Giving Up the Ghost

by Magenta Wilde

“Yeah! Exactly!”

  I mulled the request. I’d never had a ghost ask me to help them get a loved one to move on. Most people grieved and returned to some semblance of normal. I understood where she was coming from, though.

  “I can’t guarantee you the result you want,” I started, “but I guess I can give it a try.”

  “You can’t cast a spell to make him forget me or something?”

  “I’ve never tried anything like that. I also don’t believe in going that far, to change how someone thinks or feels. Coercion almost always backfires. But I can try and do something, I guess, maybe to raise the veil and make him see that the two of you need to move on to your respective lives – and afterlives.”

  Ivy’s ghost bobbed up and down in glee.

  I’d had enough information for the day, and plenty of food for thought. “I’ve got some research to do. We’ll be in touch. Have a good night. I blew out the candle, and with that she flickered out of sight.

  7

  A couple of nights later, once I closed shop, I paid my mother and Tom a visit. I wasn’t asked to dinner, but my mom pretty much always had an open invitation for me. If I wasn’t welcome on some particular night, she held no qualms about telling me to go. While her cooking wasn’t really exotic, except when she tried to get experimental, it was a chilly September evening, which is nothing unusual this far north, and I had hopes she’d have a hearty stew on the table.

  I also brought an apple pie I’d baked that I didn’t want in my place, for fear I’d cave to temptation. Tom had a massive sweet tooth, so I knew he’d have no problem with my gift.

  Their store occupied the street-facing part of their red vinyl-trimmed house. There was a front entrance right off Portage Street, which also was the main tourist drag, and another on the side of the house that let in behind the shop counter and led to the living quarters. Tom called that door the servants’ entrance.

  I rapped a pattern on the side door, and waited for a moment.

  “Come on in, hon,” Tom shouted from inside their living quarters. It was just after seven, so he was probably watching a game show or a sitcom rerun.

  I opened the door and stepped into their makeshift shop. At its best, it looked like an overstocked antique store. At worst, it veered into hoarders’ territory.

  On this day, it looked more like the latter. The pair had been buying new stock all summer long. During the warmer months Mom and Tom visited estate and yard sales. Tom also would visit auctions across the Upper Peninsula and sometimes beyond, and come back with all kinds of items. Mom even would venture downstate to Detroit, to visit her sister, and shop at thrift stores and anywhere else she could score deals. She always came back with new items to mark up and sell, either in the store or on eBay.

  The entire second floor of the house was currently unoccupied. The half that was above the space Tom and my mother lived was set up for rental, and the area above the shop was used for storage.

  They’d leased the upstairs space to me for a couple years after I graduated college – with Tom opting to keep the rent low – so I could save money to open a shop of my own.

  I moved out eventually. The rent was dirt cheap, but I didn’t always enjoy waking up to find my mother sitting and smoking in my kitchen while sorting through my mail, or borrowing my clothing and “forgetting” to return it whilst replacing my wardrobe with items – often sequined or extensively beaded – which she deemed more suitable for me.

  The last straw was the morning I was in the shower and found myself surrounded by a foul stench. I peered outside the curtain to find my mother sitting naked on the toilet and smoking a cigarette. Tom had occupied the lone bathroom in their house and she decided she wouldn’t wait. That was the day I found the house I currently rented.

  Invasions of personal space aside, my mother did have a good eye for overlooked treasures. I think one of her natural magical talents was to be able to spot items others might not always see. Once she found an old bracelet for a dollar and when she polished it she discovered it was sterling silver and made a nice profit. Another time she bought a truckload of items at a goodwill sale for twenty dollars and made hundreds on the resale.

  I made a mental note to bring some scented candles over. The shop smelled faintly of cigarette smoke – Tom had long been on my mother to stop smoking in the store and she had mostly complied – but now it reeked more strongly of that distinctive corn chip dog smell. As much as we all loved the beagles, it was not exactly fragrant.

  I walked through the chaos and opened the door that led to the kitchen, stepping in and quickly setting the pie on the counter and out of the dogs’ reach.

