The Ghost Locket

by D. Allen Wright

  "You don't want to go there," the girl said.

  The girl led Kit over to the curb where they both sat down beside each other. Kit glanced down and noticed the gold locket and chain. She bent slightly and picked it up. She turned to look at the girl as she smiled back at Kit.

  "Open it," the girl said.

  Kit opened the locket and looked at the inscription.

  "It's French you know. It means; I love you with all my heart. It belongs to you now," the girl said, as her face slowly faded.

  Chapter 5 - Julia Remembers

  Julia spent the next few weeks going through the motions of a life. She rose each morning, walked dutifully into her studio and sat before the new raw lump of clay, staring at it for what seemed an eternity, waiting for inspiration that would not come. No matter how hard she would try, she could not bring herself to begin to shape the lifeless mass into something greater. She lost her muse. No, it was more than that; she had lost her whole reason for living. Before, she had met each day with the excitement of possibility. She lost the drive of the artist to create something beautiful. Now, she just didn't care.

  It was at times like this that Julia wished that she had a more traditional vocation. One that was simpler, that would occupy the endless hours of the day without constantly reminding her of all she had lost. She knew that she had to somehow, find something that would give purpose to her life again.

  She thought of how fragile her life had been; and that in a split second, all that had defined her existence had disappeared.

  She also struggled with hearing Emily's voice a few weeks earlier. On the other hand, had she heard it at all? It seemed so real. Had she imagined the whole thing? No, she thought; it was real; she had heard Emily's voice loud and clear, and it had told her that she and Paul were all right and that’s what she chose to believe.

  "Emily," she called aloud. "If you can hear me; please answer me now. Please honey, I need to hear your voice. Tell me what to do. Give me some sign, some answer to the question; what now? What happens now?" she said, her eyes filling with tears, her voice beginning to crack.

  She once again covered her face with her hands trying to recreate the event; she listened intently; the familiar sounds still filled the studio, and no voice came this time.

  Paul provided well for his family. Not only did they have a substantial saving to draw on, but Julia was able to apply virtually all the proceeds of the sales of her artwork to set up a college fund for Emily. Had she lived, she would have been able to attend any university she wanted. Paul also had a half-million dollar life insurance policy as well. No, money would never be a problem. How strange, she thought, that she had even been cheated out of the desperation of people who must work just to survive. They didn't have the luxury of time to wallow in self-pity. They were forced to get on with their lives by the practical concerns of meeting the rent, paying the Con-Ed bill and making enough to live on.

  The phone rang, interrupting Julia's thoughts. She answered it with a barely audible, "Hello."

  "Julia, it's me, Sybil. How are you doing?"

  "Not good Sybil," Julia replied, as her free hand wiped the salty tears from her face.

  "Sorry, Julia- you know it's just going to take some time." She paused, "the best thing for you is to get back to work, you know, something to take your mind off your troubles."

  Sybil Manning was the owner of the gallery that represented most of Julia's artwork. She was used to a steady stream of Julia's artwork, and the income it generated, and was now becoming concerned, as she hadn't had anything new from her since the accident. She felt a little guilty prodding Julia back to work, but it had been a few months, and she truly felt that it might be therapeutic for her.

  "It's no good, Sybil. Every time I try to work, it just reminds me of them. I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to do it again."

  "Don't say that" Sybil replied, "You just need some more time to adjust, find your footing again."

  "I don't think so," Julia answered back.

  "Hey, I've got an idea. I have to go to Paris for a few weeks next month, and I need someone to run the gallery while I'm gone. Ordinarily, Caroline would fill-in, but she's really near her due date and looks like a beach ball. Do you think that maybe you would be up to it?" There was a long silence on Julia's end as she thought about the request. "Hey, if nothing else, it would get you out of that apartment for a while. You know it's not good for you to lock yourself up like that. Come on, what do you say? You know you owe me." Sybil said, resorting to playing the guilt card.

