We didn’t talk much. She didn’t ask me how school went. She glanced at the phone every once in a while, as if expecting it to save her from some discomfort or awkwardness. But it didn’t ring.
She stared into our new backyard, which was crabgrassy and needed mowing. “Remember Peaches?” she asked.
Not the gerbil again. “Goebbels,” I said. “I wonder if the Flanagans ever noticed he was missing.” The funeral had been painful. Mom read three poems—Keats, Shakespeare, and Auden—over his Kleenex-box coffin before settling him into his backyard grave. She wept while I covered the box with dirt. I resented being designated gravedigger. I resented having to go through the ritual at all.
Mom set down the gravestone—a rock she’d painted gold. On it was written HERE LIES A KING OF GERBILS. RIP PEACHES.
“Yeah,” Mom said. “Goebbels. I wonder if he knows how much we cared about him.”
The cottage cheese curds stuck in my throat. “But we didn’t care about him.”
“Speak for yourself, you heartless child,” Mom said. “I cared. There’s a gold headstone in our former yard to prove it.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “You cared. You care about all living things, no matter how insignificant. You’re Jesus. You’re Buddha. You’re frigging Gandhi in polka dots.” Somehow I wasn’t included in her love of all the world’s creatures…but I was afraid to say this out loud. I didn’t want to trigger another meltdown. And as much as I liked to think of myself as a girl robot, being called heartless by my own mother didn’t feel great in my tinny stopwatch of a heart.
Just before midnight, I lay in the dark, spinning the AM dial on my clock radio until I found 1120. All right, Ghost Boy, I thought. Let’s see what you’ve got for me. I planned to listen for a little while, and then put myself to sleep by imagining Tom Garber weeping over my virginal corpse.
An announcer’s voice said, “WBAM, Baltimore 1120. News, talk, and golden oldies. It’s midnight. Stay tuned for the Night Light Show with your host, Herb Horvath.” After a long beep to mark the hour and a dorky jingle—“WBAM in Baltimore!”—an old swing tune played, and Billie Holiday’s smoky voice purred, “Talk to me, baby, tell me what’s the matter now…”
A voice spoke over the music, a voice so mellow it had a smell: brandy, pipe tobacco, aftershave, and a touch of Bengay. “Good night and good morning to you, all my Night People. This is the Night Light Show, your Light in the Night, and I’m your host, Herb Horvath. It’s early on a Tuesday morning, and Baltimore is steaming. Will autumn ever come? Doesn’t feel like it, does it? You know the number: 410-555-7777. Call in, tell me what’s on your mind. Let’s keep each other company, shall we? While we’re waiting for the first calls to pour in, let’s listen to this beautiful number by John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman called ‘Autumn Serenade.’ Here’s hoping it brings some cool weather along with it.”
The song played—tenor sax, piano, and another smooth, mellow man’s voice crooning.
I turned up the radio, lay back in the dark, and let the voices wash over me.
Herb:
Okay, here comes our first caller. WBAM, you’re on the air. Welcome to the Night Light Show.
Old lady:
Hello, Herb. It’s Dottie calling from Essex.
Herb:
Hello, Dottie. What’s on your mind tonight?
Dottie:
Remember sweet old Brutus, my kittycat?[Sniffs] I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Brutus went to Kittycat Heaven a couple of months ago.
Herb:
Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Dottie.
Dottie:
I miss him so much. And I think he’s trying to contact me—from the other side.
Herb:
What do you mean, he’s trying to contact you?
Dottie:
He’s been appearing in my dreams every few nights. I’m lying in bed and he walks right over my stomach and stands on my rib cage, staring at me. He moves his mouth like he’s talking. Not meowing, but talking.
Herb:
What does he say?
Dottie:
He says, “Bistro. Bistro. Bistro.”
Herb:
Bistro?
Dottie:
That’s what I don’t understand. Why is he talking about restaurants? What is he trying to tell me?[A tinkly little bit of music plays, the sound of fairy dust being sprinkled.]
Herb:
That’s a stumper, Dottie. Let’s toss that out to our listeners and see what they come up with.
Dottie:
Thank you, Herb. I appreciate it. Nighty-night all!
Herb:
Nighty-night. You’re listening to the Night Light Show with Herb Horvath. WBAM, AM 1120. Next caller, you’re on the air.
Myrna:
Herb, this is Myrna from Highlandtown.
Herb:
Hello there, Myrna. Nice to hear from you again.
Myrna:
I tried to call on the anniversary of Elvis’s death, but I couldn’t get through.
Herb:
Yes, the lines are always jammed on Elvis nights.
Myrna:
Dang, that man looks good on velvet. Notice I didn’t say “Damn”? I’m doing my darnedest to keep my language clean for you, Herb.
Herb:
I appreciate it, Myrna. I’ve still got the Elvis portrait you sent me, up on the wall in my office.
Myrna:
I did that myself. Paint-by-numbers.
Herb:
It’s a beaut.
