Grand & Humble

by Brent Hartinger

  “What are you saying?” Harlan said. “Richard is still here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s here right now?”

  She nodded, the knowing little smile back on her lips.

  Harlan looked over at the empty wing chair, then sat upright in his own seat.

  Mrs. Swan kept smiling. “People always do that. When I tell them there’s a ghost in the room, they always sit up straighter. As if somehow a ghost would expect them to have better posture.”

  “I…” Harlan didn’t know what to say. Until recently, he had always known what to say.

  “So,” Marilyn Swan said. “How can we help you?”

  “We,” Harlan thought. She had actually said “we.” Was she serious? He looked at her, sipping tea and watching him.

  She was certifiable. Of course she was! He hadn’t known what to expect by coming to a psychic, but it sure wasn’t taking tea with Lady Properly and her dead husband. Maybe it was like what everyone said about hot dogs—that they tasted all right, but you really didn’t want to know how they were made. Well, Harlan had seen inside Mrs. Swan’s slaughterhouse, and now he didn’t want any more of her hot dogs.

  “You know,” he said, standing, “I just remembered how much homework I have to do. I really should get going.” He reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

  Mrs. Swan sat quietly for a moment. Then she looked up at Harlan and said, “Richard wants to know about the party.”

  Harlan froze. “What?”

  “A party. Something happened at a party. He says that’s the reason you’re here.”

  Harlan stared at her. Had he mentioned Jerry’s party when he came in? No, he was certain he hadn’t.

  He looked over at the empty wing chair. Then he put his wallet away and sat back down.

  He took a sip of tea. Finally he said, softly, “It was a Ouija board. It spelled something.” He wasn’t sure where to look—at Mrs. Swan or the wing chair. So he looked down at his feet. Then he told Mrs. Swan what the Ouija board had spelled. H2O danger Tub.

  “I’m a swimmer,” he went on. “And I have a swim meet on Wednesday. At Harriet Tubman High School. I think that’s what the Ouija board was talking about.” He looked up at her at last. “What’s going to happen if I go to that swim meet?”

  Mrs. Swan was quiet for a moment; then she nodded, though Harlan wasn’t sure if she was nodding at him or her husband. “As I said, Richard’s forte isn’t necessarily the future. Besides, he usually doesn’t put much stock in Ouija boards.”

  “‘Usually’? What about when things aren’t usual?”

  Mrs. Swan smiled. “Richard likes you. He thinks you’re smart.”

  “Mrs. Swan, please.”

  She listened to Richard, then said, “Dark forces, just like people say. Evil spirits from foul dimensions. But for such a force to inhabit this world, to speak through a Ouija board, it must be connected to a person. These dark forces need our essences to be anchored here; otherwise they get swept back to where they came from. So they attach to our souls. Sort of spiritual stowaways. But they can only attach to a wounded or confused soul—someone who is so disoriented, he or she doesn’t recognize the presence of the dark force alongside his or her own. For a dark force to have spoken to you through a Ouija board, it would have to be connected to you.”

  Harlan waited for her to say the rest: that there was no dark force connected to him. Because that’s what she meant, right? His soul wasn’t “wounded” or “confused.” But if that’s what she meant, why wasn’t she saying it?

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Swan said. “This isn’t the beginning. Richard thinks we should start at the beginning.”

  So Harlan took a breath and told her—them?—about the premonitions: about the choking, the drowning, and all the rest. And about how he’d seen an image of himself being hit by a vehicle, and then how a bus had almost run him over at the corner of Grand and Humble.

  “So one premonition did come true—or almost,” Mrs. Swan said. “But the premonitions haven’t stopped.”

  “Yes,” Harlan said. That was it exactly.

  “But that’s not the beginning,” Mrs. Swan said.

  “What isn’t?”

  “The premonitions. That’s not when all this really began. It began before the premonitions. With an accident.”

  “What kind of accident? I haven’t been in any accident.”

  “Long ago.”