  There was another long silence as Sybil waited for Julia's reply.

  "Oh alright," Julia relented, sounding annoyed.

  "Great," Sybil answered, "I'll call you in a few days to work out the details. Bye now!"

  Julia hated that Sybil knew just what to say to get her to agree. It was true; she did owe her. Julia had been an unknown artist, fresh out of school, when she brought her first paintings to Sybil's gallery. Sybil saw promise in her work and sold many of her early pieces. That encouragement had eventually led to Julia's first one-woman show in which every piece had quickly sold. It was at that exhibition that Julia had met Paul.

  Paul was incredibly handsome, sophisticated, well traveled, and very successful as a real-estate developer. He wasn't particularly interested in the art world and had been reluctantly dragged to the gallery by his date that evening.

  Julia noticed him across the room and was instantly drawn to him. After an hour of watching him as he kept checking his watch, it became obvious that he wished he was somewhere else. His date became annoyed with him and soon left him standing alone as she socialized with the other patrons.

  Paul wandered over to a sculpture perched neatly on a pedestal, raised his glass and took a large gulp of his scotch.

  "So, what do you think?" The female voice behind him asked.

  "About that?" he answered back, pointing at the sculpture, without turning to view the person asking.

  "I think its crap," he added, "and to think that someone will undoubtedly be talked in to paying an exorbitant sum of money for that, not because they truly love it, but because they feel it will be a good investment. But don't mind me; I think I'm getting a little drunk."

  "Well, why don't you tell us what you really think," came Julia's sarcastic reply.

  "Look, just because I may act like a Neanderthal doesn't mean that I don't know what I like...," He never finished his sentence. Paul turned to look at whoever had asked his opinion and froze slightly as his eyes met the statuesque blond smiling back at him. She wore an elegant sequined black strapless gown, and with the matching heels, was nearly as tall as he was. He could smell the evocative fragrance of her perfume as she approached him. She was dazzling, he thought.

  Julia joined him in front of the sculpture, and they stood looking at it together. The truth was; Paul was having a very hard time taking his eyes off Julia. The sculpture now held little, if any, interest to him.

  "Well, everyone's entitled to their opinion," Julia said, “and you know what they say about opinions?" she added.

  "No, what's that?" Paul asked, curiously.

  "Opinions are like assholes," she replied, then, leaning in, whispered in his ear, "everybody's got one!"

  Without missing a beat, Julia strode the distance to the waiter holding a tray of drinks and helped herself to another chardonnay.

  Paul had been in the middle of a gulp of scotch when Julia's retort had caught him off-guard. He choked a bit and nearly sprayed the drink from his mouth as the scotch entered his airway. He was more than a little surprised by the source of the completely uninhibited comment.

  Paul scooped an hors d'oeuvre from a waiter's tray as it passed by and noticed a large display on the wall with information about the artist the exhibition was featuring. There was a rather large picture of the woman he had just had the encounter with moments earlier.

  "Miss Spencer," Paul interrupted, while Julia was engaged in anoth
er conversation with a man in Arab clothing, "Please forgive my rudeness earlier. I didn't know I was insulting you. I mean," he stammered a bit,” I mean, I didn't know I was speaking to the artist."

  Julia politely excused herself from the Arab man and pulled Paul aside.

  "That's okay," she paused, "I hate that piece too. It's only in the exhibition because the gallery owner likes it, and thinks that it will sell. The truth is, I’m not crazy about it either. It's one of the worst things I've ever done," she added, laughing.

  Paul was somewhat taken back by this gorgeous woman's candor and honesty.

  "Never apologize for telling the truth!" Julia said, flashing a dazzling smile that made Paul go a little weak in the knees.

  Paul and Julia stood looking into each other's eyes. No one spoke for a moment, then Paul reached an arm around her waist, pulled her closer and whispered into her ear.

  "Wanna get out of here?" he asked, with smoldering eyes.

