Mansion of High Ghosts

by James D. McCallister

  “You don’t get your own joint—we share one.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “A communal experience. Sharing.”

  “I know. I smoke all the time back home.”

  He finished rolling a bomber thick as a finger. “This will do the trick.”

  Her eyelids already drooping, Ruck’s little sister gave Billy her own come-hither smile. Sounding tipsy and breathy, “So I guess you’d better come sit over here, then. So we can share.”

  Steeplemeat, twitching in his shorts.

  The sleeper has awakened.

  Sparking the doob and passing it. Telling her to take it slow.

  Creedence, puffing and coughing. Puffing again.

  Getting quiet, eyes beginning to cross.

  Billy, now seeing her as the hottest little southern flower he’d ever imagined. Deciding to take direct and timely action about said revelation; running a finger along her smooth bare calf, passing her knee, and tickling a pale thigh.

  “Oh!” she said, blinking. Seeing the shudder go through her body. Her hand upon his, her eyes saying Yes. He took her, and the huge joint, upstairs to his room before Ruck had the chance to notice them together.

  Fifty-Four

  Devin

  The next morning, Devin, hungover as a dog, stood in the filthy, destroyed kitchen, the whole place reeking of stale beer and smoke—the duplex, as well as the bodies of the two friends. Creedence, yet to emerge from upstairs, had disappeared on him last night. Lightweight.

  Billy, swaying on his feet, looked green, weirded out. “Announcement: I’m finished.”

  “Regarding—?”

  “I’m done, that’s what.” Billy, searching to explain. “I’m going legit.”

  “Legit? What’s ‘legit’?”

  “I’m done with the wet stuff.”

  “Goody for you.”

  “Seriously.”

  Beyond dismissive. “Listen to him singing the hangover blues.”

  “Like—seriously, bro.”

  “You must still be fucked up.”

  “I’m on the edge. I gotta climb down.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Nothing, that I know.”

  “With my sister. Seen y’all sitting on the couch. Then you were gone.”

  “She was about to pass out. I put her to bed upstairs. That’s all.”

  “Better be.”

  Billy’s lips, pressed into a hard slash across his face: “Give me some credit.”

  “Well-sir, Mr. Credit, I gotta get her on her feet before Daddy shows to collect his baby girl.”

  “I’ll help straighten up.”

  Sipping a cold Budweiser, Devin went into the living room to slide the weed-Frisbee under the couch, pick up empty Solo cups, dump the ashtrays. Billy lit a stick of floral incense and started sweeping the kitchen.

  “You telling me the truth about Creedence?”

  “To paraphrase Mr. Garcia: maybe she had too much, too fast.”

  “Is that so. And then what?”

  “I told you—I tucked her in.”

  Devin stared into Billy’s eyes. He averted his gaze.

  “My own sister, now?”

  Rueful, sincere: “No, no, no. Nothing like that—for once.”

  “Keep it that way. She’s just a kid.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “I do. Credit, due.”

  But Devin, heading upstairs to get his sister ready, said to himself: “‘Credit’? Now that’s a good one.”

  Fifty-Five

  Creedence

  Chelsea. Queasy and crashed on the stinky futon in the spare room.

  Billy’s room.

  But Billy, declining to share the space last night after all.

  With her.

  Bailing on what she thought was about to be her second time.

  Or first real time, depending.

  But Chelsea, after their brief, aborted rendezvous, not seeing him again. And there in the morning light she lay hoping that, once it came time for her to depart, she wouldn’t find him downstairs.

  Humiliation.

  Right as things got heated he’d gotten a look like disgust, an expression seared into her brain is if done with a red-hot cattle brand.

  Disgust—then fear.

  Yeah. Fear had been this beautiful boy’s reaction to her tugging at the bulge in his shorts, tickling her fingers under his tie-dye.

  Billy, those eyes—crystal blue like hers.

  That voice—his accent, from someplace else.

  Somewhere different.

  Somewhere special.

