“Hey, slow down,” a store clerk admonished.
I grabbed the clerk’s arm. “Did you see a boy? He’s about this tall.” I held my hands four feet from the floor. “He has blonde hair and he’s wearing a sweatshirt.”
“Is he lost in the store?” She grabbed the cellphone from its holder at her waist.
I raced past her. Jimmy had to be close. He had been headed toward the back. Running down the middle isle, I looked left and right, down each row as I sped past. I knew I looked like a wild man, but I didn’t care.
Shelves of books blocked my sight. I remembered the long stretch of road on the way to Darlington, and the feeling there was something hiding behind them. Now the books replaced the towering pines and thorny bushes, blocking my vision, allowing Jimmy to disappear…again.
I rushed to the end of the row and turned down the next, tripped over a plastic pint-sized chair, and then leaped a half-height table. Thankfully, the small furniture was empty of equally diminutive customers.
Then I saw him quietly sitting on the floor looking at a book, seemingly unaware the entire world was looking for him. Jimmy Roberts.
Suddenly I was unsure what to do. Was he boy or ghost? What if no one could see him except me? Would he dissolve like mist in my hand?
“Is that him?” the store clerk asked, rushing up behind me.
I walked slowly toward the boy. He raised his head.
His eyes told me what I needed to know. There was no mistake.
Even though I had only seen the Jimmy-ghost for a few seconds, I would never forget the pained look in those blue eyes. This boy’s eyes were brown.
“Is this the child you were looking for?” the clerk asked.
“No, my mistake.”
“Give me his name, and I’ll have the other clerks look for him. I’m sure he’s still in the store.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I moved past her.
“But sir…”
“It was a mistake.” Several customers looked our way. “Forget it,” I mumbled.
Walking quickly to the front of the store and out the heavy glass door, my face burned with shame. I had made a real fool of myself. Was this to be my life from now on, always hunting for a dead child?
I stood on the sidewalk and tried to gain enough composure to drive home. I stuffed my shaking hands into the pockets of my jeans, fingered the bits of sawdust that must have dropped off of my hands earlier.
“I saw what happened,” a woman’s voice said. “You must be desperate to find someone.”
She was a stranger, about my age, slim and dressed neatly in slacks and a blouse. There was a cross; similar to the one Trina often wore, hanging on a chain around her neck.
“I thought I saw a child I knew.” I pretended to shrug it off.
“Are you trying to find someone?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” Verbally I stumbled around, trying to decide how to explain, or if I even should. I ran fingers through my stubble of hair, and looked at the woman again. She had soft eyes and a kind expression. Suddenly I wanted to tell her my weird story.
“There’s a coffee shop down the block.” She smiled. “Or we could get something here, but I’m fairly certain you don’t want to go back inside the bookstore.”
My lips curved into a grin. I couldn’t help myself. It was unusual for me to be approached by a woman on the street, and I wondered what her game was. She seemed too decent to be after my body or my money, but you never knew. And I really needed a cup of coffee. Besides, at 250 pounds and six feet six, I made three of her.
“Just coffee and conversation,” she repeated. “I may be able to help you. I’m a psychic.”
A psychic!
My eyes widened and I had enough sense to stop before I took a few steps backward. She had said it so casually, like “I’m a teacher” or “I’m a nurse.” Not only was I seeing ghosts, now I was attracting fruitcakes. The only psychics I knew (and I didn’t really know them) were the ones on television.
In my usual stupid mode, I said the first thing that came to mind. “You don’t look like a psychic.”
Her eyes sparkled. “And what should a psychic look like?”
“It’s just that, I saw the cross and all, and I thought…well, I thought all psychics were atheists.”
She laughed; it was a clear hearty sound. “You must believe in God.”
“I do,” I answered, stunned that she should guess.”
“So do I.” She touched the cross around her neck. “Let’s go have some coffee.”
An internal voice told me to refuse. It was a different voice than my normal conscience; stronger, more urgent.
I ignored it. After all, how reliable was my sixth sense? What was the harm?
We walked the short distance to the coffee shop, got our order and settled at a table against the wall. The place was quiet for this late in the afternoon. I noticed a couple that entered holding hands; young love. My face reddened. It had been a long time since I had been on a date, and this wasn’t intended to be romantic. But she was attractive and mysterious.
And dangerous.
I wondered if it would be rude to change my mind and walk away. As I wallowed in indecision, she started to talk.
“Most people think psychics are agnostics at best, devil worshipers at worst.” Her voice was low and soothing, like a late night talk show host I liked to listen to on the radio. “Some do operate outside the laws of God. That’s why the image sticks. But there are some psychics around, not many but a few of us, who truly believe in God.”
Steam from the coffee swirled upward. I sniffed appreciatively while staring at the woman who both confused, and yet transfixed me.
“God has given me a gift,” she continued. “I don’t know why. My mother had the gift, and my grandmother.”
The similarity between our lives surprised me.
“So do you tell fortunes, or what?” I gulped a mouthful of coffee. “Sorry, that was stupid again.”
