by Trisha Telep
He turned to find Cassie’s full attention on him. Intelligence shone through her eyes; he’d never noticed that before. “You think you frighten people?” she asked.
“Don’t try to tell me different. I see all those portraits you folks put around.”
“Dude, those portraits don’t look like you at all.”
“It’s how folks feel about me.”
“That picture was just some dumb thing a no-talent artist scribbled out, and it kind of stuck, it’s not how people feel about you. It’s sensationalism. This is a tourist trap. If anything all of Clancyville is grateful for the tourists you attract. And you give tourists a sense of something larger than themselves that comforts them in a weird way – I see it all the time. And God, if people knew how hot you are, I bet we’d get more women tourists.”
He studied her face, bemused.
“Hot means handsome.”
“I know what it means.” He smiled. “Hell, if I’da known you’da turned nice for a daisy, I’da given you one years ago.”
Her cheeks had grown pink. “I’m just telling you the truth.” She shrugged. “So. You shipped off at what age, twelve?”
“How did you know I shipped off at twelve?”
“We all know about you. Shipped off at twelve. Got your hand shot off in a barroom brawl in Barbados at twenty, but you stuck it out and eventually became captain. That first voyage of yours as captain was your last. You got your crew into boats and they all got back, but you went down with your ship and missed meeting your Nell. You were talking about her the whole trip back, though none of your crew knew who she was.”
Because she was a whore, but he didn’t say that. He’d suspected Nell wasn’t her real name. He’d only known her a night.
Cassie turned her attention down to the stage where one of the musicians was speaking. “No way,” she said, pink lips plumped into a frown, freckles just a shade darker. “No fucking way.”
“This was her favorite song,” continued the musician – a slouchy fellow holding drumsticks. “I’d like to play it in remembrance . . .”
“Fuck! Don’t you dare play ‘Rooster Bay’! Don’t you dare!”
“I’d like to play ‘Rooster Bay’ in honor of Cassie Nolan.”
“No!” She yelled. “I hate that song, you asshole!”
William suppressed a grin. Seemed Cassie wasn’t pleasant to much of anyone.
“He just wants to play his drum solo! At my funeral. God!”
The tune started up. He couldn’t blame her for disliking it.
She looked at the daisy, at him. “You could manipulate physical objects all this time?”
“Sure thing. You can, too, with practice.”
“You can carry things. That means you can probably push on things.”
“Depends.”
“Can you do this huge favor for me?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I’m not going to scare these people, Miss Cassie.”
“We won’t scare them, but—” She tried to grab his sleeve but her hand went through. She paused, looked dismayed. “If you could just do this one thing? Please?” She floated down toward the band, stopped in mid-air and turned. “Please?”
William lifted off and followed her over the stage where the fellows were making their musical ruckus, and through the wall behind. They ended in a tiny water closet full of shiny plumbing fixtures. A framed child’s drawing of a horse vibrated to the thump of the music.
“What do you have in mind here, Miss Cassie?”
“You think you can flush a toilet?”
He tilted his head. “I never worked a flush toilet.”
She pointed to the silver lever. “You just push down on this thing.”
William set down his anchor and reached out with his good hand.
“No! Wait! You have to wait until I say. There’s a ten-beat silence in the song, and it has to be then.”
“Don’t like scaring folks.”
“It’ll be hilarious.” The music stopped. “Now.”
William gave her a suspicious smile. It was improper in most every way he could think of.
Cassie raised her eyebrows. “Come on!” She smiled excitedly, rubbing her hands, and that’s when he saw it – her as that girl in the photograph. He liked that girl. He liked this girl. He put two fingers on the lever and concentrated until he felt it forming under his touch, then he pushed. Cassie widened her eyes as a loud, deep whoosh broke the silence.
“Come on!” She flew back through the walls and he followed. People gaped at one another. Some amused, some not. Laughter started up.
Cassie clapped her hands. “That was perfect, William.”