  Those eyes bulged not with passion, but terror.

  What the hell, beau?

  Billy, though, let’s face it—he’d done her a favor, confirming what she already knew. That Creedence—Chelsea Rucker, Kookie Colette, pick one—wasn’t worth a damn.

  Didn’t look good.

  Didn’t kiss right.

  Something.

  His thing had been hard. But he still didn’t want to do it with her. At least she didn’t need to wonder anymore if her mother was right about Dusty being the one.

  Hearing her brother and Billy downstairs, Creedence, tiptoeing into the upstairs bathroom with her toiletries and a change of clothes, held her breath to keep silent.

  Best she could remember she and Billy’d smoked pot, flirted, and the next thing she knew they were in his room sprawled on the futon, kissing and touching one another, so excited that her panties had soaked through.

  Again, Billy, excited as well. So much bigger than Dusty. Like a different species of peterpiper.

  But his penis wasn’t the point: Creedence, about to make-it with someone who seemed to want her. Someone not-Dusty. About to take her, fill her up.

  She hadn’t even wanted him to put on a rubber. Desired to let him know how special he was.

  But then, Billy jerking back from her as though startled. His erection, fading away. Awkward, mumbling.

  “Billy—what’s wrong?”

  “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “We just shouldn’t. I don’t want to. I can’t. I won’t.”

  Speechless.

  He rose to leave. “I’m—I feel too excited. It’s not safe. You sleep here. I’m—I’ll go downstairs.”

  “But Billy—!”

  Too late. The door had shut with a click. He’d run out as though the devin at his heels. The devil, she meant.

  It’s not safe? What the hell? Had he read her thoughts about not wearing a rubber?

  The tears flowing, the shock of his rejection kept her awake for an hour, listening and crying until the party died down.

  Afterwards, the duplex still but for the grunts and bumps of intimacy coming from Devin and his friend Carmen in the other bedroom, the squeaking of the mattress springs therein—Libby’s old bed. She’d watched Carmen follow Devin around all night. Had babytalked him and doted on him. Carmen, Chelsea thought, seemed to really like Devin.

  She could hear him across the hall, doing it to her. The way Chelsea used to sneak and listen and even watch, that one time they thought the house was empty, as her brother and Libby had made love. How it seemed to make her feel, her back arching as she rode Devin to release. What Creedence should have been doing with Billy.

  But not to be. It beat all she’d ever heard of, him bailing on her. She must be a freak.

  She got dressed and sat down on the toilet to lace up her Converse sneakers. A knock came, startling in its urgency. She prayed it wasn’t Billy.

  “You up, sissy?” Her brother’s voice, hoarse like he suffered a sore throat. “Time to get moving.”

  Relief. “I’m almost done in here.”

  “Everything all right?”

  Uh-huh, she said.

  “You sure?”

  “Just feel yucky.”

  “From what?”

  “From last night.”

  “Join the club.” De
vin, coughing. “But a little grease’ll knock that hangover right out. Plenty of pizza left. If you can stomach it…”

  In a flash, as though she could taste the beer at the back of her teeth. She suffered a wave of hot nausea. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Her stomach roiling at the filthy tiles on which she knelt, Creedence retched into the grungy toilet bowl and thought, Mama would have a fit if she seen the state of this bathroom.

  Clomping downstairs with her backpack and purse she found her brother waiting and smoking a nasty cigarette. Creedence, stopping in the doorway with her limp greasy bed-hair hanging down, arms folded, noted how rough her brother looked.

  “Where’s your new girlfriend?”

  “She already split, and it ain’t like that.” Devin stared her down. “I wanted you to know something, before anyone else.”

  “What,” sounding bored like when Mama had a big pronouncement about to drop, usually amounting to a hill of beans. “About that pretty Carmen?”

  A low tone of confidence, discretion. “No, sissy. That I’m leaving soon.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  Shrugging, Devin flopped his hand in the air like a gay hairdresser. “Away.”

  “Away?”

  “Away.”

  “From Columbia?”

