by Brian Corley
Zoe held up her sheet for me to take a look—it was a cool house: a mixture of deep-stained wood slats and stucco painted a dark blue with a metal roof that overhung the sides to help shade the house in the summer and keep it cooler. Solar panels lined the entire length and breadth of the roof in back.
Judy and Glenn started noticing strange things here and there after construction was completed a few months ago—things like mail going missing, but only specific types of letters. The couple were politically active and noticed a drop-off in communication once they moved in. The mayor, for example, asked Judy if she received his invitation to a local fundraiser as he usually heard back from her almost immediately—she hadn’t. The head of the Travis County Republican Party called and asked why she wasn’t sending in responses to surveys or requests for fundraising anymore.
She checked to make sure that they had the right address; they did. She submitted a complaint to the postmaster general to let him know. Finally, after one of Texas’ US senators asked her what she thought about of some of the ideas he’d sent her in a series of letters, she came home and started looking around the house for herself. After looking through her desk to see if Glenn had set them there or put them in a drawer, she started looking through garbage cans. Sure enough, she found a campaign fundraising letter for the Republican nominee in one of the open city council spots. She confronted Glenn, who swore he hadn’t touched the letters and started talking about some of the strange things he’d been experiencing himself.
It started about six weeks ago, he said, when he got the car back from the paint shop. He woke up early the next morning to drink a coffee and admire his pride and joy, a 1967 Camaro, but instead walked into (what was for him) a horror scene. They had some five-gallon buckets of paint stored in the garage that were left over from the construction in case they needed touch-ups done around the house. He opened the garage door to find almost every one of those buckets off the shelves and scattered around the vehicle, and a mixture of white and gray latex house paint all over his Marina Blue paint job.
What confounded him was that he discovered the incidents with the doors to the garage closed and locked. He sent the car off to be repainted, and since its return two weeks ago, he had walked in periodically to find the tires deflated.
Glenn went on to tell Judy that sometimes when she was working late, he’d be home alone watching a program on his favorite conservative cable news channel when he would start to feel the air cool around him along with what he described as a “hostile energy.” Glenn wasn’t the type to throw around words like “energy” or “vibe,” and he couldn’t believe he was using them while he met with Zoe earlier that day. In fact, he couldn’t believe he was meeting with Zoe at all. Judy echoed the sentiment and shared her own stories of experiencing the same feelings while watching a morning program on the same channel, or sometimes while she was reading. Finally, and least disturbing, was that historically, neither one of them had been able to keep a plant alive—ever—but their yard and flower beds were thriving, as were two potted succulents they received as housewarming gifts. Those types of aberrations they could live with, though.
The radio on the fridge crackled as I asked, “Did anyone die in the fire that destroyed the previous house?”
Zoe looked up from her sheet and made a finger gun with her left hand.
“Right-o, Jonah, I was getting to that,” Zoe said.
She turned over her sheet to show a picture of a couple in their late sixties or seventies. They were the epitome of the old Austin hippy look—him with a ponytail, beard, and circular-framed glasses wearing an old Hawaiian button-down shirt, and she with long, braided hair and a flowing dress with oversized jewelry around her neck and wrists. They looked into the camera holding one another—comfortable, relaxed, and happy.
“George and Ramona Rodriguez—these are our likely candidates,” she said, then continued reading what sounded like a bullet-pointed list. “Met in college, lived in the neighborhood during school, got married, bought the house that used to stand on the lot, and never looked back.
“He was a criminal defense attorney, did a lot of pro bono work for first-time and minor offenders, was active in the community, and represented the neighborhood association in their interactions with the city concerning development of the area. She started an organic community garden in the ’70s, started a vegetarian food outreach program for the elderly in the neighborhood using produce from the garden, and had a bit of an arrest history for protests dating back to the late ’60s.”
“Hope it’s them,” I said through static. “They seem like people I can work with.”
“I hope so too,” Zoe replied. “I looked through the house’s records and couldn’t find any other deaths, missing persons, or even a family that lived in it longer than a few years going back to when it was built in 1935.” She surveyed the room. “Alright, any questions?”
“Yeah, why didn’t the guy call the police about the Camaro?” Max asked.
“He did,” Zoe answered.
“Oh. Did they find anything?” Max replied.
“No. Anyone else?”
She waited—no questions.
“OK, everyone who needs to, hit the restroom. I’m looking at you, Tammy. Stuff’s loaded up, let’s get going.”
The room sprang into action.
“Shotgun!” I yelled over the crackly radio.
Max threw his head back with his hands over his face, wiping them down slowly. I floated behind most of the group as we filed out of the house on a mission. Zoe had stepped up her game, and this group was starting to operate like a well-oiled machine. The van was mostly silent on our twenty-minute drive over to Hyde Park. Around ten minutes in, Max decided to break the silence.
“Jonah,” he half-drawled, half-whined.
“Yeah Max,” I replied through the speakers.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he continued.
I paused, thinking.
“Just how much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”
“I’m sorry I said anything.”
