Emily's Ghost

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  Emily was charmed by all of it, from the tiara to the button-hook. But it was a necklace of pale pink stone that cast a spell over her and held her fast. It was not a magnificent piece, or even an elegant piece. It was -- an odd piece. The big rectangular stone, set in delicate gold filigree but hung on an extremely heavy chain, was like nothing else in the window. Emily couldn't imagine a woman of either taste or wealth having adorned herself with it, and yet it was undeniably old. Something about it -- the way the track lighting bounced off its facets, or the gypsy look of it -- made her want to know more.

  From over her shoulder she heard Cara say, "What a funky piece. I like it."

  The words struck dread in Emily's heart. Until this moment she had not known she wanted the necklace. "I like it, too," she said, a little fiercely.

  "Let's go in and try it on, then," said Cara, oblivious to the fact that there were two of them and only one of it. She looped her arm through Emily's and tugged. "Maybe it's some rare and exotic stone."

  "You mean rare and expensive stone," Emily said wryly. This is going to be it, she thought. The thing that finally does in this screwy, illogical friendship. But she went in with Cara anyway, trying desperately not to resent her money.

  The saleswoman, a Coco Chanel lookalike, passed immediately over Emily to focus on the Possible Sale. "May I help you?" she asked Cara in a cultivated voice.

  "Yes, that funny pink-stone necklace in the window," said Cara. "We'd like to see it."

  The saleswoman wasn't quick enough to hide her surprise and -- Emily thought -- disappointment. "Oh. That one. Certainly."

  By the time she laid it out carefully on a swatch of black velvet, though, the woman was back in business. "It's a charming little trinket, don't you think? It's turned quite a few heads. Very unusual."

  Cara lifted it from it from the velvet and said, "Heavy; is the chain solid gold?"

  Emily's hopes sank.

  "Oh, no," said the saleswoman, releasing a tiny smile. "Some sort of plating. The stone is possibly rose quartz, or maybe pink tourmaline. It's costume, which is why the price is so reasonable."

  Emily's hopes rose.

  Cara turned over the tiny white stringed tag. "Five hundred dollars?"

  Emily's hopes sank.

  "It really is just costume, then," Cara said, disappointed.

  Emily's hopes rose.

  Why, why, why, you dopey fool! You don't keep five hundred dollars in your sugar bowl; Cara does.

  Cara held the necklace up around her throat and gazed at herself in a gilded mirror on the wall. "Pretty," she said musingly.

  "Your color sets it off well," said Ms. Chanel, tilting her head and touching one red fingernail to her chin.

  Emily thought she might possibly explode. "May I?" she asked through clenched teeth. Never had she wanted to possess the way she was wanting now.

  Cara smiled and handed it over with an "I can't decide, I really can't." Clearly she did not consider that Emily was in the competition for the purchase.

  Emily felt the sheer weight of the necklace in her hand, held it up before her, stared at the odd shafts of light in the pinkish crystal. Her hand was trembling.

  "Oh, look, the stone is chipped!" cried Cara. "On the back. How really too bad!"

  "Well, of course it isn't a diamond. And it's old," said the saleswoman, a little irritated. "But if you were really interested," she said to Cara, still pitching to her alone, "I suppose I could --"

  "I want it," Emily said suddenly. "I want the necklace."

  "You do! Oh, I'm so glad," Cara said, breaking into a surprised and beautiful smile. "It suits what you're wearing so well."

  "Cara, these are not my normal --" Emily began, and then gave it up. It didn't matter to her whether the necklace suited or not. It didn't matter whether it was chipped or not. It almost didn't matter whether it cost five hundred dollars or not. It only mattered that when she held it in her hand, she felt completely, bizarrely satisfied.

  "And how will you be paying for that?" asked the saleswoman politely. She had dropped all mention of what she could or could not do, seeing as it was chipped and all, but Emily did not dare or even want to re-negotiate the price.

  "VISA," she answered faintly, handing over her card.

  "Let's put it on you," said Cara excitedly as the clerk wrote up the sale.

  She undid the heavy clasp and lifted the chain over Emily's head. Emily watched the big pink stone pass in front of her and come to rest on her breastbone. The necklace felt heavy and icy cold. She caught her breath -- she couldn't breathe -- and let out a sharp, frightened cry.