  “Yeah. Away-away.”

  “From South Carolina?”

  “Far as I can get.”

  “Carmen’s going with you?”

  “Fuck, no. I mean—she’s got to finish school.”

  “Y’all were up late. Together.”

  “How would you know?”

  Cheeks burning. “Because I heard you.”

  Devin, a hint of shame, not unlike what she saw on Billy’s face—what was wrong with everyone? “Carmen’s just being friendly. Trying to help, I guess.”

  “She looked at you like she loves you.”

  Gasping, Devin face drained of color. Sudden, he leapt to his feet and grabbed Creedence by her arms, squeezing hard. Desperate, his eyes swum with a panicky bewilderment. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare.”

  Chelsea, unable to fathom his extreme reaction. “I just think she likes you.”

  Releasing his sister, Devin rubbed his hands on his jeans and apologized. “Like I said—I’m outta here before—before I—ah.”

  “Before what?”

  Certainty: “I know I’ve told everyone I’m fine. That I’m gonna go back to school. But you can forget it, man. You can forget Carmen. You can forget Billy. You can forget Libby,” saying her name like a curse. Devin, cutting himself off at the hurt she knew he could see on her face. “I can’t get right until I forget, somehow. When I forget again, I’ll be able to live. And I’ll come back. And it’ll be the way it was before, when we were kids—like at the beach. When we’d go to Myrtle Beach and play. Remember?”

  Tearful. “But I don’t want you to go away.”

  “I can’t get away if I don’t leave.”

  “But then I’ll be all by myself.”

  Shuddering as though an ill wind had blown into the room. “You’ll have your chance to leave one day.”

  “What about Prudy?”

  “I’ll have to take her with me. I shouldn’t, but the cat’s all I got left.”

  “Of Libby, you mean?”

  Devin, impatient. “Yes, Creedence. For fuck’s sake—yeah.”

  Her brother stood watching as she held back a gusher.

  It didn’t work: She grasped at him: “Please take me with you.”

  “Oh, god no. Not on this trip. You’re better off here, dearheart—believe me.”

  “I guess you hate me, too.”

  Devin, crumbling. “My love for you, sister girl—? It’s the only love I got left. You and Prudy, I reckon. But I can’t let you love me any more. I can’t let anybody.”

  “Why? Why?”

  “Because I’m not gonna be around much longer. The car wreck—that was for me, not Libby. And now? My marker’s overdue. If you love me, you will lose. So my advice is to quit while you’re still ahead.”

  “Quit loving my own brother?”

  He smoked and smiled. “Why not? I certainly have.”

  Fifty-Six

  Devin

  Devin stood in the yard with his father, each with arms folded and ill-at-ease, chatting about this’n that. Creedence, already ensconced in Dwight’s sedan in the back seat, lay with one forearm slung across her face. It was still quiet along the block—others had held nearby parties as well. Sleeping it off.

  “I might need to borrow some money.”

  “You’re not in a fix of some kind, are you?”

  “Nah. Nothing like that.”

  Dropping his voice, Dwight searched his son’s eyes. “You’re not doing anything you shouldn’t be? I see that my baby daughter don’t seem to feel too good today after y’alls little ‘cookout’ over here.”

  “She’s fine. And, I’m not in trouble.”

  “How’s the new car running?”

  “The Jetta? She’s a peach. Looking forward to the first oil change.”

  “I’ll make sure you don’t got nothing to worry about.” Dwight, clasping his son to his body, breathed heavy. “My son. Just concentrate on your schoolwork this fall. Let’s get you back to normal. And—stay away from the bottle.”

  Devin, pulling away. Hoping the shame he felt going unseen. “I will, Daddy. A few beers now and then. Nothing more.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “A few hundred bucks?”

  Dwight, well-off at least by Edgewater County standards, scoffed at such a pittance. “I’ll have Mama send you a check first thing tomorrow.”

  Devin watched as Billy came to the screen door and exchanged a brief wave with Dwight. His friend faded back into the shadowy interior without coming outside.

