by C. L. Roman
"I, uh, I'm new in the building, and I was just wandering, er, wondering if —"
She closed the door of her apartment between them, leaving him with the fleeting impression that she was still frowning.
Taking a deep breath, Jackson drank the rest of his beer. Then he shrugged. At least she'd looked at him this time.
Taking the garbage down to the basement later that evening, he ran into Archer.
The building manager had one of the washing machines pulled out, its hose disconnected from the wall, a replacement hose lying on the concrete next to him.
Jackson knelt next to him. "Need a hand?" he asked.
Archer scowled at him. "Didn't take you for the helpful type."
Sitting back on his heels, Jackson ignored the twinge in his leg and looked the situation over. "I can be helpful. Just private is all."
Archer sighed and picked up the hose. "Can't blame you there, I guess. How are ya settling in? Meet any of the other tenants yet?"
"Not too many. I've seen this one girl a couple of times, but she doesn't seem too friendly."
"Sophie?" Archer's brow wrinkled in confusion. "She's usually real talkative. Friendliest little thing I ever met. And cute as a button too. Her mama —"
Jackson shook his head. "I don't think we're talking about the same person. This is a young woman. About five foot six or seven, long black hair, dark eyes?" Seeing Archer's blank look, Jackson tried a different tack. "She lives in the apartment across from mine."
Lurching to his feet, Archer scraped a hand through his stringy hair. "Ain't nobody lives in 2B," he said.
Jackson smiled. "Well then, you've got a squatter, because I've seen her go in there twice now."
"Nope. That apartment is vacant, and the owners want it to stay that way." He cast a wary glance at the door and around the concrete-lined basement.
"What?" Tilting his head to one side, Jackson didn't bother to hide his disbelief. "You're trying to tell me it's never been occupied? This place has got to be thirty or forty years old, and no one has ever lived there?"
"Don't know about never. I been the manager here since '42 and there hasn't been anyone in there in all that time. Like I said, owners want it that way."
"Who was the manager here before you?"
"Don't know, don't care," Archer said loudly. Then his voice dropped to a nervous whisper, his wizened face twisting with something close to fear. "But between you and me, you ain't the only one to notice folks as shouldn't be here. If you ask me, that place is haunted."
Jackson burst out laughing. "You mean like ghosts and all that crap?"
Drawing himself into a stiff, dignified posture, Archer scowled at Jackson. "Think what you want. You're the one seeing things."
Gut tightening, Jackson stood up. "I don't see things," he said. "If I say there was a girl, then there was a girl."
"Owners don't want no one in there 'cause of the liability," Archer said, his lips thinning into a mutinous line. "Ain't no one in that apartment. Now, if you don't mind, I got work to do."
Jackson scooped up the bag of trash he'd set down to help Archer. Dropping it into the can, he headed upstairs without another word.
Chapter Four
A month later, Jackson was on the phone with Brenna Delaney. "Don't worry, Mom. I won't forget. I told my boss before he hired me that the reunion was coming up. I'll be there." Jackson smiled into the phone as his mother's pleasant contralto filtered through the line.
"Well, you just see that you are. You know how Gran gets when she wants to see someone, and she specifically asked for you."
Two days later, he was cruising down I-95 in his fifty-eight Apache, hoping the traffic wouldn't be too bad through Jacksonville. The first half of the drive had been uneventful, and he was hoping for more of the same right through to Cassadaga.
He reached the sparsely traveled back roads late in the afternoon and pulled in to the dirt drive of his family's three-story Victorian just in time for supper. The familiar low-pitched hum vibrated under his skin, but he ignored it and walked up the path to the front porch. His mother greeted him at the door.
"Welcome home," she said, smiling up at him. Her gray eyes darkened as she touched his face. "How are you doing?"
"I'm OK, Mom. Hungry though. Is dinner ready?"
"Just about, but Gran wants to see you first, so you better get inside if we're to have any hope of eating on time."
He hugged her and then opened the Apache’s back door to get his rucksack, looking at his mother over his shoulder. "I'm surprised she isn't in the kitchen running things."