Myrna:
I can’t believe he’s dead. I know it’s been a while now, but…I still wear my hair the way Priscilla wore hers on their wedding day, in case he comes back.
Herb:
From the dead?
Myrna:
Who’s more likely to come back from the dead than Elvis? If anybody can do it, he can.
Herb:
Maybe you’re right. I bet he’s looking down at you from Heaven right now, Myrna. He’s thinking, My, that’s a fine-looking woman in that black beehive hairdo.
Myrna:
Why, thank you, Herb.
It was just a bunch of lonely old people, but I could kind of relate to them—especially Dottie, haunted by her dead cat. And Myrna haunted by Elvis. Everybody was haunted by somebody. I couldn’t turn it off.
Herb:
We’ve got to move on to our next caller. Night Light, you’re on the air.
Ghost Boy:
Good evening, Herb. This is Ghost Boy.
I sat up. This had to be Jonah. The voice sounded like his. So this was why he wanted me to listen—he was a regular caller.
Herb:
Hello, Ghost Boy. What’s cooking tonight?
Ghost Boy:
Not much. Summer’s over. I’m just feeling sad about it.
Herb:
Did you have a good summer?
Ghost Boy:
No. But it’s still better than the rest of the year. No school, for one thing.
Herb:
What year are you in school, Ghost Boy?
Ghost Boy:
Senior. Almost free. Once I graduate, there will be nothing to hold me in place. No schedule or responsibility or expectations to fulfill. I’ll be light as a helium balloon, drifting up into the sky with no direction. Just carried by the wind.
Herb:
What about college, Ghost Boy? You seem like a smart kid.
Ghost Boy:
Most colleges won’t take dead people. Ha-ha. Well, I just wanted to check in. I haven’t called in a while, but I’m still here listening. Lurking. Just wanted you all to know. I’ll keep my eye out for Elvis. Oh, and a special hello to Burt. I hope he checks in.
Herb:
Chances are he will. You know Burt. Nighty-night, Ghost Boy.
Ghost Boy:
Nighty-night.
Jonah had wanted me to hear that call. Why? Was this just a connection between two radio insomniacs, or was he trying to sen
d me some kind of message?
Herb:
Next caller, you’re on the air.
Caller:
Meow meow meow meow. Hi, Herb, this is Dottie’s cat calling from Kittycat Heaven. Meow!
Herb:
Don Berman, this is not nice.
Don Berman:
I’m not Don Berman! I’m Dottie’s kittycat with a message from the Great Beyond. You’re an ugly old biddy, Dottie! I always hated you and I’m coming to get you! Meow! Meow! Me—
Herb:
Sorry, Don, but I had to hang up on you. We don’t allow that kind of thing here on the Night Light Show. Dottie, dear, if you heard that, you know better than to take Don Berman seriously. We all know how he is. Next caller, welcome to the Night Lights.
Judy:
Herb, this is Judy from Pikesville. I just want to say: Dottie, honey, don’t you listen to that awful Don Berman. I don’t know why he does these things. We all love you and I’m sure Brutus is very happy up there in Cat Heaven.
Herb:
Thank you, Judy. I’m sure you’re right.
Judy:
Herb, that Ghost Boy should be asleep. He has school tomorrow, and it’s almost one o’clock in the morning! Don’t you have a minimum age for callers? They should be at least twenty-one.
Herb:
Well, I guess it’s up to his parents to set his bedtime, if he has parents…Perhaps he doesn’t. What if he really is a ghost?
Judy:
Oh, Herb, don’t be ridiculous. He says he goes to school. Where do you think he goes, the School for Ghouls?
Herb:
Judy, I think you just made a joke.
Judy:
What? Oh no, Herb, I don’t joke. I’m deadly serious…
I let my mind drift along the airwaves, where all these listeners and callers had found a secret world. Jonah had given me the key to that world, even though he barely knew me.
I had to prove myself worthy.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning, I felt spacy and tired but strangely alert too. The Night Lights still babbled in my head like a vivid dream that wouldn’t turn off even after I woke up.
Jonah was already in his seat when I got to the auditorium for Assembly. He looked different now that I’d heard him on the radio. More real, less ghost.
I went to my seat. “Hey—thanks, Ghost Boy.”
No answer.
“I heard you on the radio last night,” I explained.
“Okay, but don’t call me Ghost Boy.”
I stiffened. He’d sounded so likable on the radio, I’d forgotten how prickly he was in real life. “Sorry.”
He sighed, slouched, and stared at the stage as if impatient for Assembly to begin.
“How often do you call in?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Once in a while. Did you like it?” Something new in his voice when he asked the question—nervousness? warmth?—spurred me on.
“It’s great!” I said. “I used to listen to the Bob Decker Show out of Albany—do you get that here?”
“I don’t know. I never looked for it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “The Night Light Show is much better. How long have you been listening? Have you ever met any of the other callers? That Don Berman guy?”
“No,” Jonah said, finally looking at me, but giving no hint about how he felt about what he saw. “I’m a little bit afraid of them.”
