Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  “I’m going for a walk,” he announces.

  “Walk? Where?”

  “To that convenience store. I’m in the mood for some ice cream.”

  Now that we’re in Texas, I’ve got Blue Bell on the brain so I perk up. Last year I visited the Texas ice cream factory on its one hundredth anniversary and sampled a variety of its flavors and have been hooked on Blue Bell ever since.

  “Get some Millennial Crunch. They debuted it last year for their birthday.”

  TB grabs his jacket. “Okay.”

  I nab my swimsuit. “I’m heading for that hot tub.”

  TB turns and his eyes light up. “Wait until I get back.”

  Is he excited about the tub or that we’ll be alone together? It’s so hard to read him these days. Naturally, I’m hoping for the latter. Or both, exactly.

  “Don’t take long,” I tell him as I slip out to the back patio and dip my hand into the swirling water. The tub’s lukewarm and big enough to hold six so we’ll be lucky to have steaming water by the time TB returns. Definitely gives me enough time to change into my bathing suit. And then some.

  I stand and gaze around the pool area, wishing I had gone with TB to get ice cream, when she appears. The woman’s so faint I imagine her an intruder and my heart leaps while I take several steps backwards toward the house. Then her outline comes into focus, like an artist creating this image before me, highlighting her in stages. When she’s finally clear, I make out her jet black hair hanging straight over her shoulders, dark, mournful eyes and simple clothes, mainly jeans and a long-sleeved mint green shirt.

  My first thought is this woman died here and we’re staying at a house where something nefarious might have occurred. But my intuition interferes and I believe something else is at work.

  She reaches her hands toward me in a pleading fashion and begins speaking in Spanish. What little I studied in high school is no help for I can’t understand a word. I shake my head to indicate as such but Dark Eyes keeps speed talking. Finally, I hold up a hand and utter the few words I remember.

  “Deténgase, por favor.”

  Spanish was first period in my junior year and Mrs. Ulgeses used to spit complete sentences at me the moment I entered her classroom. My sleepy teenage brain couldn’t handle the incomprehensible onslaught so this phrase was my go-to remark.

  Dark Eyes pauses, seems to understand that I’m of the no-foreign-language born-in-America variety. For not the first time in my life I wish I had paid closer attention in Mrs. Ulgeses’ class.

  I think of what other Spanish phrases I have managed to remember.

  “¿ Cómo te llamas?” I ask.

  Those eyes resembling Mississippi River water light up at me asking for her name. “Elena,” she says excitedly. “Elena Gomez.”

  “Did you die here?” I ask, but I doubt she’ll understand.

  She shakes her head and frowns so I’m guessing she doesn’t, but she senses I’m inquiring to her appearance here and she looks off into the distance, pointing to some far-away place. I peer into the darkness but all I make out are low trees waving in the wind and the sound of a cow lowing in the distance. For a moment, though, I sense she’s been murdered. But when I turn back, she’s disappeared.

  Goose bumps race up my arms and I shiver violently. I can’t shake the feeling something horrible happened to this woman, but thankfully not here. How I know this, I can’t say, but images of water come to mind.

  One of those freaky cows wanders close to the back fence and stares my way, and I understand where the term cow eyes comes from. As those giant orbs look across the fence the shivers return, hard, so I head for the house, pull on my jeans and grab my jacket and head out the front door, hoping to catch up with TB. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

  Thankfully, he’s not far down the road. He pauses when I call out his name and before I catch up to him looks at me with concern.

  “What happened?” he asks, grabbing my arms and looking me over.

  How did I not see this before? That my angelic husband knows when I’m in trouble without having to see it or hear me say as such?

  “I saw an apparition.”

  “Where?”

  “By the pool. A woman named Elena Gomez and I think she was murdered.”

  TB looks back at the house. “Here?”

  Now that time has passed, I’m not sure of anything. “I don’t think so but I don’t know. She only spoke Spanish.”

