A Haunting of Words

by Brian Paone et al.

  Kansas City sounded as good a destination as any other.

  Kansas City’s Greyhound station was larger and busier than in Emporia. The place was teeming with people. Some sleeping in their seats or in private conversation, while others chastised station employees over late arrivals, as if making another person’s day worse could bring their bus sooner.

  The members of Daddy’s Girl would have to wait an hour to board a Chicago-bound bus. In Chicago, they would have to board another to their hometown of Rockford.

  “Why are we going back home?” Solomon asked. “Really, what’s waiting for us there? What are we gonna do, go to our own funerals? I really don’t want to see my parents grieve. Sounds like a real blast.”

  “Where else do we go?” Billy retorted. “We don’t have any other home.”

  Solomon paced, hands aflutter. “We were about to travel the world, man, and we can still do so. We’ve proven to ourselves we can ride anywhere we want, am I right? Let’s just go.”

  “Your idea is tempting for sure, Sol. But I’d been planning on doing all that with … you know, beautiful women and champagne. Maybe a few drugs. Dead isn’t quite how I’d imagined.”

  “But you’re still saying yes, right?”

  “I want to see Ashley,” Howie said, cutting off the conversation.

  Billy wanted to throw something. If only he was able. “Jesus Christ, Howie. It’s fucking over. It’s been over. She couldn’t handle being with a traveling musician, man. Ashley’s a great girl, I’ve always thought so. But seriously, she waited for the record to come out before she left? She figured it out then?”

  “I could’ve stayed behind, you know. I would’ve been happy living a regular life with her, instead of being stuck in a van with you guys, only able to shower every few days, stinking to shit.”

  “Then why didn’t you stay?”

  “Because you wouldn’t let me.”

  “Wouldn’t let you?”

  “Yeah. I tried to leave, but you guys laid such a heavy guilt trip on me.”

  “Nobody tied your hands, Howie. We laid an even thicker one on Rich, and it didn’t stop him from bailing. We could’ve found a new drummer, just like we found Chad.”

  The mention of Chad shushed them all. Why wasn’t he with them? He was every bit as dead.

  Someone in the lobby chuckled, followed by, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  Along the back wall, in the corner, sat a man dressed in black. A black hat was pulled over his face. One dark boot rested on the floor, the other on the edge of his seat, with his arms wrapped around his knee. He made no further sound, and the dead men continued their talk.

  “Come on,” Billy said. “What would you do? Creep around her house and follow her everywhere? You’re dead, Howie. There’s nothing you can do anymore. Ashley will mourn you for a while, because she loves you. That, I’ve never doubted. But she’ll move on, bro. She’ll get married, have another man’s children. Because you’re dead.”

  “I know, Billy. I just need to leave her a message.”

  “How? We couldn’t even open the ambulance doors.”

  “No, but we were able to grab the handles and stand on the foot rail. Walk through walls. Sol had a car drive right through him, yes? But tell me this; how were we able to walk up the steps of the bus? How are we able to sit without falling through the chair to the floor? I think there’s rules to this whole being-a-ghost thing; certain allowances are being made. Whether it’s science or divinity, I can’t say.”

  Billy and Sol stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “So I’m thinking,” Howie continued, “there’s gotta be a way. I’m sure it’s possible. My old man bought this book a few years ago. It’s called Strange Stories, Amazing Facts. From Reader’s Digest, maybe. There’s all these stories on ghosts, how they can move objects. This stuff is supposedly true, with quotes from researchers and shit. I’m sure I can manage something.”

  “I think it’s a stretch,” Billy said.

  Solomon rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know; suppose it’s possible? Maybe there’s a learning curve?”

  “Okay, let’s say it can be done. Have you thought about how leaving Ashley a message might affect her? Are we sure it’s worth doing?”

  “Of course it’s worth doing,” a voice with an English accent said. “For love, anything is worth doing.”

  The guys turned to see who had spoken.

  “No way,” Howie said.

  A spasm of machine-gun laughter escaped Billy, and he quickly covered his mouth to stifle any more outbursts.

