Giving Up the Ghost

by Magenta Wilde

  “I suppose I do like what I see,” I conceded. I didn’t want to let on how much, though.

  Ivy was skeptical about my restraint. “I saw that look on your face. That’s the way I felt when Bobby Goudrou smiled at me in homeroom in the eighth grade.”

  I felt another surge of giddiness, comparable to how I felt when I had a crush on some boy named Teddy who was in some of my ninth-grade courses. He’d told me I had the biggest boobs in the art class we were in together, and I was thrilled he had noticed me. Never mind that five minutes later he commented about how much he liked it when Stacey Dombrowski wore a short skirt. For one glorious dumb moment, I felt my breasts and I had won.

  “Okay, okay,” I conceded, trying to rein in the manic surge of emotion. “Your brother is easy on the eyes. How did I never come across his auto shop before? It’s like six blocks from where I work. Hell, I’m tempted to tap around my engine with a hammer and see if I can scare up future repair options. He’s that hot. I admit it. Okay?”

  Ivy squealed out a young laugh, clearly delighted to enjoy a bit of girl talk. That was fair, I guess. She’d missed out on a lot of it due to her untimely demise.

  “So, to talk shop for a moment,” I continued. “If I need to convince Roger of you wanting him to let you go, so to speak, I could use a couple of specific memories to signal that it’s really a message from you, that you want him to move on.”

  “Like what?”

  “It could be anything. But something only he and you would know. Did you two share some memory, of maybe sneaking into the movies, or of eating all the Christmas cookies and blaming it on the dog. If I have to tell him I have a message from you, the more specific, the better.”

  She paused for a moment, her youthful face pinched in concentration.

  “What about your shirt there?” I pointed to the Roots sweatshirt she wore, which had a yellow paint stain on it.

  Ivy looked down. “Oh. When we were at the party on my … last night. I had been cold so Roger gave me his sweatshirt. It had a paint stain on it because he’d been helping me paint my bedroom the week before. Mom tried to wash the stain off, but it wouldn’t come out.”

  I listened, absorbing the details.

  Ivy went on. “Mom actually wanted to throw it away, but Roger loved that sweatshirt.”

  “Were you painting anything in particular for your room?”

  “We had torn down some wallpaper that had daisies on it. I wanted something more grownup but still cheerful. I always wanted to move away to someplace warmer when I got old enough. I didn’t know what I wanted to go to college for, but I knew I wanted to go somewhere warm. I chose yellow for my bedroom walls. It reminded me of daffodils, which are my favorite flower.”

  As she chattered she grew more energetic and I picked up on it. I looked down at my car’s instrument panel and realized I was speeding. I was getting carried away, clearly, and losing myself a bit. Distracted driving due to a ghost riding shotgun. Not good. I slowed and put more focus on maintaining the speed limit.

  “Yes. Something detailed like that is good.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to think of more stories like that. It felt kind of nice to remember that, you know?”

  “It usually does,” I agreed.

  “Poppy? Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. I can’t promise I’ll have an answer, but I’ll try.”

  “What kinds of things can I do in this afterworld? I never really got to explore it. I see flashes of strange things, but I’m not sure what this is all about. I thought when I’d die I’d see my dead Grandma and she’d take me to heaven, but I’ve seen nothing much except the same-old people and the same-old places. And most of them are around my brother.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what’s in the afterlife. I see my Dad’s ghost now and then, but I’ve never gotten a lot of details from him. It kind of sounds like anything’s possible. If you believe in heaven and were good, usually you can go there.”

  “Why is he still around? Your dad, I mean. How did he die?” She folded her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.

  “He died of a heart attack when I was fifteen.”

  “That sounds young.”

  “He’d been older when I was born,” I explained. “In his late forties. Maybe genetics, or a bad diet, had played a part.

  “As for his lingering,” I said, “he just seems to like to hang around. He once told me he finds this world interesting. I think he’s not ready or not willing to give it up just yet.”