  He stares at our temporary home, no doubt trying to see what I see, but between us and the house there’s only those weird trees waving in the night desert wind, appearing as if they’re trying to warn us of something. Since we’re away from the house lights the road to the convenience store looms dark and quiet. The sky’s overcast so there’s no visible moon and we haven’t seen a car driving this stretch of road. TB and I both shiver at the same time.

  He takes my hand. “Come on.”

  We walk in silence for a while until I gear up the courage to ask. I only learned of TB’s peculiar talent a few days ago and even then, after saving my life in a burst of divine light in Natchez, he was reluctant to discuss his ancestry.

  “Did you talk to your parents about being a descendant?”

  He remains quiet for a few seconds and I wonder if he’ll sidestep the question, but TB’s not like that. He loves unconditionally, never a moment thinking of manipulating people or working a situation. I’ve never seen him lie, either. The man could be the next Dali Lama, for all I know.

  “Yeah, I spoke to my parents,” he finally says.

  “And?”

  I feel his shoulders rise and fall through our entwined hands. “They taught me a few things, think it’s time I stopped being in denial about who I am.”

  “Or maybe tell your wife….” I can’t help myself.

  I feel him tense. “I don’t like being what I am, Vi. I never wanted to be a superhero.”

  See what I mean? The rest of the world would kill for such powers.

  “You don’t have to be Captain Marvel,” I tell him. “But it is nice being able to help people.”

  “I do help people,” he says, turning my way. “I do that all the time.”

  “I don’t mean giving homeless people money or buying Girl Scout cookies.”

  As we get closer to the convenience store, I can finally make out his outline. He’s shaking his head. “I’ve done lots of things you don’t know about. Moved people out of the way of oncoming buses, convinced a runaway to go home because there were some bad people lurking around her. I pulled a woman off a bridge once. She said she was just looking but I knew what she was going to do.”

  “Wow.” I stop and gaze at this incredibly sweet man who epitomizes the term, “Lights on, is someone there?” But looks are deceiving and if I’ve learned anything being married to this man, it’s to never judge.

  He sighs and looks down at his feet. “I don’t like doing that other stuff, Vi. It’s scary. And what happened in Natchez, how I almost lost you, I’ll never get that out of my head.”

  There’s more to this, I know. After the incident and they rushed me to the hospital to treat my head injury, we spoke of his angelic side for the first time and why he never told me. He blames himself for Lillye’s death, thinks he could have prevented the cancer from taking our baby away.

  I reach up and move a stray hair from his face and cup his cheek with my palm. “There’s certain things in life we have no control over.”

  We’re heading to a painful place neither one of us wants to revisit so I quickly change the subject. “Is this why you’re so good in bed?”

  TB perks up and looks back at me sheepishly. “I’m good in bed?”

  I cross my arms and give him a snarky look. “You know you are.”

  He leans close and I smell that delicious aroma of his, a mixture of some manly soap he likes to use and good old-fashioned male sweat. And yet, there’s always something more. For the first time, I wonder if angels smell thi
s good.

  We’re two seconds away from kissing when a car rushes into the convenient store parking lot, sending up a cloud of dust. TB’s eyes light up and I believe I’m witnessing what I’ve never noticed before, my husband the descendant receiving information from a divine source.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  TB doesn’t respond but he takes my hand and pulls it through his elbow, holding me close. We walk toward the store while the man in the car emerges and loiters around the gas pumps. He doesn’t move to get gas but for all we know there’s someone else in the car who might need a restroom break or a bite to eat. The entrance to the store is to the right of the parked car so I can’t get a good look. To tell the truth, I don’t want to. The driver paces the area near his car nervously and that, plus TB’s silence, has my nerves on edge.

  We enter the store and TB immediately looks for the clerk, still gripping my hand tightly. There’s no one in the store, not even someone manning the cash register.

  “Odd,” I say.

  TB moves toward the freezer section and we check out the ice cream selections but he never lets go of my hand. A back door opens and an elderly man appears, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans.

