by Sam Wiebe
“It’s more common than you think.” Wing shrugs. “Ghosts are becoming rarer, even in Crescent City. That’s where your ghost is, right, and his host?” I nod. “Energy tithes there are costly. All that infrastructure.”
I blink at him.
He frowns, takes the money from me. “One thirty, tomorrow.”
I’m abruptly light-headed.
We make our goodbyes and I take the boys back eastward on another bus, then yum-cha at the corner dim sum shop, as promised. I’m inside before I remember.
Ming Dynasty.
Too late now. The staff greet us with smiles, showing us to a table near the fish tank. Distracted by worry, I let the boys order their favorites. Soon, our table’s filled with enough steamers and plates for six full-grown adults. I’m so busy cleaning faces and wiping hands that I don’t notice company until he pulls out a chair.
“Hungry little monsters.”
I gasp, swiftly cover my terror with a fastidious manner. “Boys, this is Pau-pau Stella’s great-nephew. Say hello.”
Ewan remains silent, staring and suspicious. Austen obeys in a whisper, cringing away, moving closer to his brother.
“We’re just finishing up and I’m afraid this table’s a mess,” I say. “You’ll be better off at a different table.” My heart’s hammering so hard, I think I’m going to vomit.
He’s taken the remaining chair, between me and Austen. He ruffles my grandson’s hair. Austen scrunches away. Ewan begins to cry.
“That’s enough.” That damned quavery note again. “You’ve frightened them. Please leave.” I move to Ewan, pull him up, slide onto his chair, and hold him tight in my lap. I draw Austen into my side.
Stella’s great-nephew shrugs. “Making sure you understand your priorities.” He rises, saunters to a different table, sits with his back to the wall. A waiter places a Coke and a plate of rice and chah-siew in front of him, then backs away with a nervous nod.
None of the staff will meet my gaze.
I pay the bill hurriedly and take the twins home, searching the bushes we pass for lurkers, looking over my shoulder, wondering if the reedy one’s set up to ambush us. I fumble the key in the door, lock it firmly behind us. I can’t stop trembling.
When I’m ready, I put on an old DVD of that strange blue dog the twins like so much and pull out my phone. In the kitchen, I take a long, deep breath, then tap my son’s contact.
“Hi, Ma. What’s up?”
“Listen, a-jaiy, can you take tomorrow off? I have an appointment. I want you to stay with the boys.”
“What kind of appointment? What time? Lauren’s home by two thirty.”
“It’s nothing serious, don’t worry. I want to see a medium, but she’s way out in Coquitlam. It’s a long way, but Mrs. Chiu, you know her? She says she’s worth it.”
“Ma.” I picture his boyish face, that half-grin, half-frown when he’s exasperated.
I firm my voice: “Christopher, I want it to be you. For the boys. Would it kill you to take a day off for them? You’re always checking your phone anyway, even when you are here.” I huff. “Call it working from home. I don’t care.”
He laughs. “Okay, okay, don’t guilt-trip me.”
“Mother’s prerogative.”
“Fine. I gotta go. Bye, Ma.”
I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Goodbye, a-jaiy.”
I hang up, go sit between the twins again, pulling them into the circle of my arms. I don’t want to let them go.
* * *
My heart sinks soon as I knock on Brother Wing’s door—when I abruptly register the scent of cigarettes and Coke. Copper and earth.
The door opens before I even have a chance to turn tail. Not that it would matter.
Wing doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He pulls me inside. The thugs are in two armchairs by the window in the front room. They stand when I enter. I doubt it’s from manners. Wing ushers me toward the sofa, pushes me to sit. I hiss at the jolt of pain in my knees.
The reedy one kicks the wooden coffee table out at an angle, then sits on top of it.
Wing leans against the archway, half in the hallway, watching.
Stella’s great-nephew drags a straight-backed chair from the room across the hall, plants it two feet from my knees.
“How do you know Brother Wing?” I say.
His hand flicks out, quick as a snake. My head snaps back at the impact. I rub the stinging patch on my cheek.
