Chapter 4 "Ghosts"

“Would you like a blanket or a pillow? You might as well make yourself comfortable,” the stewardess recommended. She paused long enough at our row to make certain the newbie was ok.

Chapter 4

“Ghosts”

 

 

 

“Would you like a blanket or a pillow? It’s going be a long flight.  You might as well make yourself comfortable,” the stewardess recommended.  She paused long enough at our row to make certain the newbie was ok.

“That would be lovely,” Tuesday replied with a smile. 

The stewardess opened one of the overhead bins and gave the typical sleeping utensils to Tuesday.  She quickly unfolded the blanket over her and placed the pillow under the side of her head. She used my sweatshirt to build the pillow’s mass.

“Would you like anything, coach?” the stewardess asked me.

“Naw, I’m fine.  Thanks though,” I gave her a wink.  I liked her joke�"coaching the newbie through the flight. The attendant quickly moved on to check on the few other passengers.

“You know the seat reclines a bit�"not much, since we’re in the back row.”

“This is fine.  I need to sit up straight, so I won’t fall asleep. I feel like I’m hearing a bedtime story, but it’s one I need to stay awake for.” Tuesday grinned.

“So you all tucked in nice and tight over there?”

Tuesday nodded, closing her eyes briefly with a pleasant smile. “Go on.  Did you get settled into the house?  Did you meet the blond gardener�"Trinity?”

“…       Oh yeah.  It took me no time to unpack my duffle bag in the bedroom Grands reserved for me.  It was just down the hall from her room on the second floor.  She had the big bedroom with a turret.  Burns was next door is an oversized bedroom with a large leather�"topped writing desk. They each had a bathroom.  I had the guest bathroom all to myself.  My bedroom was comfortable enough, not fancy.  It was quiet and homey. It had a queen-sized bed with clean sheets and a quilt hanging over the foot rail.  I placed most of my clothes in the antique dresser, barely even needed the closet. 

Burns and Grands gave me a tour of the house.  It was pretty standard for a Victorian.  There was another bedroom on the second floor.  It looked unoccupied.  Downstairs was a large kitchen, a dining room (that looked rarely used), a reading room with a fireplace, a small bathroom, a living room with a fair-size TV and stereo, and a library with a computer.  The library was my favorite room. It was filled with books and unusual artifacts from distant and faraway lands.  Souvenirs.  There were also boxes of books and toys from The Adventures of Mr. Gizzy Wizzit series.

Each day was pretty much the same.  Burns would get up early and offer me breakfast, usually eggs, pancakes, and bacon.  Grands would sleep in until she could smell the second pot of coffee brewing.  The three of us would have a light lunch on the front porch and dinner there too.  Burns did most of the cooking, but he rarely ate.  Grands did the majority of shopping.  In the evenings, they watched a bit of television�"usually comedies, competition shows, and sometimes a movie.  During most of the afternoons, Grands would tend to Burns’ literary web sites and respond to fans for him. They would cackle and laugh with glee about some of the comments left by fans on the Facebook page and the official web site for The Adventures of Mr. Gizzy Wizzit. 

 I arrived at the house on a Friday.  By Sunday morning I was beside myself�"bored silly.  I finally asked Burns if I could borrow a copy of one of his books to read.  I remembered rule number 3, be productive, apply myself, explore. Burns was delighted, although he cautioned me that I didn’t have to read any of his books. I insisted. It made him feel better, flattered. 

“What are you in the mood for?  An adult comedy?  A children’s book? A love story? A tragedy?” Burns fired off a list of genres.

“I want to read something you wrote.”

“I have them all. I love writing. It’s what I wanted to do all of my life.  It’s my purpose.  Because I love it so much, I’ve been fairly prolific�"writing six or seven books a year.  I was even drunk and stoned while I wrote most of them�"up until Malley left.  Then I stopped. It all stopped.” Burns turned inward, thinking about his lost love. 

“Why don’t you pick one for me?  Which one is your favorite?” I wanted to bring him back to me, away from his memories of Malley.