  “Oh, hey there. Can I help you?” he asks us.

  “Just getting ice cream,” I answer.

  Once the owner gets situated behind the counter, the driver of the car runs inside, pulls out a gun and starts shouting, throwing items from the counter on to the floor.

  “Give my everything in your cash register, old man, or you’re the first one dead.”

  You’d think I would have seen this coming, but it all happens so fast that I scream — and I’m not a screamer. The man turns and points his gun at me and TB.

  “Shut up. Don’t move. Or you’re next.”

  I swear my heart’s sitting in my throat where I hear it pounding madly. I feel more than see TB quietly slipping in front of me when the gunman turns his attention back to the owner.

  “Money old man,” he shouts. “Now!”

  TB’s left arm pulls me soundly behind him and the next thing I know there’s a flash of bright light that blinds us all and the sound of a large item flying across the store. The gun fires, glass breaks, and TB makes a funny sound, but when I’m able to focus once again, the gunman’s lying on the floor, the owner’s rushing from behind the counter, and TB’s standing there as if nothing’s happened.

  I have no idea what just occurred but I move from behind TB and join the owner to see if the gunman’s incapacitated. He’s out cold, a gallon of mint chocolate chip by his head, the creamy goodness leaking out all over the floor.

  “What the hell just happened?” the owner shouts, while I take the gunman’s pulse.

  I look around me and find the gun, pick it up, and stand over the man. My hands are shaking but if this dude wakes up, I’m ready.

  “Did you call 9-1-1?” I ask the air, not sure what either man is doing.

  The owner heads back to the counter muttering, “I need to sell this damn place.” Then I hear him speaking to someone on the phone. I glance back toward the freezer wondering why TB is so quiet and find him leaning against the glass, looking shell shocked.

  “Baby, you okay?”

  My voice brings him back and he straightens, heads my way. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  When TB gets closer, I catch the red stain on his upper arm.

  “Oh my God, TB, you’ve been shot.”

  TB looks at me like he doesn’t comprehend what I’m saying but then frowns and glances at his arm. Once he spots the growing red spot, his eyes roll back in his head and he faints. If it wasn’t for the owner and me acting fast and breaking his fall, my sweet husband, who more than likely averted an armed robbery or worse, would have crashed into the pork rinds.

  We’re sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance, me covered in a warm blanket to ward off shock and TB on a gurney having his arm bandaged. The bullet only grazed his skin but it bled like a mother, which is why my husband lost consciousness; he can’t stand the sight of blood. One of the EMT’s explaining how to clean the wound, but TB’s not listening so I’m mentally taking notes. My husband’s been in Never-never Land ever since the shooting.

  Finally, the EMT heads off to check on the owner, who’s talking non-stop to the head cop, a short-haired woman in uniform who listens intently, her hand on the butt of her gun. Every once in a while she looks our way, eyes narrowed as if she doesn’t quite believe what went down. I’m not sure I do, either, so I’m praying she doesn’t walk this way.

  Once the EMT is done, TB moves to sit on the tailgate next to me. I look over and the EMT was right, the wound looks messy but the bullet barely scratched the surface. I slip my hand through his elbow but he winces, so I hold his hand instead.

  “You okay?”

  “It stings, but that’s about it. I can’t believe I fainted.”

  I laugh, because he was a jewel for hours in the hospital delivery room when I was giving birth but passed out cold when Lillye crowned. Lucky for us, there was an extra-large nurse behind him, breaking his fall.

  “Yeah, I know,” he says. “You’ve seen it before.”

  “Good thing you’re not a SCANC. Some of these apparitions come through pretty messed up.”

  TB looks at me wide-eyed. “I didn’t know. That’s horrible. Good thing is right.”

  “But then, you’re pretty Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  I’m hoping he explains what happened in the convenience store but TB sits there quietly, swallowing hard, and I can feel the tension in his body. He possibly saved our lives, I think, acting in a split second to do so. I suddenly realize just how frightening having this power can be.