  Hooper, Tom’s beagle mix, a big brown sausage of a dog with a black back, raced up to greet me, tail wagging furiously. Beanie, who belonged to my mom, looked more like a classic postcard beagle, followed his big brother, not wanting to miss any attention.

  “Hey, boys,” I greeted them. They both gave me a sniff and licked at my hands as I bent down to scratch behind their ears. They then raced into the front of the house, where the store was set up, and Beanie promptly raised his leg on a ladder propped against the wall. Hooper followed, took a sniff, and copied Beanie’s action.

  “Boys! Don’t do that!” I hissed, sotto voce.

  “What’s going on?” My mom appeared by my side, lit cigarette in one hand, fidgeting with her false eyelashes with the other. I suspected she’d been napping and wanted to make sure they hadn’t traveled down her face.

  “The boys are marking yours and Tom’s territory.”

  “Oh,” mom waved them off. “It’s a mess in here. Tom needs to clean his space up. He probably won’t even notice.”

  “You two are married and living together. You’ve been living together for a while, actually. That means the dogs are peeing on your stuff, too.”

  My mom paused. “Tom!” she bellowed. I heard papers rattling and a grunt as Tom stopped what he was doing and got up. “Tom! Your damn dog is peeing in my shop!”

  “What?” Tom shuffled into the room, clutching the local paper. “Who did what?”

  “Your dog. He raised his leg on the ladder. I caught him!” my mom said.

  “Mom. Beanie was doing it, too,” I muttered.

  “Beanie learned it from his big brother,” she said, raising an eyebrow at my ratting out her dog. “Tom, this cannot happen in my shop.”

  “You ornery old cuss, Fiona. I know your dog is as guilty as mine.” He started shooing the dogs toward the side door of the shop. “Come on, boys. Let’s do this outside. Go mark your territory out there. And don’t raise your legs on my tires!” he hollered as the dogs raced outside.

  “By the way,” he looked back in our direction. “Was that a pie I saw on the counter?”

  “Yes, I brought an apple pie for you two. Consider it a small wedding gift, for many more sweet years of love.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Tom said, his eyes lit up in anticipation, as he followed the dogs into the yard.

  “Pie, huh?” My mom muttered. “Wedding gift? Or bribe?”

  “Maybe a bit of both,” I confessed. “My muffler is starting to go. I was hoping one of Tom’s mechanic buddies from AA – I think he said one of them was a mechanic – was up for some honest, and maybe discounted, work.”

  “He might. He might like pie, too. I forget the kid’s name. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, and on the quiet side. Actually, he’s a nice-looking guy. Maybe he’d really like some of your pie.”

  I ignored the comment, but I knew what she was getting at. I hadn’t gone out with anyone – aside from the odd blind date – in a while. I let my mind wander for a moment to thoughts of a hot mechanic. That probably wouldn’t go any further than daydream territory, but a girl would fantasize. Inwardly I sighed. Maybe I’d been reading too many romance novels lately.

  “There it is,” she smiled. “What? I see you thinking about it. A hot mechanic with talented, capable hands. Nothing wrong with that.” />
  I waved off the comment. She wanted to rib me a bit. I knew that.

  “You know I’m right,” she pressed. “And you’re young. Why not? You don’t want to let the equipment rust from lack of use.”

  “I’m quite certain it doesn’t work that way,” I scoffed.

  “How often do you pleasure yourself? You’ll want to keep everything primed and in good working order, my dear.”

  “Mom!” There was no way I wanted to discuss that with her. “That’s private.”

  She flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Please. You lived in my body for nearly nine months and then slid out of me – after nearly twenty-four hours of labor, no less.”

  “After that slow exit – and you probably were squeezing tight to keep me in, for all I know – I’m probably an expert on the territory, then.”

  “At that point, I was more than happy to poop you out of me. You just made me eat lots of doughnuts. Plus, I couldn’t smoke.”

