The Ivory and the Horn

by Charles de Lint

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “How do they get lost?”

  “There’s a Path of Souls, all laid out for us to follow when we die,” he tells me. “But some spirits can’t see it, so they wander the earth instead. Others can’t accept the fact that they’re dead yet, and they hang around too.”

  “A path.”

  He nods.

  “Like something you walk along.”

  “Inasmuch as a spirit walks,” Bones says.

  “My ghost says she missed a bus,” I tell him.

  “Maybe it’s different for white people.”

  “She’s black.”

  He sits there, not looking at me, bones trailing from one hand to the other, making their tiny rattling sound.

  “What do you really want to know?” he asks me.

  “How do I help her?”

  “Why don’t you try asking her?”

  “I did, but all she gives me back are riddles.”

  “Maybe you’re just not listening properly,” he says.

  I think back on the conversations I’ve had with Shirley since I first saw her in the Tombs a few nights ago, but I can’t seem to focus on them. I remember being with her, I remember the feeling of what we talked about, but the actual content is muddy now. It seems to shift away as soon as I try to think about it.

  “I’ve really seen her,” I tell Bones. “I was there when she died—almost four years ago—but she’s back. And other people have seen her, too.”

  “I know you have,” he says.

  I don’t even know why I was trying to convince him—it’s not like he’d be a person that needed convincing—but what he says, stops me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. It’s my question for the day.

  “It’s in your eyes,” he says. “The Otherworld has touched you. Think of it as a blessing.”

  “I don’t know if I like the idea,” I tell him. “I mean, I miss Shirley, and I actually feel kind of good about her being back, even if she is just a ghost, but it doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  “Often,” he says, “what we take from the spirit world is only a reflection of what lies inside ourselves.”

  There’s that look in his eyes, a feral seriousness, like it’s important, not so much that I understand, or even believe what he’s saying, but that he’s saying it.

  “What … ?” I start, but then I figure it out. Part of it anyway.

  When I first came to the city, I was pretty messed up, but then Shirley was there to help me. I’m messed up again, so–-

  “So I’m just projecting her ghost?” I ask. “I need her help, so I’ve made myself a ghost of her?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but—”

  “Ghosts have their own agendas,” he tells me. “Maybe you both have something to give to each other.”

  We sit for awhile, neither of us speaking. I play with the whistle that hangs from a cord around my neck—all the messengers have them to blow at cars that’re trying to cut us off. Finally, I get up and take my bike off its kickstand. I look at Bones and that feral quality is still lying there in his grin. His eyes seem to be all pupil, dark, dark. I’m about to say thanks, but the words lock up in my throat. Instead I just nod, put on my helmet and go away to think about what he’s told me.

  8

  Tommy’s got this new story that he tells me after we’ve cleaned up the dinner dishes. We sit together at the kitchen table and he has his little paper people act it out for me. It’s about this Chinese man who falls down the crack in the pavement outside Aunt Hilary’s house and finds himself in this magic land where everybody’s a beautiful model or movie star and they all want to marry the Chinese guy except he misses his family too much, so he just tells them he can’t marry any of them—not even the woman who won the Oscar for her part in Misery, who for some reason, Tommy’s really crazy about.

  I’ve got the old black lab Chuckie lying on my feet, Rexy snuggled up in my lap. Mutt and Jeff are tangled up in a heap on the sofa so that it’s hard to tell which part of them’s which. They’re a cross between a German Shepherd and who knows what; I found Jeff first and gave the other old, guy his name because the two were immediately inseparable. Jimmie’s part dachshund, part collie—I know, go figure—and his long, furry body is stretched out in front of the door like he’s a dust puppy. Patty’s mostly poodle, but there’s some kind of placid mix in there as well because she’s not at all high-strung. Right now she’s sitting in the bay window, checking the traffic and pretending to be a cat.

  The sad thing, Tommy tells me, is that the Chinese man knows that he’ll never be able to get back home, but he’s going to stay faithful to his family anyway.

  “Where’d you get that story?” I ask Tommy.

  He just shrugs, then he says, “I really miss you, Maisie.”

  How can I keep leaving him?

  I feel like a real shit. I know it’s not my fault, I know I’m trying to do my best for all of us, for our future, but Tommy’s mind doesn’t work very well considering the long term and my explanations don’t really register. It’s just me going out all the time, and not taking him or the dogs with me.

  There’s a knock on the door. Jimmie gets laboriously to his feet and moves aside as Aunt Hilary comes in. She gives her wristwatch an obvious look.

  “You’re going to be late for school,” she says, not really nagging, she just knows me too well.

  I feel like saying, Fuck school, but I put Rexy down, shift Chuckie from my feet and stand up. Six dogs and Tommy all give me a hopeful look, like we’re going out for a walk, faces all dropping when I pick up my knapsack, heavy with school books.

  I give Tommy a hug and kiss then make the goodbye rounds of the dogs. They’re like Tommy; long term means nothing to them. All they know is I’m going out and they can’t come. Rexy takes a few hopeful steps in the direction of the door, but Aunt Hilary scoops him up.