  The cop wanders over and pulls out a pad from a back pocket.

  “Detective Wanda Juarez,” she says and we both nod. “Mr. Sanderson over there said you knocked out our perp with a gallon of Blue Bell.”

  Now that I think about it, where was my Millennial Crunch? I look at TB. “Mint chocolate chip?”

  He returns with a look that says I’ve lost my mind.

  “Excuse me?” Wanda asks.

  “Sorry, Viola Valentine.” I figure we should also start with names. “My husband, TB.”

  Wanda starts writing our names on her pad but stops and frowns. She’s losing patience with me.

  “Sorry once again. Thibault Boudreaux.” I spell both out for her. “In Louisiana, when a son is named after the father like TB is, they call the son little whatever but in French, petite whatever.”

  Wanda looks so confused and I don’t blame her. Oh, why couldn’t my husband just call himself something easy?

  “I was named for my grandfather Thibault,” TB explains as if there’s nothing unusual about any of this. “My dad, too. But Thibault is such an unusual name so my dad called himself Bubba.”

  “Okay, Bubba…,” Wanda interrupts, ready to ask questions.

  “We’re Cajun and Cajuns like to name their kids after their dads and call them petite Joe or petite Bubba,” TB continues. “Which then gets shortened and becomes T-Joe and T-Bubba.”

  “So, you’re T-Bubba?” Wanda asks, losing patience.

  TB beams. “That’s right. Only people call me TB.”

  Wanda nods, eyes narrowed. “What brings you here tonight, Mr. TB?”

  TB’s about to correct her that mister isn’t necessary until I say, “We’re staying at this Airbnb down the street.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like a bed and breakfast but cheaper. Mr. Rodriguez owns it.”

  Wanda nods again, writes in her pad but says nothing, waiting for us to explain. I covered the cops beat when I worked for the New Orleans Post and they’re notoriously quiet when questioning suspects, waiting for you to get nervous and spill the beans. Or, if you’re a journalist like me, hoping you’ll get tired of no answers and move on. They all drove me nuts.

  “We walked over here to get ice cream,” I say.


  “She wanted some anniversary flavor but I got mint chocolate chip,” TB adds, which makes me smile.

  “Something funny, Miss Valentine, or is it Mrs. Boudreaux?”

  TB’s grip lessens and I sense he’s going to let my hand go so I squeeze our hands together. “I kept my maiden name because I’m a writer but we’re definitely married.” At least, for now.

  Wanda looks from one of us to the other. “Who threw the ice cream?”

  At this point, TB lets my hand go and crosses his arms about his chest. “I did.”

  “And that’s it? You threw the Blue Bell and knocked the guy out.”

  “Pretty much.”

  She smiles like someone’s throwing her a curve ball. “And this white light?”

  “What white light?” I ask, hoping to diffuse.

  Wanda’s not buying it. I can tell she senses there’s more to the story, although why she would care about details when we solved the crime is beyond me. Once again, I’m remembering those jerky cops back in New Orleans and I grind my teeth.

  “You got your man,” I say with a bit more force than I should. “What else do you need from us?”

  Wanda straightens, not liking my tone. “My ‘man’ is part of several who have been robbing stores lately. And there’s been a lot of out-of-town folks involved. Where are you two from?”

  “New Orleans,” I say. “We’re here on vacation.”

  This doesn’t go down well and I know why. New Orleans sits on Interstate 10, a federal road notorious for drug runners from Florida to Texas.

  “How long are you here?”

  “We’re not sure,” TB says, which is not the right thing to say and I grimace.

  “We’re doing some research on my family,” I add quickly, “then driving back to New Orleans by Thanksgiving. We were hoping to see some of the coast on the way back.”

  Wanda absorbs this, says nothing for a few moments, no doubt to keep the tension going and us on our toes. Now, I’m really getting irritated.

  “TB knocked that guy out and got shot in the process. Seriously, you think we had something to do with whatever is happening in your town?”