A Boy a Girl and a Ghost Page 2

  He glances up, looking over his bifocals at me, his eyebrows coming together. “Something I need to know about?” he asks.

  I shrug. I was worried about this, that my sudden desire for a journal would start a line of questioning. “Just got some things to write down.”

  His grey eyes linger, studying my face, and then he shrugs and grunts, his attention back to the paperwork in front of him. That is his “yes.”

  I’ve turned around and am leaving when he adds, “Take two or three if you need. I get them pretty cheap.”

  I look back at him, but his head is down. He’s encouraging me to journal—this worries me. I resolve to figure out a way to do it where my folks can’t read it. If I’m going to be writing about ghosts, and things that might make them think I’ve lost it, I need privacy.

  After work, I go to the library, to the science section, and start browsing a book on cryptography.

  Billy Chadow is my best friend. He’s big with healthy layers of muscle and fat. I’m envious.

  I was always pretty skinny, but since the Cancer came a knocking, I am very thin. Since remission hit, I’ve been doing better, but I would love to be a little fat—it would mean my body was working normally.

  “No way,” he says. Dad had let me take off from my duties at the bookstore—he’s adamant I need plenty of “kid time”—and I had biked over to Billy’s and brought him here. I tell him just about everything, although it took some figurative arm twisting to get him to ride over here with me.

  Billy’s eyes dart from my uncle’s grave to me and back. “You’re shitting me, right?” His hand goes to his messy red hair, his green eyes are wide.

  The cottonwoods block most of the hot summer sun and I can smell the spruce trees that are grouped right next to Uncle Don’s grave.

  “No shit,” I say. “Just the real deal, B.”

  “Aaron, I swear to god if you are shitting me I will pummel you good. You ain’t sick no more, so I won’t hold back.” He stares at me, his eyes totally serious.

  I step up and touch the gravestone. “I swear on my favorite uncle Don’s grave that this is the truth. I saw a ghost. It saw me and reacted when I spoke to it.”

  “Shit,” Billy says, slumping to his knees on the freshly cut green grass. “So is that what happens to all of us when we die? We are stuck in the fricking graveyard moaning and stuff? I gotta know, A. I gotta know.”

  When Billy calls me “A” instead of “Aaron,” I know he believes me. It made me happy that he did, that it wasn’t some big production, just his usual overuse of the word “shit.” And I understood his question. We had been best friends since forever, so he had witnessed each step in my illness. He had pondered mortality with me.

  I sit down beside him and say, “I don’t know, B.”

  “Can you see anything now?” he asks.

  I stand up and defocus my eyes a bit and slowly rotate around, keeping my eyes pointing straight ahead. I sit back down and say, “No, nothing.”

  We sit there silent for the longest time, lost in our thoughts.

  “Maybe,” he says, his voice going low, “they only come out around midnight. Hungry spirits looking to feed off of fresh human brains.”

  “Shut up,” I tell him, poking him in the arm. He’s been obsessed with zombies since his big brother snuck him into a showing of Night of the Living Dead a few years back. That and too many Tales from the Crypt comic books.

  “Well then what?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Maybe I can’t see them when it’s light. Could be that’s it.”

  He nods, looking serious, and whispers, “Can you come back tonight? I’ll meet you down here.”

  I don’t know if it’s this way for other kids, but my mom seems to want to keep me a child, while my dad wants to push me forward, see me grow up.

  Over Sunday dinner, my mom is fussing over me. A few months ago I might have needed it, but I’m healthy now. I can take care of myself.

  “You know the Millers are just across the street,” she says over dessert. Vanilla ice cream. “Janet will be there all day if you need something while we’re both working tomorrow. I called her and—”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I say. “I feel good, really I do.”

  Her forehead crinkles and she stares hard at me, her blue eyes giving me that “look.” The look that says, I almost lost you several times and I’m afraid it could happen at any moment now. I get it. This Cancer has been hard on all of us. But, I don’t like it.

