Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  “We better head down,” TB says.

  I hand him his phone and as I do Cookie’s number appears as a recent call. TB doesn’t say anything, puts his phone into his pocket and heads for the door. I check on Stinky who appears calmer and emerges from beneath the bed to check out the food I put out. I join TB in the hall and we say nothing until the elevator. Once inside, I can’t help myself.

  “Are you in love with Cookie?”

  TB looks at me and frowns. “Who?”

  “The real estate agent.”

  He does a jerky laugh, like a burp that slips up your chest. “Denise?”

  I cross my arms about my chest and stare at the elevator door. When they open to the lobby and I start to leave, TB grabs my elbow and pulls me back. He hits the close door button and then every floor going up.

  “Are you crazy?” he asks as we ascend to the second floor.

  I look his way and he’s almost smiling. “You’ve been looking for something this whole trip and this time I noticed she called so I assumed it’s been your phone.”

  The doors open to the second floor and no one’s there. This time, TB’s grinning broadly. “Are you jealous?”

  The doors close. Of course, I am, but I say nothing.

  “Jeezum, Vi. I told you there was nothing between us.”

  “Then why does she keep calling?”

  The doors open to the third floor and again, no one’s there.

  “Because she’s staging our house for sale, remember?”

  The doors shut. “It looked fine the last time I was there.”

  The elevator moves up and TB turns solemn. “Yeah, well, she’s kinda got a thing for me and keeps coming around. Every time she does she brings more stuff and the place gets nicer so I’ve been letting her do it.”

  When the doors open to the fourth floor, I grab his elbow and pull him out. “I can’t take this another floor. Let’s go back down.”

  TB shakes his head. “Not until you hear me out.”

  Part of me wants to know and part of me wants to run screaming from the building. I made a huge mistake leaving this man and I’m scared to death it’s too late. Tears threaten so I look down at my feet. I feel a soft finger at my chin and TB pulls my head up so we’re eye-to-eye.

  “I love you, Vi,” he says so softly and passionately that my toes curl. “I always have and I always will.”

  “But…,” I begin.

  “But nothing. She was a moment one night when you were off experimenting but it meant nothing to me.”

  I think back on my tryst with a colleague when I had a job reviewing hotels and I cringe. He was an asshole. Literally. I visited hotels and reviewed them silently, without anyone’s knowledge, while he checked in and complained about everything under the sun to see how employees reacted to jerk customers. Sleeping with him was a whim, a chance to let off steam after the storm and TB and I had separated. Nothing more. Was that what he did too?

  “I’m sorry about that,” I whisper, looking down at my feet again.

  “Don’t be,” he says with confidence, which makes me look up. “I was in a dark place after Lillye died, wasn’t helpful to you or anyone else. Then Katrina hit, and you leaving me was just the kick in the pants I needed. I’m loving school and my new friends, am realizing how working construction and watching sports all the time with my drunk buddies isn’t enough for me anymore. And it’s all because of you.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I nod. Truth is, I feel the same, that our separation was just the thing I needed to work through my grief and realize what I had. That maybe the two of us came together out of necessity but belonged to each other regardless. And that there is order and meaning to the universe, after all.

  “So, you want to stay married to me?” I ask.

  He gives me a look that I said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Of course, I do.”

  “And if you go to Tennessee, you’ll take me with you?”

  He’s smiling broadly now. “If you want.”

  I think of my home in Louisiana and how being from such a unique city like New Orleans defines a person for life. On one hand, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. But on the other, after the horrors we experienced, much of which I was forced to recall driving up the beach in Galveston, I can’t wait to leave.

  I nod and smile and TB grabs my face with both hands on my cheeks and kisses me soundly. Then I wrap my arms around his strong shoulders and we embrace tightly.

  The elevator bings and we both jump. An elderly couple emerges and stops abruptly when they spot us standing there, blushing. We offer smiles and salutations, then jump into the elevator and make our escape. But we steal more kisses all the way down.

  We walk up to the table where Portia, Wanda and Mimi are seated, all looking at us as if they know something has transpired. Before we sit down, TB lets out a squeal. Well, more like an exclamation of “What?” He rushes over to the counter where several tourism brochures are displayed, gazing up at a poster hanging above. I look back at the table and shrug, pull out a chair and sit down. When TB arrives, he’s grinning from ear to ear, hands me a paper.

  “What is it?” Mimi asks, but I’m too busy laughing.

  “It’s a seventies show-down,” TB answers. “A dance-off contest tonight in the lobby.”

  Portia leans forward and grabs the announcement from TB’s hand to study it further. “So?”

  “So,” I answer proudly, taking my husband’s hand, “you’re looking at the LSU dance-off champions of 1997.”

  I think back on that magical night when we dressed like disco dancers — yes, we choreographed a number to seventies music — and blew our competitors away; we were that good. It was a high not easily forgotten, a rush so intense we slipped out after the trophies and prize money and rushed home to make love.

  It was also the night we created Lillye.