“I have these pictures in my head, you know, of what they look like, but I’m sure I’m totally wrong—”
“I just thought you’d like the show,” Jonah said, looking over my shoulder. “I wasn’t trying to be your best friend or anything.”
“Oh.” Now I felt weird. Why did he turn me on to the show if he didn’t want to talk about it? I couldn’t ask, because Anne Sweeney suddenly arrived on a breeze of honeysuckle shampoo.
“Hey there!” As soon as Anne sat down, Jonah started studying something in his backpack. I got the message: End of conversation. “Wow, Bea, you look tired.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, you’ve got circles.” She traced the dark hollows under my eyes. “Want some concealer? Mine’s probably too light for you, but it’s better than looking like one of those football players…what’s that black stuff they put under their eyes to block out the sun? Eye something?”
“Eye black?” I said. Just a guess.
“Yeah, that’s it.” She dug through her monogrammed canvas tote bag until she found a tube of concealer and passed it to me.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I like looking tired.”
“You do not.” She laughed. “You’re so funny.” She reached across me to tap Jonah’s arm. “Isn’t she funny, Jonah?”
He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, like he was pretending he wasn’t there, or that we weren’t there, that he couldn’t hear or see us. Anne wasn’t having it. She tapped him again. “Jonah! Answer me! You rude thing.”
His mouth twitched. “Anne Sweeney, stop talking. Please.”
“Oh, that’s what you always say.” Anne turned to me. “See why I don’t even try? It’s not worth the effort at all.”
Mr. Lockjaw took the podium and the students quieted down. “Glad to shee the firsht day didn’t shcare you all off. Sho many of you came back for more. Har har har.”
The students sighed restlessly. No one laughed except one of the teachers sitting up on the stage, a heavyset woman with a white skunk streak running through her teased black hair.
“Har har,” Lockjaw finished. “Mosht of you know Mizh Jacobshon, Dean of Shtudent Life. She’sh going to read a few announchementsh thish morning about ekshtracurricular activitiesh. Mizh Jacobshon?”
The woman with the skunk streak replaced Lockjaw at the podium. Ms. Jacobson, I presumed.
“You’re all required to take at least one extracurricular a year, including sports,” Ms. Jacobson said. “These must be school-approved activities, no independent study, no exceptions. Here are the group leaders for the following student activities. Drama Club Chair: Olga Ulianov. Social Committee Co-Chairs: Anne Sweeney and Michael Morse…”
I listened to the list halfheartedly, sure I’d find nothing that interested me. Then, as Ms. Jacobson droned on, I heard a combination of words that surprised me. “Yearbook Committee: Editor, Nina Fogel. Art Director, Jonah Tate.”
I looked at Jonah. “You’re the art director of the yearbook?”
“I know, isn’t that peculiar?” Anne said. “The person with just about the least school spirit ever in the whole world, and he’s in charge of the freaking yearbook! He volunteered for it!”
“Why?” I said. “I would have thought the Philosophy Club was more your speed. Or Chess Club, or Future Chemists. Not that I really know you or anything, but—”
“Beatrice Szabo,” Jonah said through clenched teeth, sounding almost like Lockjaw. “And Anne Sweeney. I’m going to say it one more time, and you had better listen. Stop. Talking.”
“Okay, okay,” Anne said. “Touchy.”
I was afraid to say another word. But I thought maybe I’d join the yearbook. It seemed, counterintuitively, to be the place for people with no school spirit. And it was impossible to have less school spirit than I had. Even Ghost Boy couldn’t top me in that department.
“Who needs this dump?” Anne said, surveying the limp cafeteria scene. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of boiled broccoli assaulted us. “Let’s hit the Morgue.” She and AWAE marched out of the lunchroom. I stood on the threshold, not sure what to do.
Anne stopped and waved her hand in front of my face. “Yo, Beatrice. You coming?”
I blinked. When I’m in a new situation, sometimes my response times are slow. Like, if I don’t know what to do automatically, out of habit, my engine stalls.
“Come on, Beatrice,” AWAE said. “We’re leaving.”
My brain gears warmed up and began to whirr. “I didn’t know we were allowed to leave.”
“Of c
ourse we are,” Anne said. “Senior privileges.” She grabbed me by the wrist and shook my arm. “You’re so stiff. Relax.” She headed for the door, pulling me along.
“So…is the Morgue what it sounds like?”
“Does it sound like something?” AWAE said. “We’re having French fries.”
We climbed into Anne’s Mini and drove half a mile off campus. To my disappointment, the Morgue was short for Morgan & Millard, a drugstore and coffee shop nestled among a row of storefronts on Roland Avenue. FIRST STRIP SHOPPING CENTER IN AMERICA, an iron plaque announced. BUILT IN 1896. It wasn’t much of a shopping center, just an ice-cream shop, a florist, a bank, a real estate agent, and the Morgue.
How to Say Goodbye in Robot Page 3