“They’re all my favorites.  I wouldn’t have written them if they weren’t.  I guess it depends on your mood.” Burns looked at me, he squinted his eye.  “I have the perfect one for one.  You don’t seem like you enjoy reading about an overweight dog, so Mr. Gizzy Wizzit will just have to wait.  Here… this one.” Burns reached onto his bookshelf and withdrew a large leather bound book.  He handed it to me. 

Dirty Windows- A Ghost Story blazed in gold scrolling letters on the leather binder.  His name followed below the title.  Just the single word, “Burns.” It was a heavy book.  It was thick, filled with aged yellow paper.  I wasn’t a typical book.  It was self-bound with rawhide lace. Unpublished. 

“This seems like your copy.  Don’t you have a paperback version?  I don’t want to ruin it by spilling soda on it or anything.” I tried to protect the stately and ornate manuscript. 

“Nope, my only printed copy. Never could get it published.  It was one of the first ones I wrote.  Too long to publish by conventional standards. When Mr. Gizzy Wizzit took off, I put it to the side. Here, read the inscription.”  He opened the book cover, it creaked.  On the inside of the first page was a handwritten inscription.  I could barely read it. I turned the book sideways to get a better view.  “I know.  I have the penmanship of a drunken w***e�"always writing sideways.”

The inscription read: “To my beloved ghosts�"all of them. Without their presence I would never see out of my own dirty windows.  Thank you.” Odd inscription, but then again Burns wasn’t exactly normal.  Too fun to be normal.

“It’s a spiritual story about a young man on a journey looking to find love and trying to find redemption with his father. I think you might find it interesting.  Not exactly a quick read, but you look like the type of kid that enjoys a challenge.” Burns summed me up.

“Thanks.  I’m not a romantic type of guy, but I’ll give it a try.” I closed the book.

“Thatta boy, give it a whirl. If you don’t enjoy it, there’s always more to choose from, including good ole Mr. Gizzy Wizzit.” Burns smiled.

I took the book on to the porch.  Grands sat at the table under the wobbly fan, reading fan letters to Mr. Gizzy Wizzit.  The old fashioned type, sent via hard copy through the local post office. I was about to say something to her, when she held up a crooked finger, indicating for me to give her a moment to complete her read.  I pulled back a chair and sat at the table.

Grands laughed.  Love her laugh, hearty and competitive.  She laid the letter to one side.  “I’m going to have to respond to that one,” she mentioned as she devoted her full attention to me.  “Yes…”

“Do you mind if I read out here with you? Burns leant me a copy of his book, and I thought the front porch would be a good place to read.” I placed the heavy bound book on the table.  Grands looked at the cover.  She lost her smile. 

“Did you read the inscription?”

“Yeah… kind of weird.” I tossed my bangs out of my eyes with a quick whip of my neck.

“You like love stories?”  She asked. She looked over her bifocals at me.

“I don’t think I read any before, besides school assignments.”

“You like ghost stories?” She kept up with the inquisition.

“Sure.  I like a good horror flick.”

“It’s not the same. A horror movie scares you with gratuitous and unnecessary violence�"blood and gore, that type of silly stuff.  This story scares with the concept of fear�"the fear of losing the most valuable thing you can ever imagine.  It’s a good read, but one best kept to the light of day, especially if you believe in ghosts.  Do you believe in ghosts?”  Grands reached for her vodka lemonade.  She took a sip, but kept her eyes peeled on me over her bifocals.

“Ghosts?” It was a stall tactic.

“Remember be honest.  It’s the best policy.”  Grands reiterated rule number four.

“Not really.  I’d like to think I have an open mind, but until I see a ghost I guess I don’t believe in them. I don’t believe in aliens, the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot or any of that business.  But… like I said… if I saw one, I’d probably change my mind.”

“I see…” Grands stated.  She didn’t follow up her statement, she returned to reading the next fan letter.

I thought I would volley back and forth with her.  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Grands took another sip of the vodka lemonade�"peculiar that she needed some liquid courage. She eased back into her wicker chair.  It was going to be a long answer, I could tell. She got comfortable for the warm-up.  She smiled, half way cocking her head to the side. “Of course I do. I was like you, until I saw my first ghost. Funny thing with ghosts, once you see a true ghost, you see all of them. You can’t go back.”  She smiled at me�"it was a different smile.  She smiled like she fondly remembered a specific event in her life.  “It’s probably my favorite book by Burnsy. Breaks my heart every time I read it.” Grands returned to the fan letters.  It was a short answer�"shorter than what I anticipated.