  She was quiet for a moment, as she absorbed the information. “You mean, I can go anywhere, and see just about anything?”

  “It sounds like it, yes.”

  “I could go see a concert? Or spy on my favorite singer?”

  “I think so.”

  “I guess I’ll just take advantage of my freedom and explore a bit. Please, Poppy, please keep doing whatever you’re doing. I haven’t felt this free in ages.” I felt a surge of hopeful energy from the girl.

  “I’ll see what I can do. But try not to be impatient. If Roger’s held onto his grief for this long, it could take some time. This won’t likely be a quick fix.”

  The mood in my car darkened and I could pick up hints of a smoky, acrid smell. I felt irritated, like the worst case of PMS had hit me. Except I wasn’t due for a couple weeks.

  “You don’t like the sound of that, I’m guessing,” I asked, turning to Ivy.

  “No, not at all.” She started fiddling with her ear in earnest.

  “Well, try to be patient. We’re just getting started, and I’ve got a lot of tools in my belt.”

  The darkness abated somewhat. I inwardly relaxed, but just slightly. I could sense the stormy teen moods my father had hinted at. And this wasn’t one of those romantic summer storms that promised rainbows either.

  12

  Talking with Ivy had left me feeling restless, so I called Trish to see if she’d be available to head out and do something that same night.

  Fifteen minutes later she was on her way.

  Trish arrived at my place shortly after seven, and we headed out for a bite to eat at the Chinese place downtown.

  “I’m so glad I have a couple days off,” she said, grabbing an eggroll to munch on. “I can get out and be a bit bad.”

  “You’ve earned it. With work, class, a divorce, you could use a break.”

  Trish nodded vigorously as she finished her eggroll.

  “Do you want to head anywhere in particular after we finish eating?”

  “Since we’re already parked, how about we just barhop?” Trish said. “Let’s start at the Classy Dive, so every place we visit after that will seem all the better.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I thought you wanted a nice night out.”

  “I thought so, too, but I’ve since decided that I’d rather go to a seedy place full of stories. Then when I get back home to my empty house, I won’t feel so bad about it after watching a bunch of sad losers.”

  “Are you regretting your divorce?” I placed my hand on hers in an effort to comfort her.

  “No, I just have my ups and downs. It’s just an adjustment, you know. You get used to having someone to share the bed with, or you have your own jokes or the shows you watch together. Then that routine is broken …” she broke off.

  I nodded. I hadn’t had that in a while, but those were the mundane everyday things that made being coupled strangely magical.

  “So, you want a bit of distraction. And to start low and aim higher?”

  “Exactly. I hope you’re up to date on your shots,” Trish teased.

  After paying for our dinners, we ventured over to the Classy Dive. It was a few buildings off the main tourist strip, on the other side of Portage. Not the bad side, mind you. Just the side that didn’t boast a bar, restaurant or tourist shop every and any which way you went.

  We stepped inside and saw business was slow this early in the night.

 
A few tables were occupied, denizens hovering over their pitchers of beer.

  Two men and two women were standing around the pool table while one twentysomething man in a flannel shirt and trucker cap lined up a shot.

  Some people, regulars by the look of them, lined the bar, their beers in front of them. If we were in a church, I’d have thought a few of them were praying over their pints.

  The moment we walked in, a number of heads turned, and not in friendly welcome.

  “I guess we’re not regulars,” Trish said.

  “Yeah, I’m getting that feeling.”

  We headed toward the bar, where three seats were open, and took two of them. Trish motioned to the bartender at the far end while I glanced around the room.

  It was named the Classy Dive, but it definitely owed its atmosphere to the latter half of its name. The carpet was tan brown and stained with years – possibly even decades – of spilled drinks and marred with cigarette burns from back when patrons could light up inside the premises. The bar top had its share of names and more than a few expletives carved into the wood. Pilsner glasses hung overhead, framed by garlands of multicolored Christmas lights. Posters adorned the wood-paneled walls, mostly featuring women in short shorts encouraging customers to try their brand of beer. A small dance floor was next to the juke box, and next to that some instruments were set up. Clearly a band would be performing later that night.