A shadow flitted through Brenna Delaney's eyes. "She hasn't been doing a lot of cooking lately. Jackson..."
He stopped. His mother was perennially cheerful and almost annoyingly optimistic. To hear this note of worry in her tone was disconcerting. "What is it, Mom? Is Gran sick?"
Brenna shook her head. "Not sick, exactly. But she's older than you might remember. Go easy with her."
Jackson kissed her forehead and hoisted the rucksack to his shoulder. He dropped his things off in his childhood bedroom and continued upstairs to the third-floor suite Gran had occupied since he was a child.
The last door at the end of the hall opened into a small sitting room with a second door on the far end. Three dormer windows allowed a limited amount of sunlight, supplemented with Tiffany lamps on two end tables. Between them sat an overstuffed couch facing a side-boy on which perched an ancient radio. Benny Goodman was playing “Jersey Bounce,” bringing back a host of memories from his childhood. Hand crocheted doilies lay over the backs of a pair of matching chairs, giving the room a quaintly old-fashioned feel.
A touch of incongruous modernity was added by a giant, floral recliner next to the couch. Having seen the room many times before, Jackson focused his attention on the tiny, white-haired woman napping in the chair, an afghan draped over her lap.
He stepped back, and the floor creaked.
Her eyes flicked open, still the same vivid blue as always.
"Jackie?"
"Yeah Gran. It's me." He sat down on the couch as she levered the recliner upright.
"'Bout time," she said. "You were supposed to be here days ago."
"I don't think my new boss would like that," he said, smiling.
She snapped her fingers. "I don't give that much for what your boss might be thinking. Why you moved to that cold, thin place when you've a perfectly good home here, I'll never know."
His smile faded. "We talked about that Gran. You know why I didn't come back here."
"Pfft. 'The air makes me itch,' you said. Never heard such fiddle-faddle in all my life," she said, her Irish brogue thickening with her agitation. "You grew up here. This is your home. You're not itchin' now, are you?"
"It's not itching, really. More like —" Gran made an impatient noise, and he gave up. "Not too much at the moment, no," he said, patting her hand. "Don't get upset. I'm here now, and that's good, isn't it?" He stood up. "Dinner is almost ready, and I need to get unpacked. I'll see —"
"No, you don't. You'll sit yourself back down and let me look at you for a minute." The command in her tone was unmistakable, and Jackson smiled ruefully as he took a seat on the couch once more.
The keen blue eyes looked him over, taking in the faded jeans and white t-shirt. "You're not overdressed, that's for certain," she said after a moment. "Still, you don't look too knackered, so that's something. This job -- what is it you're doing?"
"Shift supervisor at a glass plant up there. It's decent work, and it pays well."
"They got businesses enough in Lake Helen, or Daytona Beach, even. Or there's that new place they’re building south of here - Deltona Lakes, they call it. You need to come home, Jackie."
He sighed. "I can't, Gran. This place is just too..." he trailed off, unable to explain his reluctance, even to himself.
Brenna called up to them from downstairs. "Supper!"
Jackson made to rise, but her hand on
his arm tightened until he relaxed. She studied him in silence for several moments.
"Right then," she said at last. "I'll not bother you with it more. But before you leave this time, we need to talk. There are things you should know before it's too late."
He returned her look with concern. "Too late for what, Gran?"
She sat forward, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. "Never you mind. Just help me up before your mother gets her knickers in a knot. You know how she is about folks being on time for supper."
Suppressing a laugh, Jackson helped her to rise, and the pair went downstairs into the dining room.
Their arrival was greeted with cries of welcome. Brenna hugged her son tight.
"Sit down, everyone," Gran said. "Don't run over the man before he's had a chance to eat. Declan, Shawna, seat yourselves before your mother's fine meal gets cold."
Jackson's younger brother, Declan, punched him in the shoulder. "Welcome home, brother. It's been too long." He sat down.