Her blue eyes held mine, as though she could see deep within me. “Sometimes I can tell what’s in the future for a person: sadness due to a loss, change in life situation; those types of things. But not always. It depends on my spiritual guide, and what he wants to reveal. Sometimes he’s quiet, but not usually. God gave me this gift to use, so there’s little reason for my spiritual guide to be quiet when I’m trying to communicate with him.”
“Spiritual guide? That doesn’t sound Christian to me.”
“God communicates in many ways. My spiritual guide is a past saint, although I don’t know his name. You’ve heard about guardian angels. It’s the same thing, only we communicate directly.”
I had never met anyone who claimed to communicate directly with saints, but I had heard of guardian angels. Even though I knew I should question her more, explore her beliefs, I didn’t. With emotions raw from the event at the bookstore, this strange woman served as a soothing balm to my ego.
“So try me out, Mr. Christian. See if I can help you.”
I realized I had never told her my name. “Sorry, I’m Bill Iver.”
“Glad to meet you, Bill. I’m Barbara Thompson. So Bill, why are you chasing little boys in book stores?”
I told Barbara the story, just like I had told Betsy. Now two people in Ohio knew the details of my trip to South Carolina. Barbara was a good listener, asked a few questions, but mostly listened.
“So I came home to try to figure out what it all means. What exactly did I see in the attic?”
“And have you figured it out?”
I threw my hands into the air. “Not a clue. I thought the memory would fade when I got home, but it hasn’t. Hardly an hour goes by that I don’t think about those boys.”
“So that’s the real issue. You want to know who the boys were in life, and why they are lingering.”
“If you could have seen Jimmy, or what I’m assuming was Jimmy. He was chained like an animal.”
I looked toward the w
all, the memory replaying in my mind. Shaking my head, I turn back to Barbara. “The kid was scared to death, and I don’t blame him when the other boy was hovering over him like a bully.” Words exploded out of my mouth like bullets from a machine gun. “Now I find out this menacing kid has some connection to my family. His picture’s hanging on my sister’s wall, like he’s some loved ancestor or something!”
Barbara took a slow sip of coffee. “How do you know the one boy was frightened?”
“I could tell.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you’re psychic too.”
“No way.” I pushed myself away from the table. “You can keep the spooky stuff. Just give me a hammer and some nails - sturdy, predictable things.”
“Many people have psychic abilities that lay dormant until God needs them. God may need you, Bill Iver.”
“Why would God need me?” This sounded too much like my conversation with Betsy, God being personal and all. I still didn’t accept it. God put the laws into place and gives us free will on how to run our lives.
Barbara looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. Steam swirled over her eyes, making her all the more mysterious. “For a start,” she said, putting her cup back on the table, “ God may want to you to bring out in the open what happened to this little Jimmy, reveal the unfinished business that is keeping him from moving on.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe in coincidences; God put me in your path to help you.”
I stared at Barbara, unashamed at my familiarity. The tension I had been feeling since meeting her slipped to my feet, like a discarded robe. For a brief second I wondered if my coffee had been drugged. I had not felt this relaxed with a stranger in a very long time.
The jangling in my head continued. I pushed it away. So she’s a psychic. What she says makes sense. And she is a Christian… “Say you’re right. How can you help me?”
“I can help you get in touch with Jimmy. He can tell us who the boy is who’s with him, and why they’re lingering in your daughter’s attic.”
“You think Jimmy’s a ghost?”
“Not a ghost, a displaced spirit. And he has chosen you to help him.”
“So Jimmy really is dead.” Regardless of what I had told Trina, I, too, had held onto the hope that the boy was somehow alive. Now I knew I wouldn’t find Jimmy Roberts at the bookstore, or anywhere else.
“Dead here,” Barbara murmured, “but not dead. Our spirits live forever.”
I ached for the little boy whose soul lingered. “OK, now what?”
“Let’s contact Jimmy’s spirit. Since he was willing to show himself to you, he obviously wants to talk to you.”
Intrinsically I knew contacting a dead spirit was wrong, even if the spirit was a small and frightened child needing help. But then I thought of my dreams. It was also wrong to be trapped on the opposite side of a chasm for more than three generations with no one to help in the crossing.
Barbara looked at me, her blue eyes smoldering. I knew I would do whatever she asked.
“How about tonight?” she inquired.
“Can’t we just pray now and get it over with?”
“It’s a little more complicated than praying. And we need to be somewhere private. It will be all right. You’ll see.”
“My church… we don’t believe in séances. It says in the Bible no one lingers after death…”
She reached across the table and placed her hands over mine. I sucked in air, reveling in the warmth that filled me. Her touch was gentle, soft. “A lot of churches continue to preach the same outdated interpretation of the scriptures. But if you really read what the Bible says, you’ll find many examples of God using the dead to reach the living. I agree, the Bible does say souls go to Heaven; but that doesn’t mean they have to go right away, or that they all go.”
“But...”
“Let me ask you this, Bill Iver.” She pulled her hands from mine, rested her elbows on the table, and clasped her hands under her chin. “God gave us freedom of choice. Does that freedom stop once we’re dead?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Tell you what. Come to church with me on Sunday.”
“You go to church?”
“Of course I go to church!”