  “Now, now, Rexy,” she tells him. “You know Margaret’s got to go to school and she can’t take you.”

  Margaret. She’s the one who goes to school and works at QMS and deserts her family five days and four nights a week. She’s the traitor.

  I’m Maisie, but I’m Margaret, too.

  I say goodbye, trying not to look anyone in the eye, and head for the subway. My eyes are pretty well dry by the time I get there. I pause on the platform. When the southbound train comes, I don’t get off at the stop for my school, but ride it all the way downtown. I walk the six blocks to the bus depot.

  I get a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of my sneaker while I’m waiting in line at the ticket counter. I’m still trying to get it off with an old piece of tissue I find in my pocket— not the most useful tool for the job—when the guy behind the counter says, “Next,” in this really tired voice.

  Who’s he got waiting at home for him? I wonder as I move toward the counter, sort of shuffling the foot with the gum stuck on it so it doesn’t trap me to another spot.

  “How much for a ticket?” I ask him.

  “Depends where you’re going.”

  He’s got thinning hair lying flat against his head, parted way over on the left side. Just a skinny little guy in a faded shirt and pants that are too baggy for him, trying to do his job. He’s got a tic in one eye and I keep thinking that he’s giving me a wink.

  “Right,” I say.

  My mind’s out of sync. Of course he needs the destination. I let my thoughts head back into the past, looking for the name of the place I want, trying to avoid the bad times that are hiding there in my memories, just waiting to jump me, but it’s impossible to do.

  That’s another thing about street people, whether they put the street behind them or not: The past holds pain. The present may not be all that great, but it’s usually better than what went before. That goes for me, for Shirley, for pretty well everybody I know. You try to live here and now, like the people who go through twelve-step, taking it day by day .

  Mostly
, you try not to think at all.

  “Rockcastle,” I tell the guy behind the counter.

  He does something mysterious with his computer before he looks up.

  “Return or one-way?”

  “One-way.”

  More fiddling with the computer before he tells me the price. I pay him and a couple of minutes later I’m hop-stepping my way out of the depot with a one-way ticket to Rockcastle in my pocket. I sit on a bench outside and scrape off the gum with a popsicle stick I find on the sidewalk, and then I’m ready.

  I don’t go to my class; I don’t go home, either. Instead I take the subway up to Grade Street. When I come up the steps from the station I stand on the pavement for a long time before I finally cross over and walk into the Tombs.

  9

  The moon seems smaller tonight. It’s not just that it’s had a few slivers shaved off one side because its waning; it’s like it got tamed somehow.

  I can’t say the same for the Tombs. I see kids sniffing glue, shooting up, some just sprawled with their backs against a pile of rubble, legs splayed out in front of them, eyes staring into nothing. I pass a few ‘bos cooking God-knows-what over a fire they’ve got rigged up in an old jerry can. A bag-lady comes lurching out between the sagging doors of an old office building and starts to yell at me. Her voice follows me as I pick a way through the litter and abandoned cars.

  The bikers down the street are having a party. The buckling pavement in front of their building has got about thirty-five chopped-down street hogs parked in front of it. The place is lit up with Coleman lights and I can hear the music and laughter from where I’m sitting in the bay window of my old squat in the Clark Building.

  They don’t bother me; I never exactly hung out with them or anything, but they used to consider me a kind of mascot after Shirley died and let the word get out that I was under their protection. It’s not the kind of thing that means a lot everywhere, but it helped me more than once.

  No one’s taken over the old squat yet, but after five months it’s already got the same dead feel to it that hits you anywhere in the Tombs. It’s not exactly dirty, but it’s dusty and the wind’s been blowing crap in off the street. There’s a smell in the air; though it’s not quite musty, it’s getting there.

  But I’m not really thinking about any of that. I’m just passing time. Sitting here, waiting for a piece of the past to catch up to me.

  I used to sit here all the time once I’d put Tommy to bed, looking out the window when I wasn’t reading, Rexy snuggled close, the other dogs sprawled around the room, a comforting presence of soft snores and twitching bodies as they chased dream-rabbits in their sleep.

  There’s no comfort here now.

  I look back out the window and see a figure coming up the street, but it’s not who I was expecting. It’s Angel, with Chuckie on a leash, his black shadow shape stepping out front, leading the way. As I watch them approach, some guy moves from out of the shadows that’ve collected around the building across the street and Chuckie, worn out and old though he is, lunges at him. The guy makes a fast fade.

  I listen to them come into the building, Chuckie’s claws clicking on the scratched marble, the leather soles of Angel’s shoes making a scuffley sound as she comes up the stairs. I turn around when they come into the squat.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Angel says.

  “I didn’t know you were looking.”

  I don’t mean to sound put off, but I can’t keep the punki-ness out of my voice.

  “I’m not checking up on you, Maisie. I was just worried.”

  “Well, here I am”

  She undoes the lead from Chuckie’s collar and he comes across the room and sticks his face up against my knees. The feel of his fur under my hand is comforting.

  “You really shouldn’t be out here,” I tell Angel. “It’s not safe.”

  “But it’s okay for you?”