"I'll hug him first, Gran," Shawna said. As much as Declan's rugged physique and thatch of auburn hair mirrored their late father, Shawna took after her mother. Both women had ash-blond hair and calm gray eyes, along with a slight build and medium height.
"Where's Rob?" Jackson asked.
Shawna took a seat across from him. "He's... He couldn't make it," she said after a moment's awkward silence.
Jackson frowned and Declan dove in. "Tell us about Pilot Mountain. I guess it's a lot different from Cassadaga."
Staring at his sister, Jackson could tell that her husband wasn't something she wanted to discuss, so he let it go. For the moment.
"Not as different as you might think," he said, answering Declan's question. "I got a job easy enough, and the apartment isn't bad. The neighbors aren't near as nosy as the ones here, anyway."
"That's not saying much," Declan said, and everyone laughed.
"Any romantic prospects, Jackson?" Brenna's soft question quieted the table and Jackson's siblings eyed him with sympathetic amusement.
“Not really, no.” An image of his secretive neighbor flashed through Jackson's mind.
“Not even a casual date?” Shawna asked. “You’ve been there a month. Doesn’t usually take you that long to find female companionship.”
Jackson tugged at his shirt collar. "Well, I..."
Declan cut in. "So, the rest of the family is coming in tomorrow, right Mom?"
"Yes, we're meeting at Colby Lake. Everybody is bringing food and chairs and the like."
"Sounds good," Jackson said and was relieved as the conversation turned to the plans for the next day. "You're coming, aren't you Gran?"
"I wouldn't miss it," Gran said. "Bout time I got out of the house for a couple of hours."
Brenna smiled. "I've been telling you that for weeks. Glad to see you're finally taking my advice."
"Pfft. Advice? More like nagging, if you ask me," Gran said, but the affectionate look she sent Brenna took the sting from her words. "It's not like you need to be worried for my health or anything."
A shadow passed through Brenna's eyes, but she took another bite of her lasagna and said nothing.
"So, has anything changed at the lake?" Jackson said, and the sudden tension trickled away.
***
The next morning, he helped his mother load up the family's old truck. Ice-chests filled with drinks and food went in first, followed by blankets and chairs enough for all of them.
They got an early start, and it was only nine o'clock by the time they got to the lake. The Delaney's were the first to arrive. It wasn't long before trucks and cars pulled in with the rest of the family: Barretts, Rileys, and Thompsons included.
After helping Brenna and Shawna set up their picnic spot, Jackson sat down on the blanket next to Gran.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm fine. Don't worry yourself."
"Mom doesn't seem to agree." Jackson looked over at his mother, who glanced away when he caught her watching them.
"Oh, she worries too much, about everything."
"You're not wrong there," Jackson said. "She's been like that all my life. Wants to keep everyone safe. Remember when we were kids, and she used to spend an hour every morning worrying about us?”
“She would be offended to hear you call it worrying. ‘Thinking positive thoughts,’ is what she called it."
Jackson grinned, plucking at the long grass at the edge of the blanket. “Thinking positive. Yeah, that was it. Shawna says she’s kept the habit.”
“She has at that.” Gran slanted him a sidelong look. "Doesn't always work though, does it?"
"No, not always." Jackson rubbed his hand over the scar on his leg. It ran from his hip all the way past his knee in a raised, jagged line.
“How is it, then?”
Jackson shrugged. “It bothered me a good bit at first, but it’s healing faster than the doctors expected. Now it only complains if I get too tired.” He glanced back at Brenna. "Still, maybe her positive thinking does work. Might be the reason I’m here, enjoying all this." He cast his gaze out over the lake, taking in the small crowd that was his extended family. Little kids waded in the water while more adventurous teens dove off the rickety dock. Two of the uncles had brought boats and were giving rides, one small group at a time.
"Could be, indeed. Brenna always did have a talent for safety."
Jackson turned to her. "And you always had a talent for being cryptic."
Gran shook her head. "A tendency isn't a talent. My talent is for seeing things that aren't here."