  Harlan thought for a second. When he was twelve, he’d had a big wipeout on his skateboard. But he was sure that wasn’t what she was talking about.

  “In the water,” Mrs. Swan said.

  Harlan perked up. “Water?” H2O danger Tub! “But that’s what the Ouija board said! That I’m in danger if I go to that swim meet!”

  “As I mentioned,” Mrs. Swan said, “the past and the future are often one and the same. They can also be very hard to distinguish. Especially for a soul in turmoil.”

  “What are you saying? That my soul is confused?” He didn’t say out loud the rest of what he was thinking: that if his soul was confused, then there could be dark forces stowing away on his essence!

  She tilted her head, listening. “Richard says there was an accident in the water. It wasn’t your fault, but you almost died. And that’s when things started to go wrong.”

  “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  “Your life’s road. Your spiritual direction. You’ve been led astray, to a dead end. That’s why you see death. You’re doomed to repeat the tragedy of the past until you get back on the right spiritual road.”

  “What road? What tragedy?”

  “Stop it!” Mrs. Swan almost shouted. “I’m sorry,” she said to Harlan, more softly but perspiring. “You’re both talking at once. It’s confusing me.”

  Harlan waited breathlessly for her to speak again, for her to tell him how Richard thought he could get back on the right spiritual road. But instead of speaking, Mrs. Marilyn Swan reached for a cookie from the plate in front of her.

  That was when Harlan knew: she was a fraud after all. It was the cookie that had done it. Here she was, supposedly all flustered from the different “voices,” and she’d reached for a cookie? A drink of tea he would have bought—some liquid to soothe her ragged throat. But people didn’t eat in the midst of a real emotional disturbance.

  He thought about all that she had told him so far. That something happened at a party? That could have been a lucky guess; good-looking teenagers like Harlan were always going to parties. And since parties meant lots of people, that meant lots of chances for her to stumble upon some important interaction of his. Then there was the “accident in the water.” How vague was that? And besides, he’d just told her what the Ouija board had spelled out.

  H2O danger Tub.

  She had just taken the little bit of information he’d given her, rearranged it, and repeated it back to him to make it sound like she was saying something real.

  Her act had been a good one—especially the bit with her serving tea, and the dead husband. And she’d performed it impressively—well enough for it to be worth the price he would pay for it, to tell the truth. He had almost been convinced. But it had been an act. He was sure of that now. At least he had realized the truth before she had made him do something stupid—or bilked him out of a lot of money.

  “That’s funny,” Mrs. Swan said to herself. She still hadn’t taken a bite of the cookie in her hand.

  “What is?” Harlan asked.

  “Richard is gone.” She dropped the cookie back on the plate; it landed with a clink and broke into pieces. Then she glanced around the room. “Richard?”

  “Maybe he stepped out for a minute,” Harlan said, starting to stand again. “And I think that I should—”

  “You don’t understand. Richard has never left before!” Her eyes had gone wild; her jaw had become a junction of creases and tremors.

  She was an incredible actress. She should be doing th
eater, Harlan thought, except it probably didn’t pay as well.

  Suddenly Mrs. Swan stood up from her chair. Her leg caught the corner of the tea tray, knocking it over. Nothing broke, but everything spilled—milk, tea, and sugar, all over the carpet.

  “Mrs. Swan?”

  She didn’t say a word. She ignored the spilled tea and milk, just let it soak into the carpet. She stood there, hunched down and glaring around the room like a cat before an earthquake.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something here with us!” she hissed. “Not Richard!”

  Harlan smiled. Here it goes. There were “dark forces” stowing away on his “confused” soul after all. And of course only Mrs. Swan was going to be able to banish them—for a not inconsequential price, of course. He marveled at how cleverly it had all been set up.

  But to Harlan’s surprise, she didn’t ask him for money. Instead, she said, “You must go!” Without waiting for a response, she stepped closer to him but stopped short, like she was afraid to actually touch him. “Please! You must leave!”

  “Wait,” Harlan said. “Don’t you have something to banish the dark forces?”

