by Pat Cummings
“Sissy,” said a small voice.
It was coming from inside the room.
19
So.
A direct lightning strike. Jamming your finger into an electrical socket. Maybe seeing an alien at the foot of your bed. Whatever scenarios Trace might later think would describe this moment would miss the mark. Thinking, in fact, had not been an option.
But his body had reacted. He could feel the hair on his arms standing on end, wavering as though caught in an electrical current. And suddenly he was lifted, yanked up and left floating somewhere near the top of the room, just long enough to look down at himself frozen on the couch. Then, with a crackle, he snapped back into his body: that was how it felt, like he had just arrived in his skin. He couldn’t move; only his eyes seemed to work, so he blinked them rapidly, trying to reboot his brain.
The little boy was standing just inside the door, the closed door, and he was real. Trace was sure of it. The tattered clothes, the ripped-up shoes, the huge eyes watching him: the boy could not be a ghost. He was the clearest, realest, most sharply defined thing in the room. But everything around him, the hard wood shelves, the steel equipment, lamps, books, and, to his amazement, even his own hands when he looked down at them, seemed faded and fuzzy-edged now. It was as though nothing else was real except the boy. Trace stared, mouth open, wanting to say something.
“Sissy!” said the boy again, more emphatically.
Trace shook his head hard and all the scared melted away. The kid had called him a sissy?
“Hey, watch it, little man. I don’t know where you’re from, but calling people—”
“Where Sissy?” the boy said again. “When Sissy comin’?” The boy looked smaller than Trace remembered; the little fingers poking out of his ratty shirt-sleeves were tiny and soft and, even from where he sat, Trace could see they were nicked with dozens of scars.
“W . . . w . . . when Sissy comin’?” the boy repeated mournfully. Pale tear tracks ran down his dark cheeks; his face crumpled. The kid was going to wail.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Trace said, leaning forward. “Sissy—is that your sister? She brought you here? You want to go find her?” He was not going through this again. Where was Dallas? Let him deal with this; let Dallas figure out if this kid was real. The boy had begun sniffling, all trembling lips and sucked-in sobs. A full-scale meltdown was in progress.
“Look, it’s okay. We’re gonna find your sister, okay?” Trace said gently. As he stood up, the boy lurched backward against the wall, so he moved no closer.
“Sissy comin’?” Trace met the boy’s eyes and he felt his heart break. The kid looked so frightened and so alone. Maybe she was in the library, he thought. Maybe they could find her. For a moment, Trace hoped the sister would be old enough for him to smack upside the head. “What’s your name, little man?”
The boy didn’t answer, just stared at him, clearly scared out of his wits. Where was Dallas? Trace looked around the room, searching for something, anything, to calm the kid down. Maybe hot chocolate or apple cider? But what if the kid had some freaky food allergy? His eyes landed on the metal rattle.
“Cholly,” the boy said softly. “I’se Cholly. Sissy said wait.”
“Oh, cool!” Trace said, giving the boy a big smile. The kid had calmed down. Picking up the toy, he took a cautious step in the boy’s direction. “I’m Trace. Trace Carter, okay? I’m going to help you find your sister.”
Trace moved slowly, smiling and nodding his head slightly with every step. The boy watched him carefully.
“They gone. They all gone. Sissy said wait,” the boy repeated.
Trace squatted down when he was at arm’s length from the boy. They were face-to-face. This was a real boy. How he had gotten in, where he had been hiding since last week . . . none of that mattered at the moment.
“Well,” Trace said gently, “when my friend comes back, we’ll go look for her upstairs, all right?”
“No!” Cholly yelled. A floodgate had opened. “No! They gone! We gotta go! Sissy gonna get my—” The boy froze, staring at the rattle in Trace’s hands.
“Sissy?” The boy’s eyes moved from the rattle to Trace and back. Trace had no idea how to answer the boy. So he simply handed Cholly the rattle. The boy turned the toy over in his hands, gave it a little shake, and then settled his large dark eyes on Trace again. All the fretfulness had melted away and his face softened into a smile.