  "Oh, sorry; did I catch your hair?" asked Cara off-handedly as she struggled to close the lock. "This clasp is a wicked thing to work."

  "No ... no, it surprised me ... with its weight, that's all."

  "Okay, turn around and let's see what we've got," said Cara, ready to be amused. Emily did so, and Cara said in an altogether different voice, "Emily. It's wonderful on you -- strange, and overwrought, and --wonderful. I can't get over the change it makes in you," she said, sounding puzzled. "It makes your cheeks glow, your eyes shine --"

  "Embarrassment is making my cheeks glow, Cara; stop it," Emily murmured as she eyed the saleswoman approaching with a tissue slip for signing. "It's just a piece of jewelry. Nothing more. Nothing less."

  When Emily was finished, they stood outside on the brick sidewalk in the late warm sun, deciding what to do.

  "I'm shopped out; how about you?" Cara asked. "Maybe a cup of coffee before we split up?"

  Emily, suddenly exhausted, agreed. "I think I'm having an attack of buyer's remorse," she admitted. But even as she said it she brought her hand up to the rose-colored stone and was comforted by its being there.

  Her ambivalent mood lasted through coffee with Cara, and on the subway ride home to Charlestown, and all though supper and an evening of dull summer reruns. The facts were undeniable: Five hundred dollars would've paid for a toaster oven, a new muffler for the Corolla, a year of cable T.V.., a whale-watching trip in Provincetown and, say, half a dozen seafood dinners at the No-Name Restaurant. Instead she'd blown it on -- what? A chipped crystal and a lead-heavy chain.

  So why did it feel so good to have it? Was it because for once in her life she'd bought with her heart instead of her head? And got one big treat, instead of a dozen little ones? Was it because she'd thumbed her nose at Miss Coco Chanel? Or was it just because -- she desperately hoped not -- it felt so satisfying to behave like a rich girl instead of a working one.

  She stared down at the rose crystal that she'd been idly rubbing. Emily did not care for jewelry very much, but she cared for this. There was something soothing about the feel of its clean-cut facets, and the filigree work really was quite intricate and very pretty. In the soft light of her deco lamp the stone gleamed more amber than pink. She gazed at it in half-dreamy pleasure. She'd once had a cat with eyes that shade of amber. She could almost hear him purring in her lap as she rubbed his chin; feel his silky fur as she stroked his back. Spooky had been gone for fifteen years, but, oh, Spooky was there with her now.

  Chapter 3

  At eight o'clock the next morning Emily placed a jelly doughnut and a large black coffee from Dunkin' Donuts side by side on Stanley Cooper's desk. "For you," she said. "Because life is good."

  "Meaning, you actually got somewhere with the senator yesterday." Stan wasn't surprised.

  But Emily was. "How did you know I met with the senator yesterday?"

  Stan popped the lid on his coffee. "For one thing, I heard that Lee Alden's mother had some kind of attack. Alden's brother was away on business in Czechoslovakia and couldn't get a flight over. That left the senator to fly back up. They thought it was her heart; turned out it was her stomach."

  "And for another thing," he said, sipping the hot stuff gingerly, "you took a vacation day: out of guilt, because you were about to do a nutty thing. So. You really nailed down the interview?"

  Emily busied hersel
f with unfolding the wrapping from her croissant. "What d'you do, read tea leaves?" It was vastly annoying that Stan went to bed last night knowing more about the senator than she did.

  Stan shrugged. "I observe." He took a monstrous bite out of his jelly doughnut; a blob of bright red filling oozed out and landed in a plop on his knee.

  "Ah, hell," he said from under a powdered-sugar mustache. He dabbed uselessly at his pants leg and said in irritation, "I mean, why else would you have bought that absurd bauble you're wearing around your neck, unless you were feeling mighty pleased with yourself over something?"

  Automatically Emily's hand went to the crystal necklace. She hadn't taken it off since she bought it, nor was she about to. "Tsk, tsk; you're taking out your jelly on my jewelry, Stan."

  Stan was heading with a napkin for the water cooler, still muttering, when the phone on Emily's desk rang. She picked up the receiver. It was Jim Whitewood, the senator's aide, wanting to know whether she'd be available for a twelve-thirty call from the senator. "Of course," Emily answered, and he rang off.

