A Boy a Girl and a Ghost Read online

  I look up and decide to just tell her. She stuck around after finding out I see ghosts. Surely she can handle this, the most obvious of truths. “I understand we are just friends. I get that. But…”

  She nods and sighs. “God, I thought this was going to be serious.”

  “It is,” I protest.

  “It’s hormones,” she says. “But go ahead, finish telling me, I can handle it.”

  “I… I was thinking of you this morning and… Umm…” My face is burning and must be the color of an apple. Helena is just staring at me now, not saying a thing. “I felt… you know… hormones…” I trail off, my attention going back to the grass.

  She sighs and punches my shoulder gently. “You got a boner,” she says. It’s not a question.

  My heart is thumping away and I nod, but don’t look up.

  She chuckles. “Jesus H. Christ, you got guts, Wade. You got guts. Most boys can’t admit the truth for anything. Not if they think it might not get them what they want.”

  I look up and she’s smiling.

  “You don’t care?” I ask.

  “Do you think this is something you have control over?”

  I shake my head.

  She shrugs. “No biggie. I shall choose to take it as a compliment. What you do in the privacy of your own bedroom is your business.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Who the hell is this girl? And do I have to always tell her this kind of stuff?

  “Before I forget,” I say. “My dad noticed you when you came into the bookstore the other day. My parents want you to come over for dinner. This Saturday.” Might as well get all the embarrassment out at once.

  Her eyes darken and she looks down. “Oh,” she begins. “Saturday doesn’t work.”

  “Okay,” I say, surprised to find myself disappointed. “What about Sunday?”

  She shakes her head. “Family day. My dad and I always spend it together. We hang out, watch baseball, I get most of the cooking done for the week.”

  I nod my head and then something occurs to me. She told me about Sunday but not Saturday. “So what’s going on Saturday and why don’t you want to tell me?”

  She’s bites her lip and stares at the grass.

  “Truth or Truth, right?” I ask.

  She nods, her eyes meeting mine, a sheepish smile on her face. “I have a date.”

  Sometimes I hate this truth thing. While the weight of my “crush” has lessened since that night with Lionel, I still feel it. And knowing that she’s going out on a date stirs something in me I don’t know that I’ve felt before. Whoever this boy is that is taking her out, I want to hurt him and hurt him bad.

  “Please don’t be upset,” she says.

  I shrug and say, “It’s fine. I understand.”

  “But…” she says, prompting me for more.

  “But, my biochemistry ain’t so fine with it.”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it come slowly out. “You going to the opening?” she asks, nodding towards the theatre.

  “Yeah,” I say, welcoming the interruption. “They’re doing Romeo and Juliet, my dad got tickets. All three of us are going.”

  “Well… be sure to go to the green show. It’s going to be big. I’m working it.”

  “Working it?” I ask.

  “You’ll see…” she says mysteriously.

  Biology. None of us can truly escape ours. We are these, supposedly, rational thinking beings encased in this soup of biochemistry. Fear, Lust, Passion, Shame. All of them their own cocktail of hormones and endorphins and neurology. They bounce us around, fighting our logic with their chemistry.

  In many ways, now that my hormones have kicked in, I think I understand something about being human—this seems to be our challenge. Finding a balance between the logical and the biochemical. We don’t want to give in to every urge, and we can’t always deny the chemistry.

  Balance. Except that is not what being a teenager is about. There is no balance whatsoever.

  Helena and I chat about nothing for a while. Our little interchange has actually managed to chase thoughts of solving a ghost’s murder out of our heads. We are just trying to find a place back to being okay.

  “You’re a weird kid, Wade,” Helena says as she gets up. This is becoming something of a signoff for her.

  “And you’re a fascinating woman, Helena,” I say. It just slips out, but don’t I need something to throw back at her?

  She stops brushing her jeans off (tight jeans, I might add) and studies me. The “look” again. The disparity between our comments is obvious. She called me weird and a kid. I called her fascinating and a woman.

  She’s quiet. I just smile and watch her. I, honestly, could watch her all day long. She could do the most mundane of things and that would be enough for me.

  “Tell your folks I’ll be there on Saturday.”

  “What? I thought you had a date?”

  She shrugs. “I’ll break it. If he’s worth a damn, he’ll wait for me.” She squats down and looks at me. “I said friendship was more important to me than dates. I guess I ought to live up to that statement.”

  I just blink, staring into the depths of her beautiful eyes. “It’s going to be awkward as hell,” I finally say.

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “Thanks, Helena.”

  She smiles and then frowns. “We didn’t talk about our ghost.” She looks at her watch. “And I’ve got to go.”

  “Tomorrow?” I ask.

  “That should work.” She rises back up and says, “God, you’re such a weird kid, Wade.” She turns and walks away.

  “And you are such a fascinating woman!” I shout after her. Part of me thinks that she called me weird again so that I would call her fascinating (and a woman).

  And the word fits. I am utterly fascinated with her.