  I was surprised. “You stopped smoking while you were pregnant with me?”

  She gave a curt nod.

  “No cigarettes for nine months?”

  “Well, I had a couple cheats, but when I knew I was pregnant I made it a point to stop.”

  “Aw, that’s kind of sweet,” I cooed.

  “It would have been easier not to smoke if your father wasn’t around driving me nuts.”

  This would go nowhere, except it would get more critical or more graphic.

  “I’m hungry,” I said, changing the subject, as I turned and headed into the house proper. As I did I saw my mom put her cigarette out into a cup of old coffee by the cash register. I stopped in my tracks and raised an eyebrow at the act.

  “What? Tom leaves half-empty cups of coffee all over the place. It makes a handy ashtray, if nothing else. I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

  I continued to stare, not saying a word.

  “Okay! Vanessa will probably clean up. I gave her a raise anyways, so it’s not so bad.”

  I remained silent, just keeping my gaze fixed on my mom.

  “Yes! It was a good raise! Anyways, what brings you here,” she asked, following me inside. “Besides bribing my husband with sweets.”

  “I was just paying a visit. By the way, some of those baskets you left from that estate sale you went to down below, they sold.”

  “How much did you get for them? You never charge enough.”

  “Well, I did like those baskets, so I said they were going for twenty-five dollars, figuring if the price was too high, I’d still have them. The lady took them on the spot, no argument whatsoever.”

  “Oh,” my mom clapped her hands together in delight. “Those couldn’t have been worth more than twenty bucks. I’m proud of you. You’re taking after your mother more than I thought.”

  I shrugged. I knew she’d see it that way. “She was happy, and you and I make a bit of profit, so it’s all good.”

  “We really made a nice little return on that. I paid five dollars for them. So,” my mom said, lighting another cigarette. “I made soup tonight. It’s a beef stew with potatoes, carrots and peas. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “Well, I haven’t eaten, and you do make a great stew,” I said.

  “Great. Set the table and put some bread out. We’ll eat once Tom gets in with the dogs.”

  8

  Over dinner I heard several Vegas tales, including about the five hundred dollars my mom won at slots, and the grand Tom lost at craps.

  Tom confessed he’d long had plans to propose while they were out West. Both were jolly in their newlywed state.

  After eating I felt stuffed – Mom outdid herself with the stew this time, so I ate way too much – and instead of driving home and promptly dozing off on the couch, I volunteered to take Beanie and Hooper for a walk. It was a clear, crisp evening, so it’d do me some good, and it would calm the rowdy boys.

  Mom and Tom lived at the end of the tourist strip, facing the St. Mary’s River. Since it was at the end of the drag, he – or I guess now, they – had a decent amount of land on one side of the property. There was very little traffic, except for tourists hunting for parking spots in the busy months, or locals taking shortcuts to the hospital a few blocks south or to the highway.

  I walked by the park that flanked the river, letting the dogs sniff along the iron fence. In the diminished light you could see the forms of freighters slowly slipping through the locks and gliding upriver like ancient slumbering creatures, occasionally sounding their horns in salute.

  Near the water I saw a couple of shadowy shapes moving around. I watched them for a moment. They seemed to be trying to make a fire, which wouldn’t be allowed in the park. Their forms grew more opaque for a moment and I saw they were dressed in a style of clothing from the past and that they had muskets. For a moment I thought Rendezvous in the Sault was underway. But the location was off by a couple blocks, and the historical reenactment took place in the middle of summer, not in the first weeks of September. It dawned on me that I was seeing some scene from the past, maybe even the late 1600s or early 1700s, since the area had been settled that far back. Sometimes people’s souls lingered on long after their bodies gave out. Perhaps it was two trappers settling in for the night and I was seeing some kind of visual echo of their routine. I didn’t always see such things, but when it was quiet and I could focus, these specters sometimes grew more apparent.

  The duo began to fade into nothingness, and I continued along the sidewalk, soon rounding Ashmun and turning back onto Portage to return to Mom and Tom’s.

