two seconds after Second Mike left the car and ran up to the front door, Trace put the car in gear and demanded to know who Josh was.
“The ghost.”
“What, from last night?” She was overcome with laughter. “You named him Josh?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t you see the name on his sweater?”
She smiled. “I must not have been paying as close attention to his… clothes as you were.”
“Maybe.” I felt my face burn. “Anyway, he followed me home last night.”
“What?” She took one hand off the steering wheel and grabbed my arm.
Shocking her left me smug. “Surprised me, too. I was in bed when suddenly there he was. Just out of nowhere.”
“And?”
“And I think he likes me.” I turned on her radio. Static crackled around the local college station. “I always thought my life would end up as an Araki film. Not something by Burton.” I never imagined any boy would ever like me.
“Josh is a good name.”
I nodded. “I love names that begin with ‘J.’ They’re perfect. In seventh grade I had a crush on a Jared.”
“Always liked Jacinth. It’s an old word for hyacinth,” she said. “A gem too.”
We went to the expensive supermarket and bought a small baguette and a block of brie and sat in the parking lot getting sticky crumbs all over ourselves. Trace made sure I left no detail about last night unsaid.
“We should have bought figs, too.” She licked a finger. “Josh sounds wonderful for a dead jock.”
I rolled my eyes at her. We had gone over this once long ago, the sort of boy I sweated. She always thought I fell for the wrong guys.
“So what did you buy at the mart?” While curious, I really wanted to talk about Josh more but didn’t want to be rude. Trace was far more experienced with ghosts and boys than I was and I wanted to know what I should do next.
Trace emptied the tote bag she always brought to the mart. I glanced at a gilded lipstick case, a pair of twisted red candles, and a couple of CD singles. The last object was mysteriously wrapped in pale tissue paper.
“Oh, that’s not from the mart,” she murmured.
I gingerly unwrapped a small clay statuette. “Amazing. Where did you find this?” It was a horse, at least at first glance. But it was stained light green as much as tan and the mane was white froth rather than hair. I turned it over and over, and with each look I saw something new: not hooves but small fins on the feet; a slight scale pattern on the legs; and eyes open wide and wild.
She grinned. “My brother made it for me.”
“Second Mike?”
“Uh-huh.” She took it back and held it up to her face. “I told him a few days ago about this book I’m reading that has a kelpie in it. That’s a mean fairy water horse. This morning when I woke up, this was on my nightstand.” She pranced the clay kelpie in the air a moment. “Must have taken him all week at school.”
The sculpture seriously impressed me and I lightly touched the clay with my fingers. The smooth glaze was cool to the touch, exactly how I imagined the feel of a water horse’s hide. “I never knew he could make something like this. You think he could make me something?”
Trace shrugged. “You’d have to ask him.”
I had said
maybe
twelve words to Second Mike, ever. But now my curiosity for him was totally piqued.
“So are you going to see him again?”
Her sudden question confused me. “What, your brother?”
“No, silly boy, your ghost.”
My mood darkened. “He’s not my ghost. Not yet. It’s frustrating. What are the rules about dating ghosts?” I looked into her face and saw concern in her eyes and expression. “Now what?”
“I’m just wondering why
you?
”
I shrugged. “Maybe because he’s gay?”
“Maybe. Just, well, I’ve read a lot on ghosts. Some are dangerous. Be careful, okay?”
I wanted to laugh off her worry, to call her a silly girl, but she seemed so serious. I wondered if maybe I was doing something wrong after all.

I grew restless hoping for Josh to show. Wandering about my aunt’s house, I ended up in the kitchen and poured myself some spicy ginger beer. I sipped while reading the brief memos my aunt wrote on the chalkboard by the fridge. 10-23—Car needs oil change. Find pumpkin for carving. Tea lights? She had kindly written me a reminder as well. Three letters: G.E.D. I had forgotten all about that talk.