  “Seriously, Mom. I’m good. I’m gaining weight, riding my bike. I’ll be at the bookstore for a while and then Billy and I have plans, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  The crinkling on her forehead gets deeper. I shouldn’t have mentioned Billy. She doesn’t exactly approve of him. She doesn’t think he’s good enough for me. I’ll admit that Billy and I are different—I’ll overthink things, he’ll act on impulse and get in huge messes. We actually balance each other out pretty good.

  “And what are these plans?” she asks.

  I couldn’t exactly tell her we were meeting at the graveyard at midnight to try to see ghosts. “Umm… Well…” I stammer.

  My mother crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. We’re at the round oak table just off the kitchen, a big window looking out on our backyard. “I’m waiting,” she says.

  I let out a big sigh. “Nothing big, Mom. He’s got some new comics, we’re going to sit around and read them.”

  Her pink lips twist into a frown and she slowly shakes her head. Billy’s love of comics is yet another of the ways he’s not good enough for her.

  “I just wish—” she begins, but my dad cuts her off by touching her arm.

  “Laura,” he says, “I read them when I was a kid. They didn’t ruin me.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief, but I see by the brief flaring of my mother’s nostrils that my dad is going pay for his comment.

  I see him puff up his chest, like some bird getting ready for a fight. “In fact,” he continues, looking at me, “why don’t you and Billy come by. I’ve been thinking it might make sense to have a small rack of comics in the store. Something for the younger folks. You two could help me out.” He ends the speech with a broad smile. My mom is suddenly in the kitchen doing dishes.

  And that’s what I mean by the difference between them. My mom seems to want to control me, like I’m a baby. My dad encourages me to find my own way.

  I thank him and head upstairs to write in this journal until it’s time to go try to see the ghost.

  For the most part, I like the darkness. After I sneak out of the house and walk towards Main Street, there are plenty of streetlights, but once I get into the graveyard, it’s pretty dark.

  People fear what they can’t see, but it somehow makes me feel powerful. Walking slowly and quietly without a flashlight, I’m hidden. It would be hard to see me. Hard to do anything to me. Yes, the dark can be scary, but I think of it as armor. I have a flashlight, but it is a last resort, only to be used when absolutely necessary.

  The word nyctophilia just might apply to me. In some ways, I prefer the dark to the light. Weird, I know.

  I know the way, and there is enough of a glow from surrounding lights that I easily find my uncle’s grave. It’s about 11:30 and I’m early. I was falling asleep so I decided to leave early.

  The graveyard is full of trees and grass, the cottonwood trees tower a hundred feet tall, at least, and line the roads that cut through the cemetery. Interspersed are a few spruce and fir trees, and I feel more comfortable among them. Cedar is high enough to support them, and they invoke the higher, cooler climes of the land just to the west. Up at Cedar Breaks are groves of bristlecone pine trees, twisted, hardy trees that dangle over the edge of the cliffs, cling to sandy soil, drink in scant water, and yet survive. And the bristlecones are the oldest living things on the planet, the ones up the mountain from us are 2,000 years old.

  Uncle Don is buried under a dark green spruce, and as I
lie there, I almost feel connected to the spruce and fir that dominate the higher altitudes and to the rare bristlecones that live longer under the harshest of conditions.

  Sneaking out of the house the first time was hard. The second time was a bit easier. I still felt this guilt, but there are some things that parents just won’t understand. Some roads they can’t help you travel down.

  Besides, I wasn’t out here doing anything dangerous. People are afraid of graveyards and the dark. But this is Cedar City. There is nothing nefarious going on around here.

  And yes, I relate to the bristlecone. I want to be the bristlecone. I know it’s full of ego, this comparison, but I’ve lived under the harsh conditions of leukemia and chemo, it has twisted me and changed me, and with two strikes against me, I feel like I’m clinging to the edge of a precipice and could fall at any moment.

