by Ellen Datlow
Now, months later, Jasper approached his father and stood cautiously beside him, yet far enough that he might leap beyond the arc of a swinging arm. The blood had crusted under his father’s nose and on his lips. The flesh along the right hinge of his jaw had swollen and gone dark purple, almost black. His mouth gaped open and the raw stink of liquor—and something else, something ripe and frightening—blew out of him with each heave of his lungs.
“Dad?” Jasper whispered. “Can I have some breakfast?”
His father didn’t make a sound. Jasper was relieved. This meant he could pour himself a second bowl of Rice Krispies, and even put some extra sugar over it. Previous experience had taught him that as long as he was quiet, he would likely have the run of the place until well into the afternoon. Even then his dad would wake up chastened, and keep mostly to himself. It might be a good day.
After breakfast he spent most of the morning perambulating about the property, whacking the leaves from tree branches with a stick and singing snippets of songs he half remembered from when his mama still lived here and played her radio. Before the days when the only music she tolerated was God’s music. He climbed the hill to where his father’s hives were kept, and stood at the edge of the clearing, listening to them drone. There were six of them, big white boxes on table legs, bees swooning in drunken orbits.
Finally, he got hungry for lunch, and made his reluctant way home. He approached the house with a soft step, wanting to preserve the peace of the day just a little while longer. There were two capped honey jars on either side of the front door, a twisted strip of paper barely visible in each. He never asked what his father wrote down on them. They were used more often since Mama had left, though; and because this was part of their interaction with the spirit world, Jasper made note of it in his book.
Jasper turned the handle on the door and eased it open. If you did it slowly enough, the hinges wouldn’t squeak. He stopped—only a two-inch gap between the door and the jamb—when he heard a sound. He didn’t understand what it was at first; when he did, his blood chilled.
His father was crying. His breath came in a series of small, broken gasps, like he was trying to suck it back into himself. From this vantage point, Jasper could see his left shoulder, his left knee. He was hunched over, and with each stifled sob his body shook. Jasper retreated, quietly closing the door again. He returned to the woods, this time to sit upon a rotted stump and dwell over the image of his father brought low.
He had never seen the man cry before—not when Lily died, not when Mama left them both for whatever called out to her from the wider world. He had seen him fight, and he had seen him take some hard licks. God knows he’d seen him deliver them too; he’d been on the receiving end more than a few times. But to see him weeping in the broad light of day was harder than any clout to the head. The ground felt suddenly fragile, like a shell over a great hollow.
He remembered what his uncle had told him. “You can learn a lot about something just by watching it, and paying attention to what it does when it thinks it’s by itself.” Jasper considered writing down what he saw, but held back. His father was not a ghost. He didn’t belong in a book about them.
They already had a ghost in the family.
Lily died a year ago, when Jasper was nine years old. She’d been a loud and willful child, with a core of mischief that frequently landed her in trouble. Because their father’s rages were indiscriminate, Jasper often joined her there, whether he deserved it or not. On the last day of her life, she ignored their parents’ restrictions and ventured too close to the hives, and got herself stung several times. She raised holy hell, running back to the house with a wail so loud Jasper thought his eardrums might split. They both took a beating that day—Lily for disobeying, and Jasper for letting her do it. Their father had already been deep into the bottle, so he delivered his blows with extra enthusiasm. Jasper hated Lily for it. As they were ushered to bed, he told her that he was going to beat her too, and he was going to do it even harder than their dad did. He had no such intention, but it felt good to say it. It felt good to see her scared of him.
That night both children went to sleep, but only Jasper woke up again. His parents said she must have been allergic to bee stings, and suffocated in the night. The bee sting had happened hours before bed, and she’d been breathing just fine then; but Jasper didn’t understand how allergies worked, so he had no real reason to doubt it. He thought about the last thing he’d said to her, and cried silently into his pillow.
He never saw her body.
Everything changed after that. That’s when Mama started talking to God in her weird new language. That was when the music she played on the radio changed. In some ways it was nice, because she paid more attention to him. She hugged him more, and she told him about how he could protect himself from the evil spirits. That’s when his dad started putting the jars out, too; so he could catch them before they got inside the house.
Mama didn’t let him talk about Lily, after the Holy Spirit joined them. Jasper liked that at first, because it meant that she stopped crying about her all day. There was room to breathe again. And he liked all the extra attention that came his way.
But after a while, he wondered how Lily felt about it. He wondered if it made her feel lonely.
A thought occurred to him. He tore a page from his book—it seemed sacrilegious, but Uncle Kyle did say a handbook was like a conversation—and wrote a few questions onto it. They were questions he thought a naturalist might ask, but mostly they were questions he was actually curious about. Questions he’d want someone to ask him, if he was a ghost.
Why do you live in the well instead of at home with me and dad? Are you mad at me?
What do you eat when you’re hungry?
Are you scared because you’re alone in the dark?