  Standing before them was the man in the black hat.

  “If I wasn’t dead,” Solomon said, “I swear I’d piss myself right now.”

  John Lennon gave him a look of amused disgust. “Then be glad you’re dead, mate. Soaking your trousers is no way to show admiration.”

  Billy could not stop staring. The ghost of John Lennon looked exactly as he had in the photos taken outside of the Dakota on the night he had been murdered.

  “Please lift your chins, gentlemen, before you drool over my boots. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Tell me, how long ago did it happen … dying?”

  “Just this afternoon,” Solomon said. “We’re a band. Were, anyway. Our van blew a tire, and we hit a tree.”

  “Ah, fresh wrapped fish,” Lennon said. “Well, let’s get to the business, shall we? Your friend deserves his chance to reach his girl. It’s absolutely possible. You lot weren’t able to open doors because you don’t know how, not because it cannot be done. You’re new to death; practice makes perfect.”

  “So we can open doors and move things around? How?”

  “I told you. Practice, like playing music. Now, where are you lads going?”

  “Rockford, Illinois,” Billy said.

  “Does your bus go there, straightaway?” Lennon asked.

  “Chicago first, then another bus to Rockford.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll go with you. Need to return to Chicago anyway. Gotta see a friend.”

  “And you happened to be in Kansas City?” Howie asked.

  “Right! How lucky are you lot?”

  “I’m only asking because, well, you’re John Lennon. Why Kansas City?”

  “Friends here, as well.”

  “You have friends here?”

  “I do now. A jazz pianist named Benny Moten—one of the original greats—was from here and still checks out the local jazz scene. Even after death, he couldn’t bear to leave what he helped create. Last night, I met The Bird,”—he nearly danced with excitement—“Charlie Parker, Jr. The one benefit, really, of being a spirit: meeting those who’ve come before and inspired you. The ones who have held on, anyway.”

  “Guys,” Howie said. “Keith Moon is one of my drum heroes. I’d love to meet him.”

  “Can’t happen,” Lennon said. “As far as I know, overdoses don’t hang around. I’m unsure why. Maybe it’s because the dope pulls ’em under before they go. Most who die sleeping don’t hang around either. They just slip through to whatever, if anything, is on the other side. Too bad, Keith was a good mate o’ mine. I’d like to see the nutty tosser, tell him how I feel about the end of his story.”

  “That’s the reason Chad isn’t with us,” Solomon said. “No wonder, he was asleep. I remember now.”

  Lennon nodded. “I’ve gone into libraries at night, researching. I’ve talked to others along the way, those who’ve remained. Some stay, some go, none of it makes any sense. There’s no patterns or rules I can tell, except I’ve never met an overdose. The majority of lingerers are those who’ve died violent deaths. Again, I don’t know why. The suddenness, perhaps; although for some it’s”—he snapped his fingers—“lights out. Like the three of you. Some of us struggle to cling to the rope while it slowly slides through our hands, burning our fingers along the way. I can’t tell you how long we’ll remain, I just have a kind of faith everything will be okay in the end. And if it’s not, well, then it’s not the end.�
��

  Everyone pondered the late Beatle’s words.

  “Hopefully,” Lennon continued, “your friend is in a better place, wherever he may be. On a sunnier note, I’ve spent the last year and a half traveling your country. I’ve met a lot of great musicians: Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding. I caught the feeling Patsy is ready to move on soon and probably will. Buddy told me only he and the pilot stood in the field after their plane crashed. Everyone else had gone to the wherever.”

  “Elvis, what about Elvis?” Billy asked. “Have you gone to Graceland?”

  “I have,” Lennon said. “He wasn’t around. Chicago, you say? I think our bus is about to leave the station, lads.”

  The bus ride from Kansas City to Chicago was a grueling twenty-four-hour trip as, unbeknownst to the four former musicians, the bus traveled first to St. Paul. They used the opportunity to learn more post-life lessons from Lennon. One could sit in any seat he wanted, and no living person would try to sit in the same space. People naturally avoided the dead.