Burns came on to the front porch with a pitcher of vodka lemonades in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. He offered me the iced tea and refreshed Grands’ drink.  “Listen to this one Burnsy.” Grands cackled as she picked up the fan letter she placed to one side.  She sipped on the vodka just before she read the letter aloud.

“Dear Mr. Gizzy Wizzit.  I’m a forty year old, bored housewife. My husband sells cars for a living. Can you take me with you on your next adventure?  I’d love to see the world and be a part of the perfume spy game.  The only worldly site I get to see is my husband’s dirty underwear.  I wouldn’t be any trouble.  I’d love to take you on walks and brush your hair.  Please consider it.”  Grands was too busy laughing to continue reading the rest of the letter.

“Another one, huh?” Burns stated, taking a fair-size gulp of his vodka lemonade. “You gonna respond?”

“Damn straight I am,” Grands retorted. “I’m Mr. Gizzy Wizzit’s b***h. Get in line sister.” Grands laughed again and Burns accompanied her. As soon as their laughter subsided, Grands brought the conversation back full circle, “Zach is reading the ghost story?  Why that one Burnsy?  Why not give him the Gizzy Wizzit’s?”  Grands removed her reading glasses.

“Look at the kid.”  Burns placed his hands on my shoulders.  “He’s not one for pink perfume and tiaras.  He’s a man, or on his way to become one.  He needs to learn about love and the tragedy associated with finding redemption. Plus, he doesn’t seem to scare too easily.  If he can dive off a board or hurdle himself end over end on a mat, he’s got balls big enough to handle a simple ghost story. Don’t you Zach?”

Grands didn’t give me time to respond. “He doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

Burns removed his hands from my shoulders. He looked at me with disbelief.  “Oh, you will.  You will.” He narrowed his eyes, and then he left the front porch.  Grands looked at me with a smug grin and raised one eyebrow. 

She took a gulp from her vodka and smiled at the potency. “Why don’t you sit over on the chaise, might be more comfortable for you.” She offered as she returned her attention back to the fan letters. 

I moved to the old wicker chaise, it looked relaxing enough. I put the iced tea on the porch floor and started in on the book.  The first page was interesting enough.  It was about a young, broke man walking alone on a deserted road.  I was on page ten before I knew it. Just before lunch, I finished with chapter one, completely caught up in the story.  Captivated by it, I returned to the book right after lunch. It’s odd, without the familiar ding of incoming emails, or a cell phone blip, or an I-Pod dangling out of my ears, I found myself concentrating.  I absorbed the words. I wasn’t distracted by all the gadgets meant to keep me connected to the world.  I was in my own world. The book had my full attention, just like diving or gymnastics. I could concentrate.

By mid-afternoon I was almost on chapter 3�"not that far into it really, maybe five percent, judging by what pages remained. Grands had since left the front porch.  She and Burns went on a vodka bike ride to the local liquor store.  They said they would be back in an hour or two, depending on who they ran into.  They asked if I wanted to go.  I told them I would hang back this time around.  The truth is I wanted to read. Burns and Grands did such a psych number on me with the book.  It’s almost like it was a taboo read, which made me want to read it more.  That and I remembered Burns’ comment about how I was becoming a man.  I guess I wanted to prove to them I was more than a dumb jock and more than a kid.  I was smart, deserving to go to college.  I could appreciate the arts, just like they could. 

In the middle of chapter three was a passage about sin and heaven.  The young man stated that heaven is a feeling, not a place.  He said heaven is being able to do what you are meant to do.  The one thing you are designed to accomplish with your soul.  It’s the feeling of accomplishment, everlasting.  Simple and pure.  It caught me off guard.  I was taught heaven’s a spiritual place full of growth and promise. Rather, Burns referred to heaven as an emotional response to a destiny fulfilled.  Sin on the other hand was anything that led us away from our true purpose. Interesting.  It made me keep reading, wanting to know more.