“Cut the shit, lady,” says the reedy one. “You tried to fuck us over.” That smooth bass voice, so at odds with his words. “You have any idea how much we can sell your ghost for?”
I shake my head. “What’s his cut?” I point at Wing.
Stella’s great-nephew kicks my foot. “We ain’t here to negotiate, old woman.”
I grimace at the zing shooting through my knee.
The reedy one sits back, smug.
I clench my fists against the urge to slap him. “Haven’t you ever wondered why ghosts were banned in Canada?” I say.
“I know my history,” replies Wing, bland as you please.
I speak directly to Stella’s kin: “Too many people tethered to dead World War Two soldiers, driven mad by grief and shell shock. When you try to break a tether between ghost and host, the host could die or become separated from their soul. They may as well be a vegetable, then. Not to mention, the ghost usually disappears for good. It’s called a dispersal, you know. Tethers are serious business.
“My dead husband told me all about it. Crescent City’s really the only place left with a strong culture of ghosts. They got the real deal—healers, spell casters, ghost catchers, monks and nuns for reincarnation, all that stuff.” I meet his flat stare. “The rest of us out here? We’re just making shit up. We don’t have any formal training. There’s no guarantee this is gonna work.”
“Brother Wing explained it.” He shrugs. “High reward, high risk.”
“Yeah?” I say. “And you trust him, do you? Guy’s got zero training in this and you trust him to capture a ghost from thousands of miles away in the ether and keep it for your highest bidder?”
The big man smiles. “He’s family.”
I gape at him.
“I have training, actually,” says Wing. “I completed a full conjurer’s degree at the temple in Crescent City, as a matter of fact. Lied to cross the border. There’re only a few collectors up here, but they all need a decent spell caster to help use up their ill-gotten ghosts. It pays the bills quite nicely.”
Damn it. If I weren’t so bloody terrified, I’d be laughing my poor head off.
“What’s so funny, old lady?” says the reedy one.
“Are you family too, then?” I shake my head, feeling well and truly had. “Stella’s really got the last laugh, doesn’t she?”
Her great-nephew shrugs again, turns to Wing. “Let’s do it.”
“Wait, just wait. Can you at least tell me what my death is going to bring you?”
He growls. “Jesus, old woman, cut the melodrama already.”
“Six figures, at the low end,” Wing says. “Some have fetched a million. Like you said, they’re illegal here. Some people want special spells, big ones, and ghosts are the key to those.” His face is placid. “Which reminds me.” He comes forward, pulls my purse above my head. “Three thousand, you said.” The large envelope crinkles as he pulls out the money. The reedy one stands, expression eager.
I sit, numb. I can’t believe it never occurred to me to sell my husband’s ghost.
They leave me on the sofa. I think over my choices while I watch them move furniture, clearing space around me.
Wing returns from wherever he’s squirreled away the cash, face still bland.
I say, “Will you abide by our original deal, at least, Wing?”
“Your wishes, you mean?” He nods. “It’s easy enough.”
Stella’s great-nephew finishes drawing the blinds. The room grows shadowy. “What wishes? T
here something extra we gotta deal with?”
“No,” I respond. “If I die, he said it’ll look like a brain aneurysm. If I’m a vegetable or I go crazy, I’d just as soon die the same way.”
The reedy one looks impressed. “Fuck. You can do that?”
Wing nods. “It’s actually a pretty easy spell.” He peers at Stella’s great-nephew. “I call 911. I say I was teaching her meditation, to help with her chronic pain. Next thing I know . . .” He mimes shock, then resumes a mild expression. “Her family gets her body, etc. All above board.”
The reedy one shrugs. “Fine with me. Don’t gotta take care of the body.”
The smarter one, though, he considers me for another beat. “What if you’re fine?”
I glare. “Don’t patronize me. We all know how this ends.”
He nods, turns away.
You’d think I’d be frightened or sad—or angry at the thought of dying at the hands of three heartless assholes. But what’s the point?
I planned it out as soon as I discovered Brother Wing last year. Started up the health insurance scam. Bought a life insurance policy. Socked away money like a madwoman. Had the will drawn up, nice and proper. Spent as many waking moments as possible with my little monkeys.