  Despite (or maybe because of) the stresses and their extreme conditions, the bristlecones survive. I want to think that I will survive despite (let’s be clear it won’t be “because of”) the Cancer.

  I am willing to be stunted, twisted, enjoy a tenuous existence under harsh conditions like the bristlecone, but I want to survive.

  These thoughts are running through my head when I hear yelling out on Main Street. I sit up, look, and see a car stopped and two people standing in the harsh light of the headlights yelling at each other.

  He looks like a jock, with his letterman’s jacket and his hands shoved into his jeans.

  She’s tall and slim, and doing most of the yelling.

  They’re about a half block away from me and there’s lots of trees between us, so I can’t see a lot of details or hear everything, but I get the gist.

  “I am not like that,” she shouts, bringing a cigarette to her lips and sucking in.

  He laughs. She slaps him hard, turns on her heel, and starts walking right towards me.

  I suck in a breath. How does she know I’m here? She can’t possibly see me, can she? Who is this girl, would she tell my parents I’m out like this?

  I shake off the thoughts rampaging through my mind. It’s a coincidence… she can’t know I’m here.

  “Helena, please!” the jock yells, taking a step towards her. They are out of the headlights, so it’s harder to see them, but I can see enough.

  She comes to the low wall bordering the graveyard and hops right over it. He comes up to it, his head swiveling around, but he doesn’t proceed. I almost laugh out loud. The big jock is afraid to go into a cemetery.

  “Come on back. Let’s talk about this,” he says.

  She stops, I see the glow of the cigarette as she takes a long drag. She slowly turns back to him. “No means no, you asshole.”

  “I just thought…” he begins, his voice trailing off as he looks down.

  “What?” she yells, taking a step back towards him. “You thought because people whisper rumors about me that you can do whatever you want? That one lousy meal is the price of me?”

  “Look… I’m sorry. Don’t…”

  “Don’t tell anyone? Is that what you are trying to say. Don’t tell anyone how the mighty Jeff Tate almost raped me and would have if I hadn’t socked him in the nuts. Don’t call the sheriff and report you? What don’t you want me to do, Jeff?”

  While they talk I sneak closer, cloaked by darkness. I feel bad for eavesdropping, but I don’t want to miss a word.

  I know Jeff Tate, and I too have heard the whispers about Helena Monfort. She is a grade ahead of me, having just finished her junior year in high school. The whispers said she was a good time and not too picky.

  I can see Jeff’s face now. His eyes are wide and his mouth is moving silently. I bet if there were more light he would be beet red. “You listen to me, Helena. You breathe a word of tonight and I will ruin you. You’re nobody. Who’s going to take your word over mine?”

  “That’s it, Jeff?” she says. “I am just quaking in my boots. How you gonna ruin me? You only asked me out because you thought you’d get lucky. My grades suck, my reputation is terrible, and I don’t have many friends. What the hell can you take from me?”

  He’s quiet for a few breaths, his eyes hard. “Your father,” he says. “That job he’s got at the new warehouse. I can make that go away.”

  “What?” she says, her hands shaking as she lights another cigarette.

  “He’s a fuckup just like you. It wouldn’t be hard. A few words to my father, and he says a few words to your father’s boss, and he’s out on his ass. All because…” he lets the phrase hang there all heavy and sinister.

  Helena is fuming, I can see her shoulders rising as she breathes hard, the cigarette dangling at her side.

  “Now be a good girl and get back in the car,” Jeff says, pointing to his Dodge Charger.

  She takes a couple of deep breaths and a long drag of the cigarette. Jeff shifts from foot to foot, nervous.

  “You see this,” she yells. I can clearly see her outlined by the light coming from the Charger and the streetlights. She’s flipping him the bird.

  He stops shifting on his feet and crosses his arms, his face getting hard while she sticks the cigarette in her mouth and raises the other hand with its middle finger outstretched, shaking both hands at him to emphasize her message.

  “Is this sinking in?” she yells.