  Glancing toward his sister in the car: “Y’all be careful going home on that damn interstate.”

  “You and Billy be good, now.”

  The Oldsmobile pulled away. Devin offered a lethargic, heavy wave. He let his hand fall to his side.

  Afterwards he sat squatting on the front steps; Prudy, rubbing back and forth across the inside of the screen door, cried for him to return inside.

  After a few minutes Billy came and sat beside his friend, draping a huge arm across Devin’s stooped and slight shoulders.

  Tense at first, Devin leaned into Billy. Heaved a deep sigh. Nothing needed saying.

  But Devin, thinking how to find the courage, the right words, to tell Billy goodbye. How to drive out of Arcadia and not look back. How to bid farewell to Libby, and all these spaces she’d occupied, all the good along with the bad. He couldn’t seem to remember the good without evincing colossal risk and consequences—a hell of a condition.

  A fix, maybe permanent: strong drink.

  The sun, blazing through a hole in what had been a solid, wispy bank of gray clouds, blinded the hungover friends. They scowled and held up forearms to shield themselves from the light. The end was nigh. He’d break the news to Billy later, after they had gotten a good afternoon buzz going.

  His announcement didn’t go over well.

  Devin, not kidding, had begun the next day shoving crap into the Jetta. He folded a thick bath towel and put it inside one of Eileen’s cat carriers he’d cadged from the Rucker manse. Prudy protested but allowed him to put her inside, along with a small dish of dry cat food.

  Billy, watching Devin button up the car, paced redfaced and hollering like a wild-eyed, jilted lover.

  “Ruck—for heaven’s sake, you can’t leave.”

  “Not you, too. Like I said to Creedence: I’ll be back. Just going on ahead to do a little recon work for you all—remember?”

  “For the love of god, don’t do this.”

  “Aw—I’ll still be around.” Devin, tapping his chest and getting into the car, no direction home, grinned at his pal Billy. “As long as you remember me,” quoting some dumb movie, the kind of
discourse that made sense to someone like Billy Steeple, “I’ll never really be gone.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Billy

  The dude elides.

  Late summer, now. Lingering heat waves emanating from the sidewalks of the Old Market. Thick air. Yeah—everything held the sound of thick air.

  Already drunk, Billy came ROLLING big-voiced into Slim Lupo’s wearing a faded tie-dye over his khakis, grungy flip-flops slapping against the soles of huge feet. With a multi-day chin stubble, patchouli he’d smeared underneath his arms in lieu of deodorant, a growing potbelly hanging over his waistline and greasy hair pulled back by a purple bandana, he slapped skin with bouncers, greeted the sound guy as though he meant as much to Billy as Devin freaking Rucker.

  Tweaked on six to eight TOTALLY MASSIVE bong hits and a snort or three of Crown, he’d chased the drink with a swish of Tom’s of Maine all-natural, alcohol-free mouthwash. Trying to mask the smell of the bracer he’d needed to face this night. The guitar case, bouncing along against his tree-trunk of a thigh, a comforting weight.

  Back to the music, now. He’d finally said, screenplays? Eh. Anyone could write one. Who gave a shit.

  Music. The stage. Primary experience.

  Immediate gratification.

  Yeah—remembering his exhilaration, the zest of playing onstage with Meat Mallet during their heyday headlining at the very club to which he now returned, Bigger than life. Cue Billy’s brassy and inspiring theme music, John Williams-esque and triumphal, as he plopped down the guitar case and bellied up to the mostly-empty music hall.

  Billy.

  In the house, y’all.

  Nicole Braden, one of the bar’s owners and a friend whom he’d known for a number of years, came over grinning. A petite honey, Nicole, with earthy, cinnamon girl curves, seasoned with hard lines around the mouth and eyes from working in the bar trade and who knew what else in her life. Billy, wanting to nail her in the worst way, but due to her status as a friend, he’d never made a move—after all, he wasn’t a cad.