  13

  Friday, June 24, 1977

  “He was kind of a loner,” Helena says. We’re back under that tree on the grounds of the university in sight of the Globe Theatre replica. It’s midafternoon and she’s telling me what she learned about Lionel. “Some of the girls at La Familia remember him. He’d come in to eat Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 6 p.m. like clockwork. He had a different dish for each day of the week and would order it every time. Nice enough guy, easy to take care of, good tipper.”

  “He wasn’t married?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, her cigarette-mint scent becoming a bit more pronounced.

  “Did anything odd happen around when he died?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, chewing her gum a bit before continuing. “The Friday before he died, he didn’t come for dinner. He only ever missed on holidays.”

  I nod. It could be important. “He was killed on a Sunday evening,” I said. “He was in his shop late, working, running some brochures for the Shakespeare Festival.”

  “What did the police come up with?” she asks.

  I spent hours reading everything in the papers I could find. Trouble is, I didn’t find out too much beyond the basics. He had been stabbed in the back in his own shop. No sign of forced entry. The police only ever interviewed one suspect. “They briefly detained Paul Durr, he was running the food bank at the time. The paper never went into details on why they suspected him.”

  “Is he back?” she asks, looking around for the ghost.

  I shake my head. I haven’t seen Lionel since he came home with me three nights ago.

  “What happened to him?”

  I shrug. “No idea. I’m going to go by the graveyard later. I’ve found if I shut my eyes tight and cover them with my hands, I can kind of see the ghosts.”

  Helena stops chewing her gum and stares. “With your eyes closed?”

  “Yeah. To tell you the truth, it kind of freaks me out.”

  She nods, but then changes the subject back to Lionel’s murder. “So, we’ve got unusual activity the Friday before he died. We’ve got someone questioned for unknown reasons. And that’s about it.”<
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  I nod. “I wish Lionel was around. I can’t hear him, but at least he could answer questions.”

  “How are we supposed to figure this out?” she asks. “I’m not Nancy Drew and you’re not one of the Hardy Boys.”

  “Maybe we do like you said with Lionel. We form a hypothesis and then we test it.”

  She nods. God I love the way her hair moves. Is this normal? To get so caught up in what seems like such a small thing. Her hair is jet black and silky smooth. It slides across her shoulders, as if lubricated somehow. Stray strands will sometimes cling to her face and she will idly brush them away as if she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

  “Yeah, but we don’t know enough about him or his murder to form a hypothesis,” Helena says.

  “Well, we could assume this Paul Durr did it, and go talk to him.”

  There’s silence between us. Did I really suggest we go to a potential murderer and ask him if he killed Lionel Malak? That’s great in the movies and all, but I sure as hell don’t want Helena talking to a murderer. Don’t really want to do it myself.

  “Forget I mentioned it,” I say, seeing relief on her face. “We need more data. We need Lionel.”

  “Hello, Big Ed,” I say when I get to the graveyard. He’s walking one of the narrow roads that run through the cemetery when I ride in. His gait is slow and a bit ponderous.

  “Well hello, young Mr. Wade.” He smiles, but the expression seems put on. He is worried. “Do you mind keeping an old man company for a bit?”

  “No, sir,” I say as I get off my bike. “Actually, there might be something you can help me with.”

  He nods and smiles his strained smile again and gestures down the little road as he starts to walk.

  We’ve gone about twenty yards, but he hasn’t spoken. “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  He smiles that smile again, looking briefly at me. “Reconstructing a life—my Aunty Tilly, that is—can get rather hard on the heart.” He presses his hand to his barrel chest.

  I think about it for a moment, but don’t really understand. “Why?”

  He takes a deep breath and lets out a long, slow sigh. “Us humans are messy. I must say, my dear aunt was literally messy, but I am speaking figuratively. We all pretend we got it together. We all put on a good face. But under the surface, we all got our problems. We all got our weaknesses.” He stops and looks at me. “Do you know what I’m say’n?”

  I lick my lips and nod. “Yes, sir. And how.”

  He smiles, genuinely this time. “I’m here if you would like to distract me from my own worries with yours.”

  “I couldn’t…”

  “You still think of me as a stranger?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I understand. That there is a proper and wise caution. I do hope you will change your mind, though. I have enjoyed our little encounters.”

  I stand there as he continues forward. I am being cautious because I don’t know him, but also because him being here just seems a little strange. A detective showing up just when I am trying to figure out why Lionel died.

  But that’s just a coincidence, right? I don’t have to give him specifics or anything. Just find out how you do this.

  “If you have a moment, Mr. Lopez,” I say, catching up to him. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to solve a murder.”

  So how do you solve a murder? Big Ed Lopez tells me that the TV shows—which I had to explain to him I don’t watch—say it comes down to two things: opportunity and motive.

  It makes sense. You have to have a reason to kill someone (motive) and the chance to do it (opportunity). Except Big Ed says that assumes we are all perfectly sane and logical. And as he put it, “That sane and logical bit… it’s all just a cheap show.”

  He tells me that there will be a motive and an opportunity, but the motive doesn’t have to be something I myself would understand. And he adds, “especially at your tender age.” I don’t like that. I’ve seen a lot in my sixteen years.