He laughed. "Things that aren't there? You mean telling stories?"
She didn't join his laughter. "No. Things that aren't here. Things that are, in actual fact, somewhere else." She swirled her fingers in the air in a vague circle. "But I can see them through the thin places." She squinted at him. "Just like you can."
Jackson stiffened and turned to face her. "What are you talking about?"
"You know very well what I'm referring to, Jackie-boy," she said, using the nickname she'd given him as a child. Still twirling her fingers, she reached up and caressed his cheek with her other hand. "Tell me, Jackie, when you got hurt over there, what were you doing? What led you into that wee village?"
"I..." The image of a small boy, carrot-topped and wide-eyed, bloomed in his mind's eye, and Jackson winced. "Just doing my job, Gran. I thought I saw —" he stopped, cutting off the rest with an effort of will.
"You didn't think you saw something. You did see it. But no one else did, so no one believed you." Gran clenched her fist, and the air went tight around them.
The reunion continued in a panorama of movement, but silence descended like something out of a film from the twenties. The colors dulled to sepia-tone, and the strange hum surged, vibrating just under his skin. "What are you doing Gran?"
She laid a hand on his arm. "Just filtering out the distractions for a moment, so you can see that it isn't in your head." She shrugged. "Well, it is, but not in the way you might think."
Flickers of light spun between them, each one with a tiny set of wings. One flew straight up in front of his eyes and stared at him for an instant before zooming away.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Never mind that. Look there." She pointed to the trees behind them and Jackson followed her gesture. A familiar path opened from the beach into the wood.
"Maeve's path," Jackson whispered.
"Good, you remember her. Do you remember how she left you?"
The burn of tears pressed against the back of his eyes as he looked at her. "I remember," he said.
Chapter Five
"Come on Maeve! Let's go swimming before you have to go home," seven-year-old Jackson shouted the words over his shoulder. The trees rose tall and thick around them as they ran down Maeve's path to the dock on Colby Lake.
"You're daft, Jackson Delaney." She stopped short at the lake's edge, the fringes of her blue-black hair swaying gently a
gainst her cheeks. "The water looks cold as Hades and anyway, I didn't bring a suit."
He laughed at her and peeled off his shirt. "Hades? That's Hell, right? Hell is supposed to be hot," he said.
"Ha, shows what you know. I've been there."
"You have not. Nobody goes to Hell and brags about it."
Her purple eyes pierced him. "Not Hell maybe. But I didn't say Hell. I said Hades. Different place." Leaping up the steps, she ran across the boards and jumped off the end of the dock, fully clothed. Her pale skin and dark hair flashed black and silver in the sunlight for an instant before the water closed over her head. A breath later, she surfaced, flipping her wet hair back from her face with a practiced gesture. "But you were right. It isn't that cold, come on in."
Jackson needed no second urging. With a holler fit to wake ghosts, he jumped, knees to chest, into the lake. Laughing and splashing, the pair swam back to the beach and waded ashore.
Sitting in the sand, Maeve turned serious. "We been friends a long time now, right Jacks?"
"Since I was four or so, yeah. Long time. Pretty much my whole life."
"And I never lied to you, right?"
He stared at her. "Whatsa matter, Maeve? You're being awful serious all of a sudden."
"It's just..." She bit her lip, hesitating. "I need to tell you something, and you aren't going to like it. And I don't want you to be mad at me."
He swung his legs around and crossed them, facing her. "I ain't never going to get mad at you, Maeve. Not real mad. I love you. You know that." It felt weird to say that to a girl who wasn't his mom, but he knew it was true.
Maeve blushed. "I love you too. That's why I don't want you to get mad. But I need to tell you this."
"So, tell me." He touched her hand. "It'll be all right, Maeve. Whatever it is, I'll protect you."
Her smile was slow and sad. "You don't need to protect me, Jacks. But, I can't come see you anymore."
He drew back, pulling his hand away, and Maeve sat up straight, a single tear coursing down her cheek.
"What do you mean, you can't come see me no more? You're my friend."