Good. Now they could just chill till Dallas turned up, Trace was thinking. But suddenly, the boy looked frantically at the door, then ran to tuck himself under a shelf in the corner of the room. He crouched, making himself a little ball huddled around the rattle in his hands.
“Hide,” he rasped hoarsely.
What now? Trace thought, getting to his feet. “Look, stay here, Cholly. I’m gonna get somebody who’ll help us out, okay? You just sit tight and I’ll be right back.”
“Hide,” the boy said again. “Fire!”
Unbelievable. The kid was getting panicky again. Trace took a second to think about the consequences of leaving a child in a room full of dangerous tools, then decided to take the chance. He wished he had gotten Dallas’s phone number. Let him deal with this.
“Stay here,” he said to the boy, trying to sound authoritative.
Trace smelled smoke before he saw it, seeping in deadly white curls underneath the door. There really was fire. His heart began hammering in his throat as his brain threw him right back to sixth grade: fourth row on the aisle in the Hamilton Middle School auditorium, doodling while Fireman Jack listed his top do’s and don’ts of fire prevention. Should he block the smoke with something?
Trace scanned the room. A couple of dish towels hung from a hook near the hot plate. They would do. He grabbed them both. But if he blocked them into the room, what if the fire trapped them here? The boy was whimpering in the corner, starting to cry.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Trace said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.
“I think we should leave,” he added hesitantly. He was not at all sure what Fireman Jack had said about opening doors. Put your hand on it, see if it’s hot. That’s right. Trace was sweating now. Even though the room had warmed up, it wasn’t that hot. But it was getting too smoky. He’d look, then he’d grab the kid and make a run for it. Trace placed his hand on the door.
“Yeowwch!” he cried, jerking his hand away from the hot metal. They were trapped! Wrapping the towels around his hand, Trace’s instincts kicked in: better to run for it than to stay and burn. He grabbed the knob and yanked open the door.
“Hey, thanks, man,” Dallas said, pushing into the room with his shoulder. He held a small wooden bench against his hip. “This’ll only take a second, then we’re out, okay?”
Trace stood stock-still as Dallas placed the bench in the center of the room, next to a couple of metal stools. He could see enough of the vast underground library beyond the door to know: there was no fire. No smoke. Only a chilly dampness hung in the air. Slowly, his pulse thumping so crazily that he felt dizzy, Trace turned toward Cholly, dreading what he already knew he would see: nothing.
“Hey, man, you all right?” Dallas asked, studying him with alarm.
A gasping, smoky NO tried to force its way out of Trace’s throat, hogging all the air in his lungs. The ground was getting wobbly and he felt his knees buckle. Strange, how close to flying this feels, Trace thought. And then he landed. He was on the couch and Dallas Houston was fanning his face with a magazine. The breeze was cooling his sweaty face and Trace breathed it in, watching as some of it sailed upward to set the Chinese fortunes rippling.
20
Trace could count on one finger the times he had been in a New York City cab. That first and only ride, the one from LaGuardia Airport with Auntie Lea after his parents’ funeral, had been a bumpy, careening dash, streetlights and exit signs streaking past dark windows. This one promised quiet, and Trace leaned his head gratefully against the leather seat and clo
sed his eyes.
Dallas Houston had said very little and asked nothing. He had simply picked up the phone on his desk and called Auntie Lea, not a trace of worry in his voice, to ask if she needed anything for the party. They were on the way, he had said. They might make a stop or two, but they would be there in a couple of hours at the most. And when Trace’s head had stopped throbbing and he had sat up, Dallas helped him into his jacket and gently steered him out of the stacks, upstairs and across the lobby, then out onto Fifth Avenue. Only a few tourists and shivering teenagers remained huddled stubbornly on the cold steps.
A black town car was waiting for them at the curb and Trace had slid in when Dallas opened the door, no questions asked. Traffic was at a crawl on Fifth Avenue. It was, after all, Saturday afternoon, Halloween, midtown Manhattan. But the honking and braking and yelling outside the car were reduced to a muffled hum beneath the soft melody flowing from the speakers. Only when Trace stuck his hands in his jacket pockets did he think of the rattle. That it was gone for good, he felt certain. He could see the floor, the shelves, the corner of the workshop clearly in his mind. The emptiness where the boy had been crouched had been complete. The rattle was gone. Where it had gone or how . . . Trace needed to think about later, when thinking might be a possibility.