  “What? No! Now go!”

  “But the money I owe you—”

  “No! Just go! And please don’t come back!”

  “Don’t come back”? Harlan thought. But if he didn’t come back, how was she going to scam him out of his money?

  “Mrs. Swan…?”

  Now she was touching him, roughly, prodding him toward the door but still trying to keep her hands off him as much as possible, like she had just learned he had leprosy. “Go!” she said. “You must go!”

  Okay, now he was confused. What sort of con was this? Did she ruin her carpet for all her dupes? Was she able to conjure up such a convincing fear in her eyes for everyone?

  They reached the door, and she threw it open. “I’m sorry!” she said. Even before he could respond, she tried to push him through.

  He caught himself on the doorframe. “Wait!” he said. “At least tell me what to do! To get rid of the dark forces? I’ll do anything you want!” This was what she wanted, right? For him to plead with her? For him to be willing to spend any amount of money? Because this was all a con; it had to be! Because if it wasn’t—

  Mrs. Swan shoved him through the door.

  “Mrs. Swan—”

  She slammed the door in his face.

  MANNY

  Manny stood in the bridge of the original U.S. starship Enterprise. The door had just swooshed closed behind him.

  “Captain.” Mr. Spock spoke to Manny from his place at the science officer’s station. “I’m picking up some kind of large astral body up ahead.”

  “On-screen,” Manny said, crossing to the captain’s chair, where he took his seat. But as he sat, something crunched underneath him. He stood up again and looked down to see that he’d crushed a pair of wire-rim spectacles.

  He ignored the spectacles and glanced up at the viewscreen, which now revealed a large swath of deep space. In the middle of the screen was a great ice-encrusted asteroid barreling right at them.

  “I don’t like the look of that!” Dr. McCoy said from a seat next to Manny’s.

  “According to my calculations,” Mr. Spock said, “we are on a direct collision course with the asteroid.”

  “Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu,” Manny said.

  Mr. Sulu, sitting at the helm, punched helplessly at the controls. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said. “The controls are not responding.” He sniffed the air. “Does anyone else smell gasoline?”

  Manny hit a button in the armrest of the captain’s chair; it activated an intercom to the Engine Room. “Dad?” he said. “Are you there?”

  There was no answer.

  “Dad!”

  “Engine Room here,” said a voice. It was a man, but it was definitely not his father.

  “You’re not my dad,” Manny said.

  “Yes, I am,” said the voice.

  “No, you’re not!”

  “Captain,” Mr. Spock said. “Logic would dictate that it does not matter at this point whether the man in the Engine Room is your actual genetic forebear.”

  Manny agreed. “We’ve lost control of the helm!” he said to the Engine Room. “Can you get us back online?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Then the voice said, “No.” And with that, Manny and the U.S.S. Enterprise slammed right into the ice-encrusted asteroid.

  So did you talk to him? Elsa signed eagerly.

  Manny nodded.

  And? Elsa said. What did he say?

  That he couldn’t get the helm back online, Manny thought. And as a result, we’d crashed into the ice-encrusted asteroid. Oh, Manny remembered, and he also wasn’t my dad.

  He and Elsa were standing in the hallway before class. Manny had another headache, and his eyesight was as blurry as ever. But Elsa was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  He was even weirder than before, Manny said. There’s definitely something he’s not telling me. I think it’s something that happened to me as a kid.

  What makes you think that?

  A feeling. But I’m sure of it.

  So that’s it! The movie’s off! Suddenly, Elsa’s signs were fast and wide.

  Why?

  Because now we have a new project: we have to find out what happened to you when you were a kid!

  Really? Manny said.

  Are you kidding? Now I’m just as curious as you!

  The stairs still creaked on the way down to the basement. But this time Manny wasn’t dreading what was at the bottom of those stairs; this time he was eager to get to the bottom—of the stairs, and of whatever the hell it was that was causing his nightmares.

  Why down here? Elsa signed at the base of the stairs. Why not start looking in your dad’s bedroom?