Then he walked out to the ruined well, sunk beyond the tree line, its lip flush with the ground and covered over by a handful of rotting boards. An abandoned chicken coop sagged on its foundations nearby, its door perpetually locked to keep kids from mischief, haunted now by black widow spiders and paper wasps. Jasper leaned over the stone lip and peered into the black hole. Before Lily had taken up residence there, he had dropped rocks into it, and sometimes larger items—once, daringly, a schoolbook. Each time whatever he threw disappeared from sight. He could almost count to ten before he heard the distant, heavy squelch of mud.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it down.
He returned to the house with trepidation, but was pleased to see his father standing up, shuffling his feet as he moved slowly across the living room, toward the kitchen. He held his hand against the side of his head. He winced as he turned to face Jasper.
“Where you been all day?”
Jasper studied the tone of the words, trying to get a sense of his father’s mood. “Outside.”
His dad flicked his eyes to the windows, as if someone might be staring inside. “Your Uncle Kyle come by?”
“No, sir.”
“If he does, you make sure you let me know right away. Don’t you talk to him, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” Jasper didn’t think his uncle would be coming back. A border had been crossed last night, and now they all traveled through a darker world.
His father made his way into the kitchen, passing the door to the root cellar. He paused once for balance, then opened the cupboard by the sink where he kept his liquor. Jasper knew it was empty, and he steeled himself for a shift in the atmosphere.
Father seemed calm about it, though. He turned slightly and leaned against the counter. Gingerly, he lifted his shirt, teeth bared in pain. His pale white belly sagged over his belt, and a bruise the size of a small plate marred his left side. It was dark blue, almost black at its center, and Jasper gasped to see it. Father let the shirt fall again. Air hissed through his clenched jaw.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
“Fetch me my wallet.”
Jasper darted into his p
arents’ bedroom—just his father’s bedroom, now. The air smelled close and sour. Laundry, both dirty and clean together, lay in small piles on the floor, and mounded on a chair. He found the wallet on the nightstand, a narrow flap of brown leather worn pale through long use. A cereal bowl with a scum of milk sat beside it, along with a water glass reeking of whiskey. A couple of his father’s little orange medicine bottles lay nearby.
Mama’s things used to be on the other side of the room, in her bureau. In truth, most of them had been gone long before she actually left. The jewelry box spilling over with department store finery; the Hollywood gossip magazines; the tubes of lipstick and boxes of eye shadow she doted over, trying on new styles and asking Jasper his opinion of them—all vanished when the Holy Spirit came into her life. Her own disappearance just seemed like the conclusion to a long process. The place had the feeling of an empty socket.
He brought the wallet out to his dad, who took it from him and extracted a twenty dollar bill. “I need you to go on down to the grocery and get me some of that Evan Williams.”
Jasper accepted the bill with a thrill of trepidation. “But can I even buy it?”
“Should be old Wiley behind the counter. Just tell him I sent you. He’ll sell it to you.”
“Are you sure?”
Anger clouded his father’s face. “Go on, boy.”
Jasper cut through the woods and ran past the beehives until he reached the asphalt road, a pocked two-lane passage through a green vault of trees. He slowed down here and allowed himself to amble a bit, reveling in the heat of the sun on his shoulders. The walk was long, and for a time he lost himself in the easy, flighty thoughts of a ten-year-old boy in late summer.
Wiley’s store—simply called Groceries—was situated at a four-way intersection with stop signs at each corner. Jasper looked before he crossed, but there wasn’t anything coming from any direction. There hardly ever was. Mr. Wiley’s car was parked off to the side, next to a big propane tank people used to fill up their own tanks for grilling.
Inside, it was cool and dark. Mr. Wiley kept the blinds down to keep the heat at bay. An air conditioner labored on the far side of the store. The old man was already staring at him as he pushed his way in, like he had some instinct that helped him pick out little miscreants while they were still coming from a mile up the road. His face was hard and unwelcoming.
Jasper hesitated, then approached the counter and placed his father’s money on top of it.
“Well?” said Mr. Wiley.
Now that the moment had arrived, he couldn’t remember the name of the whiskey he was supposed to get. Panic percolated in his guts.
“That’s a lotta money for you to be haulin’ around, son. You come to clear me outta my chocolate bars?”
“No, sir. My dad sent me for his bottle of whiskey.”
Mr. Wiley’s face maintained its dour configuration. “Did he now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind does he want?”
“I . . . I don’t remember. I think it has a black sticker.”
“They’s a lotta black labels, son.”
Jasper lowered his head to concentrate. The harder he tried, the further it slipped away. He could almost see it go. His father waited for him on the end of his return trip. He was hurting and all he wanted was his favorite drink, and Jasper couldn’t even remember what it was. He started to cry; it shamed him, but he couldn’t help it.
“Okay now, that’s fine, that’s all right. I know what your dad drinks.” Mr. Wiley turned around and shambled over to a shelf behind him, where he kept ranks of bottles. He pulled down one that looked just like what his dad kept at home. There was the name, too: Evan Williams. It looked almost magical, solid and full, and he knew his dad would be okay for a while. He tried to stop crying, but now he was so relieved he couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense.