  "Oh, that's original," Julia laughed, pushing him away, "does that line ever work?" she asked, critical of the pass, but still somewhat charmed by his boldness. "Didn't I see you arrive with a date?" she said wryly, looking around the room.

  Paul slapped his hand to his forehead in mock embarrassment. He had honestly forgotten about the woman he had come with. Simultaneously, they both noticed that across the room, Paul's date was now hanging on the Arab man's every word, and was obviously not missing his company in the least.

  "Uh, as you might have guessed, we're not actually that close," Paul demurred.

  "So I see," Julia said, "hard to believe, as charming as you are," she added, with a hint of sarcasm.

  "But did you forget who they're throwing this little party for? It just might be considered, bad form, if not a unwise career move, to duck out of my own exhibition. Don't you agree?"

  "Yeah, I suppose it might," Paul replied, embarrassed again.

  "Julia reached into her clutch and withdrew a business card. She handed it to Paul and extended her hand."

  "Julia," she said, "Julia Spencer. If you’re capable of waiting until Saturday... give me a call."

  Paul took the card, and reached to take her hand. A small spark jumped between their fingertips. Instinctively, she pulled her hand back from the static shock.

  "Sorry," he apologized, "I just seem to carry a lot of static electricity. It must the carpet," he added.

  Paul felt stupid at the comment, looking down and realizing that they were standing on a marble floor.

  "So, do you have a name?" Julia said, "or should I just call you Sparky?"

  "Oh, sorry, I'm Paul Davis," he said, "but for you, Sparky will do just fine."

  Paul held up Julia's business card, "Then I'll call you Saturday?" he said.

  "That will be fine," Julia replied, pausing, "Just one more thing..."

  Julia leaned in to Paul, placed one hand behind his head and kissed him a slow, smoldering, passionate kiss, full on the lips. Those that observed it said that it lasted a good seven seconds. The other patrons in the gallery stopped talking and all eyes were on the couple as their lips met and their mouths tasted each other’s. Then Julia pulled back.

  "Just like to get that out of the way," she explained, "can't have a good time on a date if you spend the whole night wondering what the goodnight kiss is going to be like."

  Paul stood frozen, a look of complete bewilderment on his face.

  Julia turned and rejoined Sybil, who still had her mouth agape after seeing the kiss.

  "What was that?" she gasped.

  "Oh, he said my sculpture was crap," Julia replied, sipping her chardonnay.

  "And..." Sybil said, waiting.

  "I think I changed his mind!"

  Chapter 6 - The Beatdown

  Kit met Alicia on the stoop of her apartment. It was Saturday, and no school meant a day for fun and roaming their favorite places in the neighborhood.

  It was an unlikely friendship. Alicia had missed a large part of the second grade due to an illness, so she had to repeat it. In spite of the full-year difference in age, Kit was the more mature of the pair, at least emotionally.

  Alicia had always felt a little out of place for being older than her school friends; but beyond that, her physical appearance had set her apart. Alicia already developed breasts and thought of them as a curse, rather than a blessing. She endured the taunts from the boys in her grade and received a lot of unwanted attention from the older boys. None less wanted, than what she received from her sixteen-year-old stepbrother, Matt.

  Kit sat down on the stoop beside Alicia. She could tell that Alicia was not her usual self. She looked sullen and angry.

  "Hey, what's going on? You mad at me for something?" Kit asked.

  "No, it's not you," she replied, "It's that asshole Matt. I hate him!" Alicia snarled.

  "What'd he do now?" Kit asked, placing her arm around her friend's shoulder.

  "Kit, I never asked for a brother. Why did my Mom have to marry his Dad? Everything was fine before they came along," Alicia said, bitter and angry.

  "So, what did he do this time," Kit replied, remembering that Alicia's conflicts with her new stepbrother were becoming a regular thing.