  “Well, lookie here,” Trish said.

  “What?” I turned, trying to see what or who she was referring to.

  “A blast from the past, straight ahead.”

  I looked behind the bar and saw Scott Seymour, a rebound college fling of mine who I dated when I was a junior and senior. He nodded to us and smiled as he served draft beers to a couple customers.

  Toward the end of my freshman year I dated Fletcher Davis, who I was convinced was “the one.” I tried love potions and charms on him. He’d be sweet to me for a day or a week, and then his attentions would inevitably land on other women. He taught me that first love wasn’t necessarily the best love. He also taught me that misdirected and misused magic wasn’t worth a lick of good. I was heartbroken when that relationship dissolved.

  A few months later I met Scott at a party when I stepped outside for some fresh air. He was smoking a joint with a friend. After his friend went inside, we got to talking.

  Scott was a cool, funny guy, a few years older than me. He was one of those perpetual seniors at college, who casually flunked and retook classes as needed or desired. He was intelligent in the way of someone who liked to learn things for the sake of learning them, and didn’t worry so much about the grades he earned. Or didn’t earn, as was often the case.

  He was likeable to just about anyone, though. He never put on airs or pretended to be anything other than who he was. He never made me feel like I should be anything other than who I was either. That felt like a breath of fresh air after Fletcher, who had always wanted me to be ten pounds thinner, several shades blonder – yes, I was blonde in a past life – or blind to the other girls he hit on when he thought I wasn’t looking. Sometimes even when I was.

  Scott and I dated for a couple years and then took a break, dating again for a short while when I was in my mid-twenties. We were never deeply in love, but we had been deeply in like – as well as lust – and some of it remained.

  We’d more-or-less mutually agreed to part, but would catch up when we ran into each other in town, which happened a couple times a year, at least. He wasn’t the type who would stay with one woman for long – he once told me I held the record, and probably always would. His true loves were good times and good weed. I also thought he probably hadn’t found the right woman yet. But that wasn’t a priority for him, so I never brought it up. He seemed happy to simply be, and didn’t want or need advice or fixing.

  Anyway, I moved on, opening my shop while he floated around, spending a summer backpacking in Europe, or wintering in Acapulco, or working odd jobs – wherever his whims took him. Lately he’d been tending bar at spots around town, and clearly he now was working here.

  “What’s up, ladies? You’re both looking good. Like a breath of fresh air, to be honest,” he said, as he inclined his head around the room, which seemed to consist of the stages of alcoholism displayed in real time, and of young kids hoping to feel a bit badass for the night.

  “Or, do you a mean a fresh toke of weed?” I asked.

  “They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned,” Scott laughed.

  “I see you cut your hair,” I mused.

  “Yup. Shorn for the fall. I thought I’d try a new look.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with short hair,” Trish said. “This almost makes you seem respectable.”

  “Oh, you wound me and flatter me all in one go. What’ll you be having? First round’s on me.”

  “I’ll just have a Blue,” I said. “Same for you, Trish?”

  She nodded in agreement. “Who’s playing tonight?” she asked, motioning to the instruments set up in the corner.

  “Moose Knuckle,” Scott answered.

  “Moose Knuckle?” I asked. “As in?”

  “Yes, as in what you see when some dude hikes his pants up too high,” Scott agreed. “They’re all right. They play everything, mainly some original punk jams, but also some metal and hard rock. Considering this crowd, they’ll probably start out with rock and country.”

  “Of course,” I muttered. Trish and I turned to each other and burst out laughing at the name. “I hope the lead singer isn’t sporting one. That’s all I can say.”