Mr. Wiley punched some buttons on his cash register. “Your dad hasn’t been by with any honey for me to sell in a while. Got some folks askin’ after it. He still keepin’ his bees?”
Jasper thought about all the extra spirit traps. It never occurred to him that that meant less honey to sell. “Yessir,” was all he could think of to say.
“Hm. Well I got to say I’m surprised he still has money to spend, now he’s not getting your mama’s disability checks anymore.”
Jasper felt obscurely insulted by this statement, though he didn’t really understand it.
Mr. Wiley took the money and counted out some change. He paused and looked at the boy. “Unless he is.” He stared at Jasper, like he was waiting for him to say something important. Something that might change things for good.
“My mama left,” Jasper said.
Mr. Wiley pushed the change across the counter. He didn’t meet Jasper’s eyes; he seemed somehow chastened. “Yeah. I know she did, son.” He slid the bottle into a paper bag and handed it over. “You be careful with that, now. Don’t drop it.”
“I won’t.”
As Jasper was leaving, Mr. Wiley said, “Grab some chocolate off the shelf. For the walk home. Go on, now.”
Jasper grabbed a Hershey bar with almonds. He felt funny doing it: guilty and grateful at the same time. He turned around and said thank you, but Mr. Wiley already had his back to him.
• • •
It was late August, and the sun still lingered well into the evening. Jasper kept a wary eye on it as he hurried along the empty blacktop toward home. It winked through the leaves, dipping a little further each time he turned away. Shadows flitted through the trees on either side, swelling from the earth. Fireflies drifted in glittering tides. He thought about the feral ghosts, the ones who kept their vigil on the outskirts of the woods, waiting for the protections around their house to fail. He hurried his step.
Jasper pulled the Hershey bar from his pocket. Mama would have disapproved. Sweetness attracts the devil, she said. But it didn’t seem like an evil thing. It seemed like a kindness. He tore off the outer wrapper, gently peeled down the silver paper, and bit the corner from it. He let it sit in his mouth for a moment, the warm flavor soaking into him, filling his awareness like a sweet and gentle word.
They’ll sniff you out. They’ll follow your stink all the way home. That’s why you leave the honey out. Evil gonna lap it right up.
Jasper devoured the chocolate in a few great bites, the guilt of it almost enough to ruin the flavor. He liked sweet things too; was that a sign of wickedness? Could the dark spirits smell him even now?
As though summoned by a spell, all his bad thoughts bubbled up from the mud in his brain: the way he thought Lily had earned her beating that night, even while he wanted to stop it but was too scared. How he’d threatened her himself. How he relished the peace that followed her death.
He left the road and ran along the shortcut through the woods, racing the nightfall. He passed the beehives, humming in the twilight, with a ripple of apprehension.
Despite the chocolate, he reached home safely. The sun was nearly spent, sending low orange beams through the black woods. His little house looked like a fortress. A warm yellow light slipped through drawn curtains and sent a spear into the night. He imagined Lily waking up now, her eyes spilling a cold light, her little blue fingers reaching through the mud toward the paper he’d dropped.
Stepping past the honey jars, Jasper went inside and closed the door gratefully.
The house stank. It wasn’t a smell he recognized. Something hovered beneath the old booze, something metallic and sour. His father was laid out on the couch again. He was awake, but he made no sign that he knew Jasper had returned. His face was pale, his hair plastered with sweat. He was whispering something, and for a moment Jasper wondered who else was here.
He realized with a chill that it was no one he could see.
“Dad?”
He retreated into a corner, his eyes darting around the living room, into corners, into the kitchen, looking for some sign of whoever his father was talking to. Did
something get past the jars? A short hallway led off the living room into the bedrooms. The doors to his room and his parents’ room were both open to yawning darkness.
“Dad, I got your drink.”
Still muttering.
Jasper thought he heard something moving outside. He quickly turned the deadbolt on the door, and scurried over to the couch, where he crouched on the floor by his father’s head. He wiped his father’s hair away from his forehead; the skin was hot to the touch. Scared, Jasper kept stroking his hair. “I got your drink. Want me to get you some?”
“. . . Lily . . .”
Jasper whipped his head around, his fingers gripping his father’s hair too tightly. The living room was bright and empty. He went to the window and pressed his face to the glass, seeing nothing but the empty slope of earth leading to the trees. Was his dad scared of Lily? Why?
“Go away.”
“Dad, stop!” Lower lip trembling, he returned to the couch. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and tilted it over his father’s mouth. The whiskey spilled down his cheek, but enough got in that his father stopped muttering and craned his neck to it, like a baby to the breast.
His father took it from him. He took another swallow, spilling nothing this time, and drew a shaky breath. His eyes found his son; they looked raw and bloodshot.
“Jasper,” he said. His voice sounded far away.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
His father palmed the back of Jasper’s head with a rough hand. The strength of that hand overwhelmed whatever fears had harried him along the walk home and worried him now; it was stronger than any ghost. He wanted it to overwhelm him, too.
“Tell her I’m sorry, boy. Tell her that for me.”