  "Last night he came home with that friend of his, Hector, and they just barged into my room without even knocking. So, Matt says that Hector has seen me around the neighborhood and thinks I'm cute, and why don't I show Hector my tits." Alicia said, her eyes starting to fill with tears.

  "You gotta be kidding! What did you do?" Kit asked, now holding her friend's hand tightly in hers.

  "I told them to get the hell out of my room," Alicia said. "Then Matt pushes me down on my bed and holds my arms down, and he tells Hector to feel my tits. So Hector pulls my blouse up and starts to rub them. Then he puts his mouth on them and was sucking on my nipples. I started to scream and swear, but they just laughed. Matt was straddling my stomach, and I couldn't move. I just started crying and screaming as loud as I could, and someone in the next apartment started to bang on the wall. I guess it kind of freaked them out, cuz they stopped and started to leave. On the way out Matt said, "forget her Hector, she's probably frigid anyway."

  "That is sick! What did your Mom say?" Kit asked.

  "That's just it. Matt said if I said anything to Mom that he would just deny it and say that I just didn't like him and was trying to get him in trouble. The point is, he's probably right. The last time I complained about him, she took his side and told me I'd better try to get along cuz we were all a family now,” Alicia said, snot dripping from her nose.

  Kit reached into her pocket and withdrew a wadded up tissue. She handed it to Alicia, who blew her nose loudly.

  "You've gotta tell someone."

  "Why," Alicia sobbed, "He's right; she won't believe me anyway. She'll think I made the whole thing up. She's so in love with Matt's Dad that she won't do anything to mess it up, no matter what I say. Matt is always so sickening sweet to her. He has her wrapped around his finger!"

  "Don't you see; that's what Matt's counting on. If he gets away with it this time what's to stop him from doing it again. Next time it might not be just him and Hector."

  "Oh god, no, I couldn't go through that again." Alicia spat the words through clenched teeth.

  "Can I stay at your place tonight?" Alicia pleaded.

  "No problem babe, no problem," Kit replied; now madder then she could remember.

  "Don't you worry Alicia; we'll fix this." Kit said, trying her best to soothe her friend.

  Kit took Alicia into the apartment, turned on the TV and sat her down in the big overstuffed chair.

  "You watch the tube for a while, I've got some calls to make," Kit said.

  "What's goin on," Alicia said, "You're not calling my mother are you? That'll just make things worse."

  "Don't worry, I've got your back," Kit replied.

  Kit went into her room and made several calls, then rejoined Alicia in the living room.

  "Just stay here a wh
ile, I've got an errand to run. I'll be back in a few hours. You'll be okay here, right?" Kit said, reassuringly.

  "Yeah," Alicia said, "I just wish I knew what you were up to."

  Matt and Hector cruised the neighborhood that day, harassing and tormenting anyone and anything that crossed their paths. They spent an hour torturing a stray dog by squirting it with a water and liquid bleach mixture in a Super Soaker squirt gun. They then went to Carducci's and shoplifted a couple of graphic novels. Hector would clumsily knock over a comic rack to distract Carducci as Matt would stuff the magazines down his pants. After brazenly stealing apples from a sidewalk fruit stand, they ran away laughing as the owner shook his fist after them.

  "One of these days you'll get what's coming to you," the fruit stand owner yelled angrily.

  They started to take their usual shortcut down the alley behind the market. About halfway down the alley they saw several girls appear at the other end. They were all holding something in their hands while walking toward them.

  Matt recognized the large black girl at the lead. It was Lizzie Barnes; someone who Hector, and he, had given a particularly hard time over the years. She was holding a three-foot section of steel pipe, which she swung in an arc striking the pavement to create a resounding clank. The other girls with her were similarly armed and proceeded to follow her lead smacking the pavement as they walked. Lizzie had endured a barrage of racial slurs from the boys, for as long as she could remember and was also the victim of a piss-filled water balloon thrown from a rooftop.

  "What's goin on Lizzie?" Matt asked, a worried look started to come over his face.