I clench my hands, thrust away thoughts of them now.
I let myself smile, just a little, imagining Christopher’s bewilderment at the windfall: five figures placed in low-risk bonds, a separate trust fund for the twins—and a million-dollar life insurance payout. Enough for him to buy that ugly house outright.
Oh yes. I knew where I was headed. And why not?
Life is pain. Best to move on.
The Threshold
by R.M. Greenaway
Waterfront
Blaine is out before daybreak, shooting the city as it begins to stir. He’s up on the curved Main Street overpass, leaning on the rail above the train tracks. A cold, quiet morning.
No, not quiet. The docks are crashing and beeping. There’s a howling noise he can’t source—omnipresent, the sound of industry, and the ruckus of wind in his ears.
There’s the whiff of the strait waters, and no signs of life at this hour, except a wandering methhead down at Crab Park, minding his own business. And of course the pigeons, great flocks of them rising and settling.
He casts the eye of his telephoto at the harbor. Endless good imagery down there. Fuck the beauty of mist, water, and blue-layered mountains—it’s the man-made chaos he’s after, badly coordinated prime coloration, chipped and rusted, bent and broken, to fill the pages of City.
He focuses on the tracks, then sweeps toward the harbor, at mammoth container cranes fouling the North Shore view. Pans down across Canfisco, the sprawling red fisheries plant, to the more immediate moored tugs, blackberry bushes encircling a parking jetty, sleeping tankers. Then, with a jerk, back to the bushes.
He adjust his stance, zooms, switches to manual focus to fight the interference of dumpsters and razor wire. Is that an arm sticking up from the brambles? Or driftwood? Too distant to say, even zoomed in to max. Probably just a trick of the light.
Still . . .
Like any good mystery, this has to be checked out. What would be faster—continuing along the overpass and zigzagging down on foot, or returning to his car on Powell and driving along Waterfront Road?
He chooses the wheels. In minutes he’s entering the parking jetty he had seen from above. He doesn’t drive right in, but parks near the entrance. If it’s a body in there he has to tread lightly, to not mess it up for the cops.
From the safety of his car he studies the area. Nobody down here. Not even a hobo, not even a pigeon. Skies are brightening, but the sun has yet to rise. The arm or stick in the brambles is not visible from where he sits. He’s got to leave his car to be sure.
Blaine walks over, clutching his camera bag, and stares down at the man.
Dead. The body lies on its back, spine arched over lumpy ground. Dark clothes, soiled and gored. Face to the sky, eyes open but past caring. Bloodied nose points toward the mountains to the southeast. One leg is on the pavement, the other lost in the arching, tangled nastiness of blackberry stems. The arm that flagged Blaine’s attention is sticking up, wedged in the thicket, and the hand dangles at the wrist.
Must call 911. Blaine snaps to life, digs in his pocket for his phone, can’t find it, and realizes it’s in his camera bag. He swings the bag off his shoulder and kneels to unzip it.
Glancing at the dead guy again, it occurs to him, this is the epilogue he’s been looking for! The final shot. He squints at the sky. The lighting is intense but fragile, filtered by mist, in peril of sliding into mediocrity once the sun pops over the mountains and the rays lose their dramatic slant.
He switches lenses, chooses the 50mm, no zoom but great for low light conditions, and amazing depth of field. Something large is moving at his back and he glances around, but it’s just the dawn creeping over the tarmac as the planet rolls. The rays pierce the clouds, and Blaine moves with anxious speed, worried more about the light than the assailant who could be still lurking about, knife in hand.
But unlikely. This is the morning after. The dead guy is leftovers from the night’s fun, and the knifer is long gone. He’s a gang guy, by the looks of him, sparkle of bling at his throat. It’s a drug deal gone wrong, or turf wars, or he got jumped for his wallet. Happens.
Telephoto packed away, 50mm out, along with a brief pause: what if Blaine is caught here and accused of the crime? He shakes his head, standing now, attaching the new lens. It clicks in place, and he checks the glass for specks. He’s still thinking about consequences. He’s still thinking about 911. But not before he gets his prize shot.