Being with Barbara felt like biting the forbidden apple. And like Adam, allure of the prohibited clouded my judgment. Doubt lingered on the edge of my reasoning, but instead of doubt serving as a barrier, it became a lifeline: something solid to pull me back if the barrier crumbled. Right now, my footing was secure. Everything was under control. What should I be afraid of? A small boy? An eighteenth-century ghost? A petite woman who went to church, believed in God, and knew the Bible?
Sunday I would attend her church. But tonight we would contact Jimmy.
9
After the first couple of sessions at Barbara’s house, her altered state, as she called it, no longer frightened me. She needed to empty her mind in order for her saint to provide the conduit that would allow the Jimmy to speak.
Jimmy never spoke.
Thinking we might have better success at Trina’s house, I invited Barbara to South Carolina. After all, it was there Jimmy had revealed himself to me.
The last days of the school year dragged. I cancelled my weekly dinner with Betsy, and she teased me, saying I had found myself a girlfriend. Although not ready to declare my relationship with Barbara as romantic, it seemed unfair for Betsy not to know the truth. We shared everything.
I let myself into Betsy’s house. The sound of contemporary Christian music drifted from the kitchen. Betsy loved music, and I smiled as I remembered her Beatles phase. Our house would reverberate with their music. The mop-haired skinny guys seemed hopelessly nerdy to me, but she had saved every dollar she earned babysitting the Nelson kids down the street to buy Beatles albums. I was glad I never complained because several years later she had come home from Ohio State on week-ends to sit in the stands, huddled in a coat and gripping cups of hot chocolate in mittened hands, to cheer for me at my football games. There was a special bond between us that few siblings shared. It grew even stronger after our parents died. And I don’t know what I would have done without her during Nancy’s illness and death. Betsy was my rock.
In the hall, I paused in front of the ghost child’s picture. He died generations before Jimmy was born. What was the connection? Seeing the picture again made me even more grateful for Barbara’s help. Without her, I would never find the answers to the questions that filled my mind day and night.
“Do you want the picture back?” Betsy asked, coming up behind me.
“No, just wanted to see it again. I may be able to find out who he is.”
We went to the kitchen. Betsy poured coffee into large ceramic mugs, part of a set she had bought last year when she and I had gone to Gatlinburg. I wasn’t sure how Betsy was going to take my information about Barbara. The last thing I wanted to do before going to South Carolina for the summer was to upset my sister. Sitting in my usual spot at the table, I grabbed an Oreo cookie from the opened pack that lay between us and picked up my coffee. As brown brew almost splashed over the rim, I put the cup back down, hoping Betsy had not noticed my shaking hand.
“So her name’s Barbara?” Betsy asked, repeating what I had told her over the phone.
“Barbara Thompson. I met her at the bookstore.”
“She must be something special.”
“She’s going to help me find out about the boy in the picture.” I filled my mouth with dry cookie.
Betsy raised her eyebrows. “She’s a historian?”
“Sort of. She’s a psychic.”
I could hear the mantle clock ticking in the next room, another gift from Grandfather. The crunch of cookies in my mouth sounded as loud as boulders grinding beneath an earth mover.
“You’re not serious.”
“She’s a Christian, Betsy. It’s not like you think.”
“It’s not like I think?”
“Talkin
g to spirits is a gift from God.”
“Not my God.”
“Listen, Betsy—”
“No, you listen. I supported you when you told Dad you didn’t want to follow family tradition and go to law school. Everyone should follow his own path. But I refuse to support you here. I can’t believe you went to a psychic for help.” She pushed herself away from the table and looked toward the window. Her lips were almost lost in her tense face.
“Our relationship is more than her psychic ability. I really like her.”
Betsy turned toward me and reached across the table, placing her hands over mine. “This woman has bewitched you. It’s as old as man himself. Evil woman deceives innocent man—”
“She’s not evil. You haven’t even met her.”
“And I plan to keep it that way.” Icy eyes froze my heart. She pulled her hands away from mine and stood, feet planted and arms folded in front of her. “And until you come to your senses, you are not welcome in my house.”
“Betsy…”
“I mean it. I won’t tolerate evil inside my home.”
“I’m not evil.”
“If you stay in her company, you soon will be.”
“You mean you’re going to let this come between us? I’m your own brother.” Betsy and I had fought, we had experienced differences, but she had never turned me away. Her rejection caught me by surprise.
“I’m not doing this, Bill, you are. You choose. Give up this satanic practice or stay away from me.”
Anger, and something else, etched Betsy’s face. Maybe fear?
10
Emptiness accompanied me on the trip from Ashland to Darlington. I tried to shift the disagreement with my sister to the back of my mind, knowing she would come to her senses in a few days and call me. But my thoughts wandered back to our last words. Why wouldn’t she try to understand?
The cellphone rested in the cup holder, just as it had on my last trip to Trina’s. Now its presence grew bigger than life. It would be so easy to pick up the phone, to place the call and end the emotional confusion that tethered me to Ashland. Little traffic shared the highway with me, it would be safe to place a call. I only had to push one button; her number was on speed dial. I released my tight grip from the steering wheel with my right hand and stretched toward the phone.
Deadly Decision Page 5