  It’s just another feeling I have, Manny said. I think there’s something down here—a clue or something.

  In the light of the bare bulb overhead, they stared at all the clutter piled haphazardly up against the concrete walls—folding chairs, an old sewing machine, the croquet set, lawn furniture, a table leaf, a computer monitor, and several shopping bags full of wire coat hangers. There were also plenty of cardboard boxes.

  Neither Manny nor Elsa said anything for a second. A big brown spider darted across the floor, a nimble cluster of long legs desperate for shelter from the light. But halfway across the concrete, the spider stopped, and Manny realized that it was hunting, not running, and that it had captured some kind of prey.

  It’s hard to look for something when you don’t know what you’re looking for, Elsa signed.

  You’re not kidding, Manny said.

  Since he had to start somewhere, he knelt down in front of the closest cardboard box. He opened it and found it was full of snapshots, which seemed promising. They were all still in the envelopes from the developing lab (his dad couldn’t afford a digital camera). But what was Manny supposed to do now—sort through them all?

  Look, it’s our Egyptian sarcophagus! Elsa was pointing to a rounded wooden casket standing upright in one corner of the basement. Its gold paint and colorful Egyptian imagery had been dulled by time and dust, but it was still an impressive sight. Remember when we found it at that theater’s old prop sale? We have to use it in a movie!

  Manny looked down at the photos in the cardboard box. The envelopes all came from the same developing lab—the same place that his dad had been taking their film ever since they’d moved to town thirteen years ago. There weren’t any unfamiliar envelopes—which meant that there weren’t any photos more than thirteen years old either, baby pictures or the like.

  Where did his dad keep those? Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember ever seeing a picture of himself as a baby. Was that possible? It couldn’t be the case that his dad hadn’t taken any photos of him; he always took lots of photos.

  Elsa’s gesticulating hands caught his attention again. Loo
k at this! she was saying. She’d found her and Manny’s papier-mâché dinosaur from the sixth grade—a six-foot-long blue Brontosaurus with a long, sweeping neck. Do you remember how much work this was? It was this stupid neck! Remember how it kept breaking? We’d finish it, get it all dried and painted, and then it would break. See? It’s broken now. It’s your fault. I wanted to make a Tyrannosaurus rex!

  Everyone wanted to make a Tyrannosaurus rex,” Manny signed to her. He opened another box and saw it contained kitchen utensils—measuring cups and spoons, wire whisks, a scum-encrusted blender—and an old-fashioned jack-in-the-box. So much for his dad’s organizational skills.

  This was such a disappointment, Elsa went on, still meaning the dinosaur. When you’re a kid, nothing ever turns out as good as you imagine.

  Manny spotted an old seaman’s chest up against the wall near Elsa. He was pretty sure it was full of winter clothes—snow pants, wool socks, stuff like that—but he wanted to make sure.

  He motioned to Elsa. Try that chest, would you?

  But she wasn’t watching him now. She’d found a cardboard box of her own. It’s the decorations from our haunted house! she signed, barely looking at him. Remember trying to figure out how to turn those wig-rests into decapitated heads? Paint kept dissolving the Styrofoam. We ended up using my mom’s makeup, right?

  Elsa! he repeated. That chest?

  And here’s our skeleton! she went on. We had to mail-order this, didn’t we? But it sure looked good. Imagine if we’d had to use one of those paper skeletons!

  Manny walked over to her and yanked her sleeve. Forget the damn Halloween decorations! Would you remember why we’re here?

  She stared at him like he’d slapped her. He hadn’t said anything out loud, but he’d yelled at her all the same. He had never been so angry with her before, and he knew the anger was still right there on his face.

  Elsa was so surprised that her face lost all expression. Looking at her now reminded him of staring into a deep lake whose surface had suddenly stilled so he could see all the way to the bottom. There were strange shapes down there, confusing forms—feelings of Elsa’s that Manny didn’t know were there and, even now, he couldn’t quite identify.