So long as he doesn’t touch anything, no blame, no sweat. He steps back to get the whole body in the viewfinder, but decides a close-up would be cleaner, more dynamic. He shifts the ISO down far as he dares—doesn’t want grain—and inches in closer. The body is a white male about his own age, early thirties, in expensive black jeans and pricy Nikes, leather jacket awkwardly shoved up to the waist, gray T-shirt underneath steeped in blood. Hair is buzzed short except for a fashionable bit of forelock that lifts in the breeze.
The dead man twitches, and Blaine gasps aloud.
Not dead, but dying. Blood still creeks from the nostrils. The head tilts so the open eyes are taking in a sort of upside-down view of the exquisite skies, a gathering bank of clouds.
It’s the dying man’s hyper-awareness that fascinates Blaine. The open eyes, the rising sun, death, a fabulous convergence. He edges around so he can see the face directly. Within arm’s reach, fingertips on pavement, he says, “Mister? Can you hear me?”
The irises swim, and though the pupils don’t shift to focus on Blaine, they seem to search and sharpen. The mouth moves, just a feathering attempt.
“Don’t worry, bud,” Blaine whispers, “I’ll get help.”
He squints up. The light is blurry but evolving, about to spill. Two minutes, three max, before the rays slice over the ridge.
Blaine fumbles with the Nikon, checking settings. His heart is thudding. The air is salty and brisk, warm in the sun and cold in the shadows. Gulls circle with thin cries. He crouches and takes three fast setup shots, bracketing the exposure.
He checks the tiny images on the monitor, imagining them enlarged and cropped. It’s an interesting angle, with restless water for a backdrop, wobbly splashes of red and blue bleeding off boats and cranes, the dying man angling into the foreground and tapering away to an out-of-focus thigh. Even if he’s overestimated the end result, even if the visuals stink, the concept remains dynamite, and Photoshop will do the rest.
Sun rakes across the water. It touches the dying man’s hand. It spreads its gold down the arm clad in leather, seeking the face. Safe now, prepped, another minute to wait, Blaine calls 911. He gives directions. The operator wants to keep him on the line, but that precious moment has arrived, and Blaine needs both hands. He’s done his duty.
He interrupts the questioning, promises he’ll wait right here, and closes the call.
Then squats, camera supported on knee, molding his body into a tripod. He’s got the man’s face in the viewfinder. He shifts closer till he’s framed those eyes, waits till they’re soaked in amber, brilliant and pure.
“What are you seeing?” he whispers. Snick.
The sunlight spreads and dulls, a stone-cold stillness comes over the man, and from a distance the shrill rise and fall of sirens approach, one, two, three, like a chorus of angels coming to take him away.
* * *
What a morning. Minutes after the call, the police and paramedics noisily arrive in fleets of strobing light. Shunted to the sidelines, Blaine catches a few more action shots before he’s told to cut it out. A uniform tells him to hang tight—Detective Dixon will talk with him shortly.
Dixon turns out to be a bulky woman with messy brown curls, tired eyes, and mannish clothes that look hastily chosen, like she’s been flipped out of bed without warning. She leads the way down the road, into the chilly interior of the Canfisco building, the only nearby shelter from the threat of pending rain.
Inside, fishery staff are being questioned in various locations. Dixon and Blaine go upstairs to escape the noisy machinery of the fish plant, into a large lunchroom. The swing doors wheeze shut behind them. In one corner, a woman who might be a janitor is being questioned, struggling with her English. Dixon and Blaine take a table at the far side of the room.
The detective unbuttons her coat, then flips through a small notebook. She searches her pockets, finds a phone, and a pen, places both on the table in front of her, then tucks the phone away again. Finally says, “So.” She looks at Blaine with distant interest. She studies her notes again, appears to hold her breath, exhales, and out it comes in a blurt of indifference: “Your name is Blaine Burrows and you’re an artist and you live on Union Street, is that correct?”
Blaine agrees it’s correct.
Dixon says, “What kind of artist are you?”
He doesn’t like the way she flattens the noun. “Visual.”