  Emily considered whether to brag to Stan about her continuing contact with the senator and then thought better of it. Maybe Senator Alden was canceling. In any case, she didn't want Stan sitting with one ear hanging over her desk at lunchtime.

  Luckily it was a slow news day; at twelve-thirty the newsroom was pretty empty. When the phone rang promptly at the half-hour, Emily lunged for it, aware of a kind of first-date giddiness. If she were, oh, a hall monitor, then Arthur Lee Alden III was the high-school quarterback.

  "Miss Bowditch?"

  "Yessir."

  "Ah. You're in." It was his voice all right; but something was wrong.

  Canceling, dammit. She saw her Pulitzer Prize going straight down the tubes. "Senator? You sound very ... tentative," she hazarded. "Are you having second thoughts?" She closed her eyes and grimaced. Idiot! Give him an opening, why don't you?

  His laugh was low and rueful. "I'm having second thoughts, third, maybe even fourth. Not about the interview, though, but over what I'm about to suggest."

  "Sa-a-y," she said, trying to lighten the mood, "this wouldn't be nothin' illegal, would it?"

  "Obviously not," he answered, a little testily. "But I'm putting myself very much on the line, something no elected official likes to do. Look -- this conversation is off the record. Agreed?"

  "Sure." She said it without thinking, then wished she hadn't.

  Because his next question set the hair on the back of her neck on end.

  "Have you ever been in the presence of a 'sensitive'?"

  Emily chose her answer very, very carefully. "Well, no," she said, "I have not." She felt obliged to add, "I don't believe in 'sensitives'."

  There was a pause. "So you've never been in a position to judge whether a psychic is a fraud or genuine? Because you've never seen one?"

  "That's right, Senator," Emily. "Wait, I'm a liar. Once I went with two of my friends to see a palmist, on a lark. The palmist was definitely a fraud."

  You will struggle between life and death, child, the psychic had said. In the end, you will have what you want. The others had got nice, cheery, tall-dark-and-handsome type readings, but her? No such luck. The palmist had practically shoved her out the door. No doubt she knew an investigative reporter when she saw one.

  Emily shook off the unpleasant remembrance and said, "Why do you ask?"

  "I ask, because I'm seriously considering doing something impolitic: inviting you to a séance."

  "Get outta here," Emily said, grinning. A séance!

  His voice became suddenly reserved, almost cold. "You're right. Dumb idea."

  "No. No, it's not," she said quickly. "I've never been to a séance because, well, I guess no one's ever asked me before. I mean, how do you find out about these things? It must be word of mouth. It can't be in the Yellow Pages. What would you look under? Recycling? If you wanted a mere palmist, that's easy enough. They advertise; they're available for parties. But let's face it: a person who channels spirits, well, that's pretty heavy stuff. I wish you would consider asking me, Senator," she pleaded, at a loss how to seem more like a believer to him. She could feel the story slipping through her fingers, and it horrified her.

  When he said nothing she added, "I hope I haven't offended you, Senator. "I suppose I'm what you people would call a 'goat,' but--"

  "No, no, that's no problem," he interrupted, still thoughtful. "I've been to a few of these things, and nothing's ever happened. But people whose opinions I very much respect have talked about this particular girl -- she's just a girl, eighteeen or nineteen -- in a way that intrigues me. Unsettles me, even. Apparently she has power, undeniable power ...."

  "Oh, Senator, please let me come. Please."

  There was another long, unbearable pause. She forced herself to remain silent, to wait him out. When at last he spoke he said, "Let me give you a time and place --"

  Yes! "I appreciate this so much, Senator."

  "Naturally the séance, like this telephone conversation, is off the record."

  "What?"

  "It has to be. I'm sorry."

  She absorbed the blow well, all things considered. "I understand, Senator," she answered calmly. It didn't matter. Somehow, someway, she'd finagle some kind of qualified permission from him. Or she'd imply what she needed to say. Or she'd work through third-party quotes. But the story of "The Senator and the Séance" would be told. There wasn't a doubt in her mind.

  The senator arranged to meet Emily on the following Tuesday in Westford, Massachusets, and gave her simple, clear directions for getting there. He said very little about the nature of the sitting, only that there would be some attempt to communicate beyond the living. The sitting was scheduled to take place just outside the town, in a farmhouse with a reputation for hauntings --frosting on the cake, as far as Emily was concerned.