Around three in the afternoon, I heard a noise in the garden.  It sounded like a scraping noise, metal against metal.  It sounded close, not a neighbor.  The noise came from the property, just on the other side of the hedge by the kitchen window.  My legs were getting restless. My mind was completely absorbed in the book, but my body craved movement.  I decided to stretch and investigate the disturbing noise.  I walked down the porch stairs and around the lilac hedges to the gardens below the kitchen window.

I turned the bend to see Trinity sharpening the coarse blade of a shovel with a long file.  He was bronze like the day before, shirtless, wearing brown canvas pants and soiled work boots. His back was toward me.  He probably didn’t hear me approach in my sandals.  He knelt on the ground and filed away on the edge of the shovel, sharpening it to a fine hone. 

“Hey.  How’s it going?” I thought it best to introduce myself.

He didn’t respond to me.  He kept filing away, refusing to acknowledge my approach.

“You must be Trinity.  I’m Zach. Grands is my grandmother.” I took a couple more steps toward him. He still didn’t flinch or move a muscle. I thought he was either deaf or an a*****e. I was optimistic, choosing deafness over rudeness. I walked toward him.  I saw the fine beads of sweat drift down the rift in his back, leading down to his pants.  His back was fine and arched, riddled with muscles that shifted with his hand movements.

He caught me off guard when he started to whistle.  It was an old song. Grands played it over and over the other night, like she did with many of her favorites.  It was a love song. Trinity whistled it in perfect pitch.  It was beautiful.  I almost didn’t want to disturb him.  I was content listening to the delicate sound of his whistle.  When he got to the second verse, he still hadn’t notice me.  Or if he had, he didn’t respond.  I decided to tap him on his shoulder.  I bent forward and touched his back.  It was on fire.  It felt like I touched a burning pan on a stove.  I retracted my hand quickly. 

Trinity turned about.  His green eyes widened out of fear.  He dropped his utensils abruptly, cutting his hand in the process.  His palm started to bleed.  He held it in his other hand as he scurried in the dirt away from me.  It was odd, he didn’t appear to be someone that frightened easily, and yet I terrified him.  I chalked it up to surprising him; however, the reaction was too severe.  He continued to edge backwards as he stared, gripping his injured hand next to his chest.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.  I called to you, but you must not have heard me.  Are you ok?”  I took a step toward him.  He slid backwards, away from me.

“Hey, I just want to help.” I took another step toward him.  He remained still. I took it as a sign of shallow trust. He let me approach him. I took another step, holding my hand in the air to steady his fear.  He looked at me fearful, but not as much as before.  His blond hair was unruly and thick.  His green eyes were large and pale.  He had long, thick eyelashes.  His nose was short and wide.  His lips were full and soft.  He had a cleft in his chin.  But his mutton chops were the most noticeable attribute.  They resembled his locks, unruly and long.  

Blood from his hand started to ease down his chest.  It coated his golden, hairless stomach.  It rippled across his tight abs.  His body was almost as built as mine�"impressive.  I eased into him, crouching on the ground, not wanting to scare him any further.  “Here let me take a look.” I held my hand out to him. He looked into my eyes and then peered at his injured hand.  I must have pretty trustworthy eyes, because he slowly extended his hand to me. 

I took it softly, wanting to completely earn the trust he offered. His hand was hot.  I could only hold it for brief periods of time without shifting it to the other hand.  The wound was long and shallow.  Nothing serious.  Deep enough to warrant blood.  “We need to clean you up. Let’s get you inside.” I stood and stripped off my t-shirt.  I wrapped it around his hand, not wanting to get blood on one of Grands’ antique rugs.  He stood.  I held the shirt around his injured hand as we climbed the back steps and entered into the kitchen through the screen door.

I took him straight to the sink and started the water.  I unraveled my t-shirt from his hand. The blood dripped into the sink.  Trinity looked at his hand, watching the blood mix with the cool water and swirl down the drain.  He was mesmerized by it.  I squeezed some dish soap on his cut.  He winced and tried to pull his hand away.  It must have stung a little. “It’s ok.  We have to clean your wound.  Make sure it won’t get infected.  It might sting�"but it’s necessary.”  I looked into his eyes.  You can trust me dude.  I know what I’m doing. He relaxed a bit.  I washed his hand. 