After a blissfully smooth ride, the driver pulled over to the curb on Myrtle Avenue. Dallas climbed out and Trace, feeling like his body was on autopilot, followed. They were still a couple of blocks away from Vanderbilt, but he was in no hurry to switch gears and pretend to be in party mode. So when Dallas held open the door to Mel’s Diner, a dark, old-timey-looking place that Trace had never noticed before, he went with the program, followed the waiter who greeted them, and slid into the booth Dallas chose.
Trace was well aware that his brains had been sucked clean. And that was okay. As calmly as if it were a tabloid headline he was reading on line at the grocery store, the words You’re crazy floated into his mind. Followed by Nuts, Bonkers . . . and then Chemical imbalance. He had heard that phrase on a TV show and, because it was oddly comforting, he let it bounce around in his head for a minute. Dallas was talking to a waiter and sneaking worried glances his way, but Trace was rummaging through other words . . . through stories he had heard about losing your mind. Twinkle . . . Winky . . . Tinkle . . . what was the phrase? The Twinkie Defense, that was it. He read once that eating too much sugar supposedly had made some guy somewhere kill somebody or something. Trace shook his head. Who knew? Maybe he had been just one Snickers away from completely insane all this time.
A plate clattered to the table in front of him.
“Let’s talk,” Dallas said, smiling at him slightly and reaching for the ketchup bottle.
Trace looked up. It was a good thing that Dallas was all the way across the table, because the smell of hamburger and french fries made him want to hug the man. He was starving. But hugging would have been seriously uncool. Since coming to live with Auntie Lea, hamburger had become an exotic delicacy; the version served in the school cafeteria, scooped from vats Ty swore were labeled BEEF: Grade D, but edible, gave off no smell at all. Scary stuff.
“So,” Dallas began.
“Hmmmph.” Trace nodded, his mouth stuffed with fries. Talking was a great idea. Brilliant. Because right now, squirting mustard in a spiral atop his burger, he felt thankful. Thankful that somebody, anybody, might please, please, please sort this out. Maybe Dallas could tell him what parts were real—and what things could not possibly be.
“Clearly something happened while I was gone, Theo,” Dallas began. “When I came in you were sweating and standing there like you’d seen a . . . well, like you’d seen, you know . . .” Dallas waited.
Trace took a big swig of the lemonade Dallas had ordered for him. The curious feeling that he was observing this moment, but from somewhere inside of himself and only as an interested bystander, was hard to shake. He really needed some answers. “I saw the boy. I don’t know how he got in the room. I mean, I never opened the door or anything, but there he was, crying again.” Trace sipped his lemonade. “Crazy, right? He couldn’t be there. But he was. Clear as I’m looking at you.” Boy did this sound nuts. “Oh, and he spoke this time.”
Dallas cocked his head, his hand frozen halfway to his mouth holding the last corner of his burger. “He talked to you?”
Trace nodded. “He kept asking for someone named Sissy. I guess that was his sister? Oh, and he told me his name.” Trace sat up, excited. “Cholly. That’s something, right? I mean, if we did some research? Maybe there was a Cholly in the orphanage and—”
“Whoa,” Dallas broke in. “If it was a ghost—and believe me, I’m open to that—and if he was looking for his sister, well then, he might not have been an orphan at all, see what I mean? That kid might’ve gotten separated from his family, right?” Dallas leaned toward him, brows furrowed over his dark eyes. “I know you’re doing that report on the draft riots, Theo, but you’re connecting some pretty loose dots.”
“The kid said ‘hide,’” Trace went on, sure of himself. “And he said ‘fire.’
“I smelled the smoke, Dallas. I saw it coming in under the door.” Trace felt himself settle back into his skin, aware that remnants of the panic he had felt earlier were waiting for him. He looked Dallas straight in the eyes. “There was a fire. I burned my hand on your door.”