  The week sped by. Emily was as good as her word and said nothing to Stan either about the phone call or the upcoming séance. Part of her, a big part, wanted to one-up Stanley Cooper once and for all. And unless her phone had been tapped by him the other day, that's exactly what she would do.

  When Tuesday came, Emily was very careful to dress and behave exactly as she always did. That meant a plain white shirt, a casual jacket, and stone-washed jeans. That meant showing up early, eating lunch at her desk, and exchanging sharp-edged banter with the boys all day. The only break in routine -- it couldn't be helped -- came when she announced she was ducking out early.

  "Where to?" asked Stan.

  "Library," she said briefly, pulling a vinyl cover over her computer screen.

  Stan gave her a sharp look. "Where's your book bag?"

  "In the car."

  "You brought your car? The library's a block away."

  "Not for that. I'm meeting someone--Cara. For supper." She locked her desk.

  But Stan was feeling suddenly expansive. "Hey, how's Cara doing? God, it's been a while," he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching.

  Stan had met Cara exactly once, in the newsroom. At the time he'd called her a silver-spooner. Now all of a sudden he was talking as if they'd been raised in the same orphanage. He knows I'm up to something, she thought, dismayed. How did he do it?

  "I'll tell her you said hi," Emily said with a tight smile, and fled.

  She shrugged off the thought of Stan Cooper the way she would a wet sweater. He could guess all he wanted, but he'd never actually know, not before she was good and ready to let him know.

  By the time she'd grabbed a hamburger and shifted the Corolla into fifth gear on Route 128, her mind was focused completely on the evening ahead of her. It seemed to her an extraordinary thing that a U.S. Senator was willing to risk looking like a jerk a week before a scheduled interview. Where was the angle here? He couldn't be hoping to impress her with his sincerity. Being a sincere believer in ghosts wasn't exactly a character asset.

  Was he hoping to make her a believer? Impossible. He must know th
at. Unless .... A wildly irrational fear seized her. What if he belonged to some kind of cult, and they were going to brainwash her, and she'd come out of the haunted house some kind of, whatever, some kind of zombie or something ....

  Get a grip, girl. He's a senator. You're a journalist. You're not driving into the Twilight Zone; you're headed for Westford, Mass., a no doubt nice little bedroom community to a bunch of yuppies from Boston.

  Still, a person couldn't underestimate the hypnotizing power of sheer personality. The senator had it to spare. And more. What a charismatic man, she thought, a little depressed. So that's what people really vote for: the smile, the voice, the low chuckle. He'd certainly caught her off guard once. Well, twice. But he wouldn't get away with it a third time. She was ready for him tonight.

  Which led her to another possibility. What if the evening were set up as an elaborate hoax--screens and rapping tables and flying trumpets, that kind of thing? Obviously some of these people were really good; too many otherwise intelligent observers had been sucked in by them. She smiled grimly to herself. Try pulling a fast one, Senator, and our gentlemen's agreement is null and void.

  She played around with various scenarios in her head, and by the time she turned off Route 495 onto the road to Westford, she was actually hoping for something outrageous to happen. A haunted house and a debutante medium -- it gave whole new meaning to the phrase coming out.

  Emily found Easton Lane, which was unmarked, but she had an awful time finding the house. She travelled the mile of potholed road up and then back down again before she noticed a car turn into a driveway that was all but hidden by overgrown shrubs. The car was a BMW. The senator had said he'd be in one. She turned in after it, sidled around a huge exposed rock in the center of the winding drive, rolled up her window to keep out the scratchy branches that were poking their way in, and fetched up in a kind of clearing, in the middle of which stood a slate-roofed farmhouse made of stone.

  The house was at least two hundred years old and closer to three. At both ends huge crumbling chimneys, cast in silhouette by the setting sun, stood like brooding sentinels. A towering pine loomed over the heavy Dutch-door entry to the house, throwing it into premature darkness. Massive shutters, their black panels peeling, hung unused and uncared for. The only light was lurid light -- streaks of red sunset, cutting across the tattered, overgrown scene. From high overhead a purple finch warbled notes of piercing sweetness, a simple song of renewal amid continuing decay.