“I’ll be right back.” I darted into the small bathroom.  Pretty certain Grands had a bandage in the old medicine cabinet and some antibiotic.  I opened the mirrored door and searched the shelves.  I found a wide bandage and a small tube of ointment.  The label was faded, but I was pretty sure it was an antibiotic.  I closed the mirror. Trinity stood right next to me, inches from my face.

“Whoa!” I about tripped on my feet, completely caught off guard. He titled his head, surprised at my shock.  I shook my head and smiled at him.  “Kind of scared me.  But I guess I deserved it, since I scared you�"right?” I waited for him to reply.  He didn’t say a word, he just bashfully smiled.  I noticed his teeth when he smiled.  They were slightly crooked, but white and interesting. He blushed slightly. 

“Let’s go back into the kitchen, so I can bandage you up.”  I motioned with my head for him to back-up.  He went back to the sink. I applied a small dab of ointment to his hand.  I massaged it across the wound.  His hand was cooler.  I could hold it gently without feeling uncomfortable.  Trinity kept looking into my face.  I smelled the lilacs on him.  The floral aroma was part of his scent, coming from his beads of sweat and his breath.

“Hold still,” I commanded as I ripped open the bandage with my teeth.  I applied the white padding to his wound.  The gauze was over-sized, better safe than sorry. “There, all set. Better not strain it too much in the next day or so.  Keep it clean.” I spoke to him like a preschooler that needed basic instructions.  I assumed he was special because of his frantic retreat when we first met, and he wasn’t exactly talking up a storm.  “I’m Zach, by the way.”

Trinity smiled again bashfully.  He blushed and looked at his injured hand, freshly bandaged. He returned his eyes to me.  They were soft and green.  Big and easy to look at.  They shimmered�"I lost myself in them.  Trinity eased toward me.  The smell of lilacs was pungent.  His eyes twinkled.  My reflection stared back at me in his dilating iris.  And yet he moved closer. 

Trinity kissed me on the cheek. It was a soft kiss, barely touching my skin.  But I could feel the warmth of his breath.  It made the hair on my neck stand up.  His lips remained on the side of my face for a long second, just long enough to affect me.  I closed my eyes.  Suddenly a vision struck me�"an image I thought I buried deep inside me, hoping it would never surface again.  It was my ghost, the real one.  The one I hoped to forget for the rest of my life.  But I saw it again on the afternoon that I bandaged a young gardener’s hand�"when he kissed me.  He brought the ghost to the surface.

I opened my eyes, distressed by the image.  Trinity was gone. All that remained was my t-shirt in the sink under the cool water.  The young man’s blood swirled down the drain in a perfect spiral….”

 

“Getting sleepy over there?” I suspected Tuesday was bored. 

“Not at all.  I love the story. It’s interesting.”  She stretched out further on the airline seat, staking her claim over the coveted middle seat.  “Mind if I stretch a bit?”

“Go for it,” I encouraged her.  “Sure you don’t want to get some sleep?”

“I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.  Too afraid.  When I close my eyes, I’m convinced the plane will break apart into a million pieces.  I think my fear is the only thing holding this contraption together.”  She chuckled.

“I think rivets are, but that’s ok. I know how you feel.”

“Tell me Zach, do you believe in ghosts now?” 

I was slightly taken aback by Tuesday’s question.  She was observant. “Yeah, I do.”

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good chapter. All that can make a story good. You have in the story. Friendship, ghosts and crazy family. It is a very good tale. I look forward to reading more. Thank you for sharing.
Coyote

[AlexAustin]

A fine story. In places it brings to mind Flannery O'Connor. The third and fourth chapters seem a little rushed, working hard to get to the payoff, and it is a great payoff. Has it been published elsewhere?

[B MacGregor]

For those interested, the book is complete. Would love to post more chapters if you are willing to read. Leave my a post and I'll throw some more chapters on. Thanks!