  The dogs, of course, had to check out a fire hydrant in front of one of the street’s many bars, and I paused and looked around. Not many people were out. Just a few folks either heading to Padre’s, the Mexican place up the street, or partaking in pizza or standard American fare at Frankie’s. It’d likely pick up later once the college kids came downtown to drink in the bars.

  For a small town we did have quite the surplus of drinking establishments, especially downtown.

  Some marketing person had latched onto the promotional appeal of our city’s unnatural resource and dubbed the area the BAR-muda Triangle. Pub crawls now were a regular occurrence throughout the year, for visitors and locals alike.

  The presence of the college was only part of the reason for the wealth of watering holes. I think northerners just like to drink, especially when the winters are so long. Maybe it helps us forget that it’s going to be cold – often bitingly so – from October through April. There’s only so much snowmobiling, snowshoeing, ice skating, ice carving, cross-country skiing and ice fishing a person can do, after all.

  The dogs finished their hydrant exploration and I prodded them forward, heading toward Murphy’s. In college I had hung out there quite often and still frequented it from time to time. It had an old-fashioned pub vibe with a small, but good, menu featuring bar grub, an admirable beer selection, pool tables and dart boards.

  I spotted my friend Trish, who waited tables there a couple nights a week. She was seated on a bench out front.

  “Hi, Trish. Are you working tonight?”

  “I just finished,” she replied. “I thought I’d sit out here for a few minutes before clocking out. It’s a bit chilly tonight, but overall not bad.”

  I sat down next to her. “May as well enjoy it while we can,” I agreed. She lit a cigarette – she usually allowed herself two a week, if she wasn’t drinking – and offered me one. I shook my head. She reached down to pet the dogs, who wagged their tails in greeting. They eagerly sniffed her fingers, clearly hoping she’d have some real food in addition to the pub grub smells.

  “Sorry, boys. I have nothing for you. Oh, wait,” she paused, digging in her pocket. “I found something for you crazy mutts.” She unraveled a packet of oyster crackers and started feeding them to the dogs, who gladly accepted the offering. “I heard your mom is back in town. I also heard that she and Tom did something very true to Vegas while they were out wes
t. Any truth to those rumors?”

  I nodded and filled her in on some of the details.

  “She hasn’t kicked him out yet?” she joked.

  I shook my head. “I just had dinner at their place. They really seem very happy. I’m not sure if she’s happier – though she’d never admit it – or if he is. But dinner was good. I ate so much that I’m taking these maniacs on a walk to settle a too-full belly.”

  “So, mom made a winner of a dinner tonight, huh?” I’d known Trish since college and she knew of my mother’s culinary adventures.

  “Yes, just a basic, but very good, beef stew.”

  “That had to have been a relief,” she said, stretching her lanky frame and rolling her neck as she leaned against the bench. “I’ll never forget the time she topped a Red Baron pizza with Brie cheese, salsa and kielbasa.”

  “No one can,” I said, shuddering at the memory. “I can’t believe we ate it.”

  “It kind of helped that we found some tortilla chips and crackers. We scraped the salsa onto the chips and transferred the sausage and cheese to the crackers. It helped, psychologically, at least.”

  “We were drunk, too, which really helped. Or hurt, as it were. Bad judgment and all.”

  “Well, I’ve had worse, um, sausage, as a result of drinking,” Trish laughed.

  “I sometimes wonder if men invented alcohol to get women to sleep with them, or if women invented alcohol to make men tolerable.”

  Trish laughed out loud. “Oh, you’re a deep-thinking bundle of sunshine today, aren’t you?”

  “I try.”

  “Do you have any free time this week, to maybe grab a bite?”

  “Aside from work, nothing special is in the works. What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “Dinner somewhere that doesn’t have a drive-thru option,” she said. “After working two jobs, trying to carve out a divorce settlement with Martin, and taking a night class at the college, the last thing I want to do is hang around the house and behave.”

  “Sounds good to me. Maybe a cocktail somewhere, too?”