  “They know you’re there,” Lennon said. “They just don’t know they know you’re there. You know?”

  He also taught the guys a game where they would sit next to a live passenger. Not knowing why, the poor living soul would feel cold and move to a new seat, whereby the offender would sit next to them in that location, forcing the passenger to relocate to yet another seat.

  Eventually tiring of Freeze Out, they took to asking their guide about his former band. For instance, was the original Paul, as rumors had supposed, dead as well?

  “Of course not. What rubbish. Paul McCartney is alive and well, making music. We did run with that one, however. Why not play into the mystique? No, Sergeant Pepper is just fine.”

  Solomon laughed. “If Paul is Sergeant Pepper, does that make you Billy Shears?”

  “The Billy Shears character sang ‘With a Little Help from My Friends.’ Ringo would be Billy Shears, no?”

  “What does that make you then?”

  “Lance corporal?”

  Most of the passengers were asleep. With St. Paul two hours behind them, Billy and John Lennon sat at the rear of the bus. Solomon and Howie were in the front, watching the road and the passing headlights under a moonless sky.

  “You lads are a band?”

  “We were.”

  “Successful?”

  “We were getting there. Rolling Stone loved our album; hailed us—well, mainly Sol—as the next big thing. The band to watch in ’82. We were wrapping up a club tour, then we were supposed to open for The Cars all summer.”

  “The Cars? I like The Cars. What did you call yourselves?”

  “Daddy’s Girl.”

  Lennon’s eyes grew huge, and he smacked Billy on his arm. “‘Radio Kisses!’ I love that song. You wrote ‘Radio Kisses?’”

  Billy laughed. “Sol and I wrote all the songs. Wow. You like our song?”

  “I do. I hear things here and there. Love the band name too. Androgynous, like New York Dolls or Alice Cooper.”

  “Yeah, except we were new wave.”

  “What a bullshit label—like punk or heavy metal. I did all of those, and it was called rock and roll.”

  Billy didn’t argue, he knew the man was right.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you lads died before you made the big time.”

  Billy sighed. “Yeah. Me too. Now I’ve just—”

  “Got regrets,” Lennon said.

  “I’ve had a few.”

  John Lennon chuckled and Billy was glad he had gotten the joke.

  “About how you and Solomon have treated your friend Howie over this young lady.”

  “Mister Lennon, how do you know all this? How I’m feeling? Death make you a mind reader?”

  “What? No. I’ve just seen it before. All of it. You live the life of a Beatle, you see and learn more than you ever cared to. I know how people tick. I may not always know what makes them tick, but I know the hows. You weren’t fighting over this girl, were you? Love triangle?”

  “No love triangle. Our keyboard player quit after we recorded the album. His wife was pregnant. We laid into him hard but he left anyway. An admirable decision, I suppose. We got a new guy, Chad. Then Howie’s girl, Ashley, broke up with him. She can’t be with someone who’s never gonna be around and always on the road. He was ready to quit, himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of life without her. This time the guilt trips worked. Shitty of us, I know, but I didn’t care. How dare he? We hadn’t come this far to merely shrug our shoulders and say, Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “You feel guilty?”

  “Fuck yeah, I feel guilty.”

  They rode several miles in silence.

  “You know,” Lennon said, “fame gets old really quickly.”

  Billy laughed. “Easy for you to say, you were only in the most popular band of all time.”

  “It was awful. No, seriously. You laugh, Billy, but I’m telling the truth. I loved making music with the guys, but the lack of freedom to do as we pleased, whenever and wherever?” He shook his head. “And to think, I was finally able to reclaim my freedom, my music, my family, everything cohesive and peaceful. Then … BAM.”

  “Mister Lennon …” Billy felt the fragile support of eggshells beneath the weight of the moment. He had to tread carefully or risk crushing it all.

  “Cut the Mister Lennon shit. Just John, please.”

  “John … did you ever think of paying him a visit?”