  He goes on and tells me, “What you really have to understand is the victim. Unless it’s some random crime, their life, their habits, their friends and enemies—the key is in there.”

  I find myself relaxing as I talk to him. He is smart and kind and so sad. I think the work he is doing with his Aunt Tilly has made him lonely. I think he really needs to talk about something else besides the picture of her that is forming as he goes through her things.

  Which makes me wonder, how do I do the equivalent with Lionel? How do I reconstruct his life, piece by piece, until the picture of it becomes clear? Until someone appears that would want to stab him in the back with a knife.

  At dinner, my mother is all abuzz about Helena’s visit tomorrow. She prattles on about preparations, what my father is doing—manning the barbeque—what I am doing—vacuuming, setting the table, that kind of stuff. As she does this, I think about Big Ed. What is behind the unusual energy my mom has. What is her “motive.” Why did she create this “opportunity”?

  “Why did you guys want Helena to come over so badly?” I ask over our empty plates. Dinner was simple, leftover tuna casserole and a tossed salad. The fishy smell still permeates the air.

  My father clears his throat and my mother suddenly gets quiet. It seems like a natural question, but as I sit there in the awkward silence it occurs to me that the Truth or Truth game Helena and I play has started to change me. That is a more direct question that I normally would have asked. But I don’t take it back. I want to know.

  “Well, son,” my mother begins, licking her lips. “We like to know who your friends are.”

  I smile and nod. That makes perfect sense, but doesn’t seem like the whole story. “She’s a new friend, why the rush?”

  My mother looks pointedly at my father who sighs and takes a deep breath.

  “It’s because she’s a ‘she,’“ he says. “You were different when we talked about her. We just want to get to know her.”

  I nod again, studying my father. Am I giving him my version of the “look”? So, they are more interested because she’s a girl, but that doesn’t seem to be all of it either. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and looks to my mother.

  “Aaron… well…” she stammers. My mother never stammers. Part of me is nervous as hell at this, part of me is excited. There is a mystery here and maybe if I start practicing solving the smaller mysteries in my life, I can help figure out what happened to Lionel.

  “Mom, Dad,” I say looking at each of them. “I wish you guys would just tell me. I can handle it, I promise.”

  “It’s just that,” my dad says, taking over for Mom, “the Monforts have a troubled past, and as your parents, it’s our job to worry about you.”

  “Are you talking about her mother?” I ask.

  He nods, his eyes flicking away to his nearly empty plate.

  “Are you afraid she’s mentally unstable or something?” I ask, looking at my mother.

  “It… It’s not that simple, son. We just… she…” she gets up quickly, her chair sliding noisily on the linoleum floor. “Henry. Talk to the boy.” She grabs plates off the table and sweeps into the kitchen.

  My father slowly rises and says, “Let’s go for a walk.” Now I’m wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

  We start by rambling through the neighborhood, but I head us towards the graveyard. I don’t intend to go there with my father, I just want to get a glimpse of it. I’m hoping to see Lionel.

  The streetlights throw yellow pools of light onto the cement sidewalk and the stars twinkle above us. It’s warm, I don’t even have to zip up my windbreaker, a really lovely evening. I wish that I was on my way to see Helena in the graveyard, not having an epically awkward conversation with my father.

  “We worry about you,” Dad finally begins. “It’s kind of our job. Every parent has that job, but since you got sick… well, it became that much more of a job for us.”

  “But, I’m not sick now. I’m good.”


  “I know,” he says, “and we couldn’t be happier. The fact that a girl has come into your life is a good sign of your health. That is not lost on us.”

  I nod, dragging my shoe on the sidewalk, the sound of it echoing off of the houses that surround us. The neighborhood we live in, north of the university, is an eclectic mix. Old, historic houses mixed in with new, modern houses, on the wide and perfectly ordered grid of streets. I can hear Main Street, the sound of cars flowing on it, not far away.

  “You just wish I had made friends with a less complicated girl?” I ask.

  My father lets out a sigh of relief. “That is a good way to put it, Aaron.”

  “But, aren’t they all complicated?” I ask.

  My father chuckles and nods. “That they are, son. That they are. But some are more complicated than others. We just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  My father’s silent and I let it be because we are approaching Main Street, which means the graveyard is not that far away. I want to steer us on to Main Street for the few blocks it takes to get there, steal a glance at the trees and the granite gravestones, see if I can catch a glimpse of Lionel, but it’s too far and he’ll suspect something for sure.

  “We are just friends, Dad,” I say. He doesn’t reply. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I am having trouble with that one,” he says.

  “Do you mind if I tell you the truth?” I ask. “Maybe it will ease your mind.”

  “I would prefer it, son. You know that.”

  “We are just friends and I wish we weren’t. She’s breaking a date to join us tomorrow.” I catch my dad staring at me, so I stop and look him straight in the eye. “Honest to god, we are just friends.”

  He smiles wistfully, his hand coming to my shoulder. “I’m sorry, son.”

  I feel tears sting my eyes and turn and start walking. My father keeps his hand on my shoulder as we walk home.

  14