  That thought begins in the depths of my belly and moves up through my chest like a bubble from the bottom of the ocean. It threatens to enlarge, to take over my chest and pull me back into the depths of darkness where I’ve spent years wallowing in grief. But instead I exhale, release that bubble into the air and gaze into my husband’s chocolate brown eyes. For the first time, he appears to have hope.

  Amazingly enough, so do I.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m staring at rows and rows of polyester and can’t believe that on this day of all days, while my aunt and sister are out searching for my father through police reports, TB and I hunt for a dance-off costume.

  “We really should be with them,” I tell him as I pull an amazingly tacky shirt John Travolta would have killed for off the rack.

  “It doesn’t take four people to go through the files,” TB says, admiring a white suit. “That’s what Wanda said.”

  He pulls said suit off the wall and displays it proudly.

  “Yeah, sure, I guess so.”

  “Did you find anything yet?”

  I look around this vintage clothing store that Sarah recommended and I’m not sure I want to be dressed as a disco queen tonight or dance a number TB and I created years ago. Not to mention my muscles may not cooperate. I’m not a college coed anymore.

  “Are you sure we can pull this off?”

  TB removes a deep blue shirt off the rack and beams. “Sarah said we could use the garage at her sister’s condo and it’s just down the street.”

  I spot a dress that might work, pull it out and check the size. “The big question is not where to rehearse but do we still know the steps.”

  “I never forgot,” TB says as he heads toward the check-out counter. He motions toward my dress. “You getting that?”

  It’s my size and it’s not horrid — actually, it’s kinda cute — so I nod my approval. “But I need shoes.”

  Another thing I’m not too keen about, dancing in high heels again. I’m not into feet torture so I spend my life in flats and Converses. But I spot a cute black pair with a reasonable heel that
’s my size. I grab them and some dangling earrings and meet TB at the counter.

  While we’re waiting for the clerk to ring up our purchases, my phone rings. It’s Portia.

  “We’ve got an address,” she says before I can say hello.

  “Great.”

  “Not really. The building has been torn down. Hurricane Ike took off the roof and the water damage was too much so they razed the place.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  I hear Portia sigh and know she’s as tired of this pursuit as I am. “I don’t know, Vi. You and that research guru have any ideas?”

  Did she just compliment my husband? I look over at TB and he’s beside himself gazing at a pair of platform shoes. When he notices me staring, his smile fades. “What?”

  “They got nowhere. Any suggestions?”

  TB takes my phone and offers Portia a few sources to check out at the local library, city directories, newspaper files and the like. When he hangs up, I ask, “Should we go help them?”

  “I doubt they’ll find anything. People who want to stay hidden usually do. But it’ll make them feel productive.”

  The man continues to amaze me. He’s absolutely right. Nothing would drive Portia crazy more than sitting in her room wondering what else to do.

  We purchase our clothes and head down island to Sarah’s sister’s condo. Sarah insisted we’ll know where to turn once we spot the Kettle House. She didn’t explain, simply laughed and handed us the map. When the structure comes into view, we get it.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  The house is constructed completely of metal with rounded pieces welded together. Petite windows peek out near the roofline and a door sits at its base. It curves upward like a kettle but reminds me more of a tea cup with a roof.

  “You need to write about that one,” TB says.

  We turn on to the road before the weird house and it ends at Stewart Road. The name reminds me of my vision and I shiver.

  “You cold?” TB asks.

  I am, actually. I’ve been so thrilled that fall arrived after a brutally hot summer that I failed to pack enough warm clothing. “I’m okay,” I tell him.

  TB reaches an arm over the seat and pulls his hoodie over. “I brought an extra one, just in case.”

  The man has a few failings but being sweet and considerate was never one of them. I send him a grateful smile and pull the enormous hoodie over my head, its sleeves hanging below my wrists, which I pull up to my elbows.

  “This will be fun to dance in.”

  Just past Stewart Road is a complex of condominiums and we pause at the number Sarah gave us, parking outside the garage so we can utilize the space. I roll up my sleeves and we both change shoes, his platforms making him taller than usual which alarms me but when I add my own we’re back to normal, my chin barely above his shoulder line. We make our stance, start the music on my iPod, then smile and exhale, wondering if our youth has gotten away from us. There are plenty of slips, falls and stumbles, but for the most part, when we start dancing, it all comes back.

  Once we make it through the routine without an error we decide to head upstairs to see what a condo rental looks like on Galveston Island.

  “In case I need to write about one,” I say and we both laugh, because we know it’s more out of curiosity and the hope of bottled water lying about. I feel like a kid snooping in an abandoned building and I must admit, it’s pretty exciting.

  The condo’s dressed in nautical blues and reds with beach items about and photos of good-looking male blonde surfers gracing the walls. It’s adorable, with one main bedroom and a second sporting bunkbeds. The bath smells heavenly and the kitchen offers an abundance of bottled water so TB and I share one.

  We change our dancing shoes into sneakers and slip on to the balcony overlooking Como Lake, which is really an inlet from the back bay that services the marinas around us. Sarah said the complex abuts the Galveston Country Club and there are boats everywhere, including in the slip below us. Above us, a variety of seabirds fly about.