  Lennon cocked his head to the side. “Him, who? Who would I be visiting?”

  “You know, Chapman. Have you thought of haunting him?”

  John Lennon gave a sneer that tried to be a smile. He looked away, directing his gaze to the darkness beyond the window.

  “John, I’m sorry if I—”

  Lennon whipped his head back around, locking eyes with Billy. “Why would I ever do such a thing?” he asked, a restrained quake in his voice.

  “Payback? To make his life hell after what he did to you.”

  “Payback for what? For being a weak, doughy, feeble-minded man who hears voices in the walls? For thinking it was his duty to kill because he considers it hypocrisy to sing about peace and love and have money at the same time? I was a musician and a songwriter. People paid me for my product. Is that so fucking wrong? Why shouldn’t I cash the royalty checks? I earned them. I never cared about the critics; the only way to stay honest in that business was to make your art as you saw fit. I made my art. I battled my demons to fuck-all and won. You understand?”

  Billy nodded.

  “‘He went away,’ they said. I went nowhere. I took the time to stay home with my wife and child, was a father for the first time in my life because I fucked off my first go-around being a goddamn Beatle. I was living my life right for the first time, and along came some twit playing Jehovah with a book and a gun, claiming to be the second coming of Holden Caulfield. Did you ever read it? The Catcher in the Rye? Well I have and what a pot of piss! Some spoiled little rich brat mad at Mum and Dad, for what? Phoniness: ‘phony this, phony that.’ And who was the real phony? Some little broken man trying to be someone else, claiming to do God’s work. Piss on Mark Chapman, and piss on his version of God!”

  Even in death, Billy’s face was hot with shame. “Mister Lennon—John, listen. I’m so sorry.”

  Billy glanced toward the front of the bus. Solomon and Howie were still watching the road. He couldn’t tell if they had overheard any of the conversation.

  “Billy, I’m not angry with you. I’ve been holding in this garbage for almost a year and a half, and you were unfortunate enough to be in the way when it spilled over. Look, I haven’t even been able to check on my own family. It hurts too damn much. Like I said before, I have no idea how long you or I will be stuck in limbo. For all I know we could be lingering a hundred years from now or we could pass to the other side in an hour. I know I don’t want to see that man again, and I won’t be wasting my time in some pri
son, haunting a mental case who already has a hard time with reality. What I will do is help that young man sitting there reach through to his beloved. Maybe all his pining sounded silly a couple days ago, but now it’s all he has left. There is nothing else.”

  In Rockford, Illinois, the setting sun played a final waltz upon its crown of clouds, then settled into repose; a touch of blush the only clue of its passing. The last group of family and friends exited the Rigby home, unaware of being watched by the dead ex-boyfriend of the bereaved, his equally dead friends, and a Beatle.

  “This is where your Ashley lives?” Lennon asked.

  “Her parent’s house. I’m sure she’s here now,” Howie said.

  Solomon laid a hand on his shoulder. “We sure spent a lot of time here, bro.”

  Howie laughed. “Hell, I lost my virginity in this house.”

  Billy joined them. “Happened on a Friday. I know, because Sol and I raided the cereal cabinet and watched Donnie & Marie.”

  Lennon scowled. “You watched Donnie & Marie?”

  “Only because we thought Marie was cute,” Billy said, defending himself. “Besides, didn’t the Beatles have a Saturday morning cartoon?”

  “We had nothing to do with that drivel, and it was still better than Donnie & Marie.”

  “Yeah, but you’re nowhere near as cute as Marie.”

  “You’re right. Paul’s cuter.”

  The two men traded laughs and nudged elbows.

  “Guys,” Howie said, “I’m going inside. Are you all coming with me?”

  “We’re with you, lad. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready. Keep up.”

  Howie ran up the porch steps and passed through the front door. The others followed, almost running into the back of Howie, who stood in the middle of the foyer. Looking over Howie’s shoulder into the living room, Billy saw Ashley seated on the center cushion of the sofa. Her head hung in despair, fingers woven into her black hair.