Dallas leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied a spot near the ceiling for a minute. “I did smell something,” he finally said. “I’ve smelled it before. Faint, though. Smoky. Like burning trash.” He raised his chin toward the front of the restaurant, then signed the air with his hand, the universal signal for the waiter to bring the check.
“From time to time, there’s a burning smell. Down there, with all those old books, as dank as it is, I just chalk it up to odors being released when it rains, or drafts getting in if anyone opens a door, you know? First coupla times, I went scouting around, thinking there might really be a fire. But after a while, you just get used to things.” Dallas had a dreamy look on his face. “But I know there are ghosts, man. And this one? This one seemed to be waiting for—”
“Get you guys anything else?” the waiter broke in. Dallas shook his head, handed him a credit card, and sent him on his way.
“Waiting for Sissy—whoever she was, right?” Trace said. Talking to Dallas was cool. If an adult thought this was real, maybe he wasn’t going crazy.
“Maybe. But I was gonna say waiting for you, Theo.”
Trace blinked.
“Why do I get the feeling that you haven’t told me everything?” Dallas asked, scooting out from the booth and slipping into his jacket.
Trace polished off a last fry, wiped his mouth, and grabbed his jacket too. Why shouldn’t he? Maybe the rattle had moved somehow, maybe it was still down there in his workshop. Besides, Dallas believed him already; he hadn’t tried to convince him that the kid must be an invention of his imagination. And neither was that rattle. Auntie Lea had seen it. Roman, Angel, and Presley had, too. Presley. The rattle had actually burned her!
Dallas was waiting for him at the cash register. “Wanna finish the story?” he asked.
So Trace did.
21
In the short time that it had taken to pick up sodas and chips and walk home, Trace had told Dallas everything he knew about the rattle. It would no longer be the showpiece for his presentation on Monday, but that seemed okay somehow. The boy had looked so happy, so relieved in that moment when he took the rattle, that it seemed like the toy had been put to a much better use. It felt good too that Dallas had listened carefully, like he was slipping this bit of information into a puzzle that he and Trace were trying to solve together.
Twilight had helped set the stage for Halloween, casting long violet shadows across streets and darkening the doorways they passed. Along Vanderbilt Avenue, pumpkins glowed in windows, cobwebs undulated in doorways, and, even from half a block away, Trace could tell that the witch in
front of number 810 had been further accessorized. Her splotchy green face was now bathed in a light from below that blinked on and off periodically. He had to give Auntie Lea kudos: it would probably freak out a few little kids whenever the hideous face suddenly lit up.
Inside the apartment, diaphanous scarves had been draped over the hallway lights and a fan was rigged up over the stairs to keep them gently blowing. The shifting patterns of orange light that they created really did feel otherworldly. Trace heard a curious droning sound coming from the front room as he entered the apartment, then a sudden burst of laughter erupted in the kitchen at the end of the hallway. That laugh could only be Dawoud’s, he thought. An immediate “Just HUSH” followed. Brenda, no doubt . . . which confirmed his suspicion: the Cuties were in the house.
“All ri-i-ight,” Dallas drawled. He had emerged from the kitchen and joined Trace as he was inspecting the room’s transformation. “Your aunt does not party lightly, I see.”
Trace surveyed Auntie Lea’s conversion of the room since that morning. It was now party central, with two mikes and a keyboard standing in front of the bay window, a guitar propped up against Auntie Lea’s bookcase, and an assortment of handheld instruments stacked on her armchair. An amp at the foot of her wide couch, which was now pillow-lined and free of the magazines that had littered it earlier, hummed menacingly. Auntie Lea’s treasured Moroccan carpet had completely disappeared. Trace grinned. Watching old folks dance was going to be pretty entertaining.
He had seen the Vacationers repeatedly on VH1, then once as musical guests on a Saturday Night Live episode, and last summer performing on the BET Awards. Finding two of them bent over the kitchen table, dressed in shiny metallic silver jumpsuits and sporting humongous Afro wigs, should have blown him away. But meeting a hundred-and-fifty-year-old ghost up close and personal was probably as much shock as he could process for one day. So Trace simply nodded their way and began unpacking the bags of chips he had been carrying.