  Scott went to collect our beers and pulled out a third, clearly for himself. He said something to the bartender, a steely-looking dishwater blonde with a permed mullet straight out of the 1980s, and tattoos up and down her arms. She glanced in our direction, gave him a curt nod, and he walked around the bar toward us. He handed us our beers, kept the third and sat in the empty barstool next to me.

  “Break time, Scott?” Trish asked, holding her beer up in thanks.

  “Why not? It’s still slow, and Carla can handle the customers for a few minutes. Either of you ladies interested in vaping? That’s how I’ve been, treating my glaucoma,” he said, using air quotes, “these days.”

  I declined the offer. Pot had never done much for me except make me feel a bit tired and distracted. Trish paused to think for a second, and accepted, taking a long drag before returning it to Scott, who inhaled and returned the pipe to his pocket.

  “Whose drink is that,” I asked, pointing to the Coke can on the counter.

  “That’s Roger’s. He comes in here from time to time,” Scott says. “If business is slow, I’ll shoot a game of pool with him.”

  I wondered if it was Roger Montgomery. I was about to ask, but Trish spoke first.

  “And he drinks Coke?” Trish asked. “On a Saturday night? Is he a sugar freak or is he just pacing himself?”

  “He’s a Friend of Bill W.’s,” Scott replied.

  “And he comes in here?” Trish asked, her eyebrows raising. “I’d think it’d be mandatory to drink in here. No offense meant, Scott.”

  “None taken. I just work here. As to why, you’ll have to ask him. Now if you don’t mind, I see a bit of tension forming around the pool table. I don’t feel like calling the cops, especially after I’ve just taken my, ahem, medicine,” he said, with a wink. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  Trish looked at me in surprise. I could tell the Coke drinker bothered her. She wasn’t what you’d call a lush entirely, but she was known to at least enjoy a glass of wine every night before bed. Plus, this really was the kind of place where numbing yourself while in its thrall is a good thing. Trust me on that.

  I shrugged. “Some people don’t want to, or can’t, drink. Tom used to pound them back quite often until that one St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “Oh yeah. I remember that one,” Trish laughed. “What was he wearing? A Derby hat?”

  I
nodded.

  Several years ago Tom and my mom had been the subject of a lot of stories.

  One of the best – or worst – was about one particular St. Patrick’s Day outing.

  “They celebrated early – really early – that year, didn’t they?” Trish asked.

  I nodded. “It was so cold that winter, too, tons of snow and ice, and Mom still dressed up for the holiday.”

  “In a long sleeveless satin dress and sparkly heels, right?” Trish shivered, shaking her head at the notion. “A satin dress in the middle of winter is nuts.”

  “She had a fur stole,” I replied, nonchalant.

  Trish snickered. “Her one nod to practicality. And Tom also dressed up, too, right?”

  “Yeah, all in black, save for a green necktie.”

  “I forget how they ended up in the middle of nowhere like that.”

  “Tom was going to buy a truck from some buddy out of town,” I explained. “On their way they stopped at every bar they came across.”

  “And Tom never could stop at one.”

  “Or eight.”

  “Yeah, he drank the hard stuff then like he eats sweets now.”

  “Totally. They drank some more at his friend’s – I think it was Jim O’Neill – and then they returned to town, this time revisiting every bar on the way back to celebrate the purchase.”

  “Then he had to empty his, um, tank at some point between bars,” Trish added with a giggle.

  “Yeah. Tom pulled over to the side of the road, and went around the side of the car to do his business.”

  “And then Fiona had to go.”

  “But she wanted more privacy, so she staggered up some hill and into the woods to take a squat.”

  Trish laughed at the visual. “I can just imagine her traipsing through snow and ice, a cigarette in hand, bitching about getting her shoes wet.”

  “Oh yeah, she bitched. Later she made him buy her three pairs of shoes to make up for the damage. Or, rather, one pair of shoes to replace the ruined ones, and the other two pairs just because.”