“I think they actually can chuck wood,” I said, “just not enough of it to be considered wood, maybe? Like a twig? Definitely. Tree bark? One hundred percent. Like the size of pieces of mulch in a flower bed.”
He leaned up between the driver and passenger bucket seats, switched off the radio, and slowly reclined back into his seat. Everyone in the van exchanged satisfied glances, and we continued on to our client’s house in a comfortable silence.
We stopped short, the usual half block’s distance from the house, so I could scout ahead. Zoe turned the radio back on.
“Alright, Jonah, you’re up. Ready? Jonah?” she said.
The van idled while no one made a sound. The only noises were the crackling of the radio static and the air conditioner on full blast. Zoe looked back in her mirror while the rest of the van looked back at her. A few of the crew adjusted seat belts and fidgeted in their seats.
“Just kidding, I’m ready. Don’t ever turn the radio off on me again,” I said as I floated up and out of the van.
Chapter 21
I floated toward the house and heard music playing from the backyard as I approached. I decided on the ol’ up-and-over routine as I cleared the roof and descended into the backyard. Peals of electric guitar riffs over Mellotron, bass, and drums filled the air.
George and Ramona, I presumed, hopped back and forth in exaggerated gyrations as they danced to psychedelic music coming from—somewhere. They cavorted on decomposed granite in a clearing surrounded by large mountain laurel trees, although “trees” may have been generous; they were really overgrown bushes that stood around ten feet tall or so. Mountain laurels bloom every spring with purple flowers that resemble wisteria and smell like synthetic grape—not in a bad way, but like an amazing grape popsicle or snow cone.
The yard had been xeriscaped to conserve water and probably didn’t need a lot of maintenance to continue looking great. Red, purple, orange, and white blooms colored the flower beds from different types of sage and salvia plants.
George noticed me and slowed his dancing as I landed. Ramona took her cue from George and turned around to locate whatever it was he was looking at.
“Hey man,” George welcomed me with a laid-back smile and a wave. “You new to the neighborhood? I’m George, and this is my wife, Ramona.” George pulled Ramona in toward him, giving her a one-armed hug as he introduced her.
“Hi,” she said with a quick wave.
“Hi, I’m Jonah,” I said, and then I filled them in on what I’d heard about the current tenants of the house and what I was there to do.
“No,” George said, shaking his head, “no man, we’re not going anywhere. Those corporate fascists aren’t going to come here from California and kick us out of our home.”
I held up my hands and closed my eyes, trying to calm down the situation.
“No one is trying to kick you out of your home, George. That’s not what I’m here to do.”
“OK man, sorry, I just get a little riled up sometimes,” George said.
“Can I ask why you two didn’t move on?” I said.
“This is our neighborhood. We love it here,” said Ramona. “We looked for each other when the house caught fire—”
“We died in a house fire,” George interjected.
“Yes, thank you, George,” Ramona said. “Each of us wanted to make sure the other got out. We found each other—afterward.”
George added, “I wasn’t going to leave without her.” He squeezed her arm, pulling her in tighter and kissing the top of her head.
Ramona continued, “I’m not sure where we would go, or how it could be better than spending this moment with the man I love in the place that I love.”
I crooked an eyebrow. “You sure? It could be great.”
“Maybe someday,” she replied, lovingly wrapping her arm around George’s.
“So why are you messing with the people that live here? You two seem like the kind to live and let live.”
George’s face lit up. “They’re the problem with this town now! Come in here with no respect for the past or the culture. Buying up houses and mowing them down. Everything’s gotta be new—new house, new car, new suits. It’s got no soul, man, no respect.”
“Your house burned down,” I said. “Also, I’m pretty sure this house has like a four-star green rating, guys. I’m looking at a roof full of solar panels and a backyard that doesn’t need watering. That has to count for something, right?”
George nodded his head slowly up and down. “That’s true,” he said and fidgeted a little, kicking at the granite gravel. “Maybe we just miss our house, man.”
“OK, but what about the car? Who did the car?” I asked.
Ramona smiled, and George laughed.
“Yeah, that was way over the line, but it was fun,” George said.
Ramona picked up, “I didn’t even know I could do that. I walked in to see that outdated, gas-guzzling relic and just pushed out in frustration. I was surprised when the paint fell the way it did. After that, I wanted to show George what I could do, so I dumped the next one.”
“Then I wanted to see if I could do it,” George chimed in. “So I tried—and I could!”
Ramona said, “One thing led to another, and it ended up a little messy in there. Anyway, serves him right.”
“Why, because he has a cool car?” I asked.
“Because cars like that throw off exhaust and fumes with no regard for how it affects the atmosphere!” she replied.
“How often does he drive it? Isn’t it just something he takes out every once in a while?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “I actually haven’t seen it leave the garage.”
“It’s a cool car, you have to admit,” I replied, looking to George for a little backup.
“Oh yeah, the Camaro’s a hot car. I always wanted one,” he offered up. Ramona shot an elbow to his ghostly ribs, and they shared a laugh.