  “Goddamn it, Helena. Just get in the car. Let me drive you home. I won’t try anything, I promise.”

  She lowers her hands and for a moment I think she’s going to go with him. She flicks the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out, turns on her heel and heads into the darkness of the cemetery right towards me.

  My heart leaps into my throat. I’ve been witness to all this. I hadn’t wanted to eavesdrop, but I was there, and I couldn’t help myself. What am I going to do? A thought leaps into my mind. Hide! I don’t like it, but I do it.

  I scoot behind a taller gravestone and crouch down. Jeff is pacing now, out on the street in front of his car. She’s mumbling as she marches quickly into the graveyard. I don’t hear much, just the occasional curse. Her walk is more like a march and she doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to where she is going.

  A car door slamming and the screech of tires announces Jeff’s departure. She pauses and turns back to where he was. “No means no, you fucking asshole!” She then turns back towards where I am hiding and resumes her muttering and march.

  After a couple of steps her foot catches on the edge of a gravestone and she goes down hard. I hear the grunt and the air escaping from her lungs. She curses some more and then starts to cry.

  I feel like such a coward, behind my shield of granite, squatting on someone’s grave, watching this girl cry her eyes out. She doesn’t move, she’s just lying sobbing and then she starts pounding the grass with her fist.

  I have to do something. I’ve faced chemo, Cancer, and the very real possibility of death, but somehow this moment here feels harder. Revealing my presence, potentially becoming the object of her anger.

  She’s not the kind of person I would make friends with. She’s too rough, too loud, and she smokes. I find the habit disgusting, and somehow think that people that fall into it must be weak.

  But she’s a human being. She’s in pain. She needs help.

  I take a deep breath and stand straight up. That’s not enough, she can’t see me. I click on my flashlight, pointing it at the ground at my feet and clear my throat. Still not enough. “Umm… I…” I stammer. “Do you need some help?”

  She stops sobbing and slowly pushes herself up, her head swiveling around.

  “Umm… my name is Aaron,” I say. “Aaron Wade. I was… well… Do you need some help?”

  She gets herself into a sitting position and is fumbling with her now crushed package of cigarettes, her hands shaking. I take a couple of steps towards her and can smell cheap perfume. I don’t like it much. I’ve gotten real sensitive to synthetic smells since I got sick.

  “Who…” she begins, her voice shaking. “Did
you? I mean, did…” She looks up at me briefly but not for long. She’s back trying to get a cigarette out.

  “Here,” I say, sitting on the cool grass next to her. I set the flashlight down so it provides some general illumination but doesn’t blind anyone. I take the pack of cigarettes from her, my fingers brushing against her. She’s cold. It’s cooler tonight, down around 50 degrees, and she doesn’t have any kind of a jacket. I hand her a cigarette, take off my sweat jacket and put it around her, sitting back down in front of her.

  She’s fumbling with a lighter, I help her with that too, lighting the cigarette for her. When she was fighting with Jeff, she seemed so strong, so tough, so mature. But now she’s just a scared girl.

  As she inhales and blows smoke out, it seems to calm her.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “You saw all that,” she says, her hand vaguely pointing out towards the street.

  “Yeah.”

  She nods and picks up the flashlight and shines it in my face. I look away, the light is too bright.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, but asks, “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen last month.” She sets the flashlight back down. “How old are you?” I ask.

  “I turned seventeen a month ago.”

  I look at her again. The light is terrible, but I thought she was older. By her actions and the kind of situation she had gotten herself in. But that’s probably just my delayed teenage years speaking, and then I feel self-conscious. She’s only a year older than me, tall, beautiful, and taking life on. I’m a scrawny sixteen-year-old who still loves to ride his bike and has mousey brown hair—although for me, having hair at all is a victory.

  She finishes the cigarette and brushes at her face, smearing mascara. She takes out a piece of gum and pops it into her mouth, chewing noisily. With a deep breath, she gets up and brushes herself off.