  I shrug. “This was my home.”

  She crosses the room as well. The window sill’s big enough to hold us both. She scoots up and then sits across from me, arms wrapped around her legs.

  “After you came by the office, I went by your work to see you, then to your apartment, then to the school.”

  I shrug again.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

  “What’s to say?”

  “Whatever’s in your heart. I’m here to listen. Or I can just go away, if that’s what you prefer, but I don’t really want to do that.”

  “I…”

  The words start locking up inside me again. I take a deep breath and start over.

  “I’m not really happy, I guess,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t say anything, just nods encouragingly.

  “It’s… I never really told you why I came to see you about school and the job and everything. You probably just thought that you’d finally won me over, right?”

  Angel shakes her head. “It was never a matter of winning or losing. I’m just there for the people who need me.”

  “Yeah, well, what happened was—do you remember when Margaret Grierson died?”

  Angel nods.

  “We shared the same postal station,” I tell her, “and the day before she was killed, I got a message in my box warning me to be careful, that someone was out to do a serious number on me. I spent the night in a panic and I was so relieved when the morning finally came and nothing had happened, because what’d happen to Tommy and the dogs if anything ever happened to me, you know?”

  “What does that have to do with Margaret Grierson?” Angel asks.

  “The note I got was addressed to ‘Margaret’—just that, nothing else. I thought it was for me. but I guess whoever sent it got his boxes mixed up and it ended up in mine instead of hers.”

  “But I still don’t see what—”

  I can’t believe she doesn’t get it.

  “Margaret Grierson was an important person,” I say. “She was heading up that AIDS clinic, she was doing things for people. She was making a difference.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m nobody,” I say. “It should’ve been me that died. But it wasn’t, so I thought well, I better do something with myself, with my life, you know? I better make my having survived meaningful. But I can’t cut it.

  “I’ve got the straight job, the straight residence, I’m going back to school and it’s like it’s all happening to someone else. The things that are important to me—Tommy and the dogs—it’s like they’re not even a part of my life anymore.”

  I remember something Shirley’s ghost asked me, and add, “Maybe it’s selfish, but I figure charity should start at home, you know? I can’t do much for other people if I’m feeling miserable myself.”

  “You should’ve come to me,” Angel says.

  I shake my head. “And tell you what? It sounds so whiny. I mean there’s people starving not two blocks from where we’re sitting, and I should be worried about being happy or not? The important stuffs covered—I’m providing for my family, putting a roof over their heads and making sure they have enough to eat—that should be enough, right? But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like the most important things are missing.

  “I used to have time to spend with Tommy and the dogs; now I have to steal a minute here, another there____”

  My voice trails off. I think of how sad they all looked when I left the apartment tonight, like I was deserting them, not just for the evening, but forever. I can’t bear that feeling, but how do you explain yourself to those who can’t possibly understand?

  “We could’ve worked something out,” Angel says. “We still can.”

  “Like what?”

  Angel smiles. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to think it through better than we have so far. You’ll have to try to open up a bit more, tell me what you’re really feeling, not just what you think I want to hear.”

  “It’s that obvious, huh?”

  “Let’s just say I have a built
-in bullshit detector.”

  We don’t say anything for awhile then. I think about what she’s said, wondering if something could be worked out. I don’t want special dispensation because I’m some kind of charity case—I’ve always earned my own way—but I know there’ve got to be some changes or the little I’ve got is going to fall apart.

  I can’t get the image out of my mind—Tommy with his sad eyes as I’m going out the door—and I know I’ve got to make the effort. Find a way to keep what was good about the past and still make a decent future for us.

  I put my hand in my pocket and feel the bus ticket I bought earlier.

  I have to open up a bit more? I think, looking at Angel, What would her bullshit detector do if I told her about Shirley?

  Angel stretches out her legs, then lowers them to the floor.

  “Come on,” she says, offering me her hand. “Let’s go talk about this some more.”

  I look around the squat and compare it to Aunt Hilary’s apartment. There’s no comparison. What made this place special, we took with us.

  “Okay,” I tell Angel.

  I take her hand and we leave the building. I know it’s not going to be easy, but then nothing ever is. I’m not afraid to work my butt off; I just don’t want to lose sight of what’s really important.

  When we’re outside, I look back up to the window where we were sitting. I wonder about Shirley, how’s she’s going to work out whatever it is that she’s got to do to regain her own sense of peace. I hope she finds it. I don’t even mind if she comes to see me again, but I don’t think that’ll be part of the package.

  I left the bus ticket for her, on the window sill.

  10

  I don’t know if we’ve worked everything out, but I think we’re making a good start. Angel’s fixed it so that I’ve dropped a few courses which just means that it’ll take me longer to get my diploma. I’m only working a couple of days a week at QMS—the Saturday shift that nobody likes and a rotating day during the week.

  The best thing is I’m back following my trade again, trash for cash. Aunt Hilary lets me store stuff in her garage because she doesn’t have a car anyway. A couple of nights a week, Tommy and I head out with our carts, the dogs on our heels, and we work the bins. We’re spending a lot more time together and everybody’s happier.