  Lillye would have loved it here.

  TB’s busy admiring the fancy boats when my phone sounds again. I look at the number and realize I never called my cousin back.

  “Tabitha, what’s up?”

  “You said you would call.”

  “I know, but I’ve been very busy. You have no idea what we’ve been through….”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  I sigh because it’s likely more of her Carnival exploits. “Okay.”

  “It’s about my tiara.”

  Yep. Here we go. I’m having a good day for the first time in a week and the last thing I need is listening to a relative brag about themselves. I love my cousin, but not in the mood to listen to her today.

  “Tabitha, I’m in the middle of something. I promise I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

  “But, it’s important.”

  “I’m sure your tiara can wait a day.”

  “But….”

  I say a hasty goodbye and hang up in the most polite way possible. TB asks what’s up but all I say is “Tabitha” and roll my eyes. And yet, I feel guilty. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to spoil the moment.

  “I’ll call her tomorrow,” I say and wrap my arms about TB’s waist. He responds with a kiss that promises greater things later on and then we embrace, my chin resting on his shoulder.

  It’s then I spot the old mansion.

  “What’s that?” I say and pull away.

  TB turns and follows my line of sight. “Some old house.”

  Across the lake and down a long driveway lies a Spanish Mission-style house shrouded in trees and palms. I’m sure it’s abandoned but there’s something drawing me to this place. When I spot what looks like blue tile, I shiver. Violently.

  “What is it?” TB says, examining me.

  “I can’t explain it but I need to go there.”

  My husband knows me enough not to question things so we head out, me now shivering constantly since the temperature has dropped and dark clouds are hovering over us, threatening rain. We drive back to Stewart Road and turn right, head a few yards up before we see the driveway entrance and a stone sign above announcing “Stewart Mansion” in faded letters.

  “Well, now we know who Stewart was,” TB says.

  We idle at the entrance for several moments, neither of us saying what we’re thinking, which is do we or do we not? I’m of the mind to head back to that luxurious hotel and see if the spa’s still open but the coincidence of this place to my vision haunts me. And if Mimi is right, that there are no coincidences, I need to see what’s inside.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper, hearing the fear in my voice.

  TB hears it too. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “I saw this place. I’m almost sure of it. It means something.”

  TB moves the car into drive and we head down the long entranceway. The place must have been beautiful once for there are Spanish tiles on the roof, intricate windows clouded with either years of abuse or boards on the inside, and lovely Spanish arches.

  “I’d bet this is turn-of-the-century or 1920s,” TB says.

  He parks the car and we both get out, seeing nothing of importance in the front of the house so we snake around to the side where the house faces the lake. I can see our condo from here, peering above the marina that rests in between.

  Along the side we find more arches, patios, and stone stairs leading to the second story. I spot a fireplace in the patio and what looks like a round fountain in its center, what must have been a lovely way to enjoy the outdoors, sipping drinks beneath the ancient live oak trees. But it’s the gorgeous royal blue tiles everywhere that catches my eye, with decorative tiles sporting images placed about. One tile reflects a Mexican artist in a sombrero painting a massive pot, another a man on a donkey. Many of the tiles are broken or chipped and the fountain smells from the nasty water within. Weeds grow everywhere and the concrete used to creat
e this mansion peels in disuse and is colored with age.

  “What a waste,” TB says, looking around. “Why would someone let this beautiful place fall apart?”

  I shake my head because I’m thinking the same thing, that and why did I see the name Stewart and blue tile.

  Then I remember the pirate.

  “There’s a pirate here,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “I’m going in,” I tell TB, although what I might find inside scares me to the core.

  I discover a door that leads inside the building but before I enter TB grabs my elbow. He motions to the graffiti everywhere. “There might be squatters inside.”

  I nod because as much as ghosts can be frightening, real people are notoriously worse. We peel back the wooden door that’s been warped by weather and age and enter the home. There’s evidence of people living here — empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, newspapers, and cardboard pieces — but the place appears empty. For good measure, we call out as we walk through the darkened rooms but all that returns are weird echoes that make us shiver.

  As we enter what looks like the main living area, there’s a staircase heading to the second floor, tall ceilings, an old piano that’s been left to rot, and oversized murals dotting the walls. One is of a pirate, resting a rifle over his shoulder with a pistol stuck in his belt. There’s a chest at his feet in the painting, which matches a similar one in the corner of the room.

  “I saw this,” I tell TB, pointing to the mural.

  “What? Where?”

  “In a vision I had when Mimi was showing me something about the moon.”

  The full moon’s tonight, I suddenly remember, and shiver again.

  TB slips behind me and holds me tight, rubbing my arms in an effort to warm me. But nothing can stop the feeling that something’s not right here, something horrible has taken place and I’ve been designated the one to find it.

  I point to the chest. “What do you think is in that?”

  Now, it’s TB’s turn to shiver. After a few moments of us staring at the chest, he releases me and heads in that direction.