“So what is it you want? Is there any way you can coexist with these folks?” I asked.
They looked at each other and seemed to share some sort of unspoken communication. Ramona looked to me and sighed. “We just liked things how they were, I guess. Well—not how they were exactly—how we were. We had our little house, our place in the community, and we just want to be useful again—help people.”
I had an idea. “Do you two still go out in the neighborhood, or just hang out here all the time?”
George looked down at Ramona. “Oh yeah, we still get out. Like to walk to Shipe Park, stop by and talk to some of the folks from Ramona’s old route.”
That’s what I’d hoped to hear. I reminded them of what I’d been doing and asked if any of the people they checked in on might want to move on. Both their faces lit up at the idea, and I asked them to hang out there while I checked back in with the team in the van.
I could see Max in the passenger seat as I floated back that way—he was obsessed. I phased through the front of the van and right into a conversation about Max’s favorite cartoon based on a sponge.
“Check, check,” I crackled through the speakers. “Is this thing on? I got a rock mic check on one. I got a hot mic check on two. Teeeessst.”
“Is it them?” Max asked. “Is it George and Ramona? Are they moving on? Do these jeans make me look fat?”
The radio crackled. “Yes, it’s them. Not exactly, and no—you look fantastic. I think we can find a way for peaceful cohabitation—maaan. Y’all go ahead and get started, but you’ll need to improvise. There won’t be a neat, tidy ending to this scene tonight. I don’t think I’ll be back to help you with closure. Change up the format, use the sword, sing—I don’t know. You’ll figure something out. You’re professionals.”
Zoe turned back to the rest of the group in the van.
“Alright guys, this is a blues riff in B, watch me for the changes, and—uh—try to keep up, OK?”
“OK, Marty,” Max said. “Do you like Back to the Future
I or II better? I think the sequel is underrated …”
Zoe put the van in gear and pulled up in front of
the house.
George and Ramona waited for me in their front yard, and we set off to go make a difference—go team ghost. They pointed out houses along the way and shared memories from their time in the neighborhood.
“See that house?” George said. “Our friend Steve lived there in the ’70s, along with a series of girlfriends. He had potluck dinners there about twice a month, and they were always a real good time. I think he misconstrued the meaning—great brownies though.”
He pointed at a two-story contemporary design that took up most of the lot where it sat, leaving just a few feet between the houses next to it.
“Jane Conway used to live there—not in that house, obviously—but she kept a pet goat. Clarence. She kept Clarence fenced in and all, but it was chain-link so you could see through. People were always in her yard taking pictures or would just stop in to look at him on their way to that little bakery on the corner. The city almost made her get rid of it for violating a livestock ordinance, but we were able to get the council to give her a variance.” He shook his head. “This town used to be fun. You should have seen it.”
There it was, the old “you-shoulda-been-there-when” Austin trope. I decided to let it go. We slowed to a stop at a slat-board bungalow with a decent-sized front porch, complete with a set of rocking chairs. The house hadn’t been painted in a while but was a friendly yellow with purple trim. Purple cone flowers, black-eyed Susans, snapdragons, and an array of salvia and sage grew wild in the front yard on either side of a stone-set walkway surrounded by a w
hite picket fence.
“I used to visit Ms. Pirkle here,” Ramona began, looking toward the house. “The sweetest woman, but just as shy as she could be. Her husband didn’t come back from the war, and she never could bring herself to move out of that house. Worked at the university for thirty-some-odd years until she retired.
“Poor lady didn’t have any family, so we helped out by bringing food by every day and always took time with her for a while. She didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Toward the end, she didn’t like leaving her house, not even to garden.
“The Tompkins moved in after she died, almost twenty years ago, and got her old garden back up and going. They’ve kept it up quite nicely, I would say. Anyway, George and I were walking by one night, and she was out on that porch, just rocking on one of those chairs. We stop by every once in a while to visit.”
We floated up to the front door of the house and Ramona announced us. “Knock, knock, Ms. Pirkle. It’s George and Ramona—and we brought a guest.”
A sweet voice strained from inside the house, “Y’all come on in. Everyone here just went to sleep a little while ago.”
We floated into the house. The walls were painted almost the same color of yellow as the outside and were covered with pictures and eclectic mementos from all over the world. From the look of things, the Tompkins loved to travel. The front door led directly into a living room that was filled with comfortable, overstuffed chairs and a large leather couch. Pictures were displayed on the mantle of a well-used fireplace over which hung an Impressionistic piece of art. Ms. Pirkle sat in a ghosted rocking chair, working needlepoint while she rocked back and forth. She wore a welcoming look on her face, as if she was straight out of central casting for a hot cocoa commercial that needed a grandmother. She wore a purple-flowered dress with a white-lace collar.
“Have you tried our little trick with the music, Ms. Pirkle?” George asked loudly.
“Yes, George, and you don’t have to yell anymore. I can hear you perfectly fine. I was just enjoying my quiet and working on my needlepoint. Now, who is this?” Ms. Pirkle asked, setting down her needlepoint.