Her parents made their way through the crowd, looking slightly baffled. Her mother clutched hands with the redheaded fellow. Her father walked next to them.
“They’re going to check that water closet now,” he said as the drummer began to bang.
She watched them, her expression hopeful. “They’ll know it’s me. I would only flush that toilet during bar time at my most naughty, and I’d get in so much trouble. I think it was good we did that. I think they’ll know I’m OK.” She nodded. “That’s my brother with them. He’ll figure it out if they don’t.”
William thought about this. It seemed harmless enough. “Can’t say the musicians much liked it.”
A grin lit up her face. “Can’t say they did, McHenry.”
Together they floated back to the rafters.
“I’m doing that from now on,” Cassie said. “As soon as I learn to manipulate objects, that’s going to be my thing. I’m flushing that toilet during that song.”
“You can’t do that, Cassie.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“It will disturb people’s minds.”
“It was hilarious.”
“They’re going to wait in that water closet to see.”
“What do I care? I think they’ll like it.”
“They won’t like it, Cassie – they’ll come to hate it. And it’s an uncouth style of haunting. It ain’t right.”
“It’s the first thing that has given me pleasure since I died, and you’re going to be all judgemental now?”
“It just ain’t right.” It was all coming out wrong. He wanted something better for her than a mocking flush toilet joke; he wanted her to have a shining hope, like his shining hope to find Nell, to experience that belonging once again. And hadn’t the parents just bemoaned the fact that she’d been stuck in Clancyville? They wouldn’t like to think of her haunting the toilet.
Her eyes shone. Was she about to cry? “Look here, Miss Cassie, I don’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you mean. At least my haunting thing accomplishes something.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not dragging around a chain, which is, by the way, totally unoriginal.”
“It’s doing something hopeful.”
“Dragging around a chain and calling out to somebody who is never going to be there is not hopeful. It’s stupid and useless.”
He could barely breathe. She’d said it to injure him. He knew it. And it did injure him. He had a hole in him, a hole made up of loneliness, and . . . calling out, it’s just what he did. It seemed as natural as breathing. He felt so hopeless, suddenly, and filled with shame. Was it really so ridiculous? Those times when he called out, Nell was near, he was sure of it! He grit his teeth. “You don’t know anything about this here place,” he said. “Anything could happen.”
“Why, because it’s a realm of thought?”
“I could get to her.”
“You’ve only attempted it like a hundred thousand nights. With zero success. But yeah, maybe next time.”
William grit his teeth. “When the town clock chimes eight, I’m alive on that ship, in the same time and place as my Nell. There’s always hope and I don’t mean to give up.”
“It doesn’t make sense, if you’re in a realm of thought and she’s not.”
“You listen here
– it’s real, and it’s thought, and if I got to shore faster, maybe I would reach her . . . there is a slice of possibility—” He felt deeply upset. During his darkest days, he too sometimes wondered if it was all for naught.
She sat up straight, seeming to sense his shift in mood. “Shit, I’m sorry, William—”
“Save it.” He didn’t need her pity, and he was past sorry with her now. She had no idea how it felt, hoping so dearly to find someone, and having those hopes dashed and broken, only to hope again the next time. The hope felt good in his heart for those moments; it warmed him when he swam through the icy sea and, someday, he’d feel that connection again. Being in the water closet with Cassie, having that moment of fun with her, it only hurt because it made him crave that good feeling all the more. Had she been sent by the devil to torment him?
“William—” She reached out but he let her pass through. He would not meet her touch.
“You stay here with your flush toilet. I hope you’re both real happy together.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms. “We will be.”
“You and your precious flush toilet.” He floated off.
Cassie lay on the couch in the parlor of the historic Hyde House, surrounded by antiques, dreading the coming night. The night before had been hard. Long. Dark.
She stared at the velvet ropes. As a girl, she’d loved taking the free tour on Wednesdays. She’d stare into the lavish room arrangements full of rich draperies and shiny lamps, imagining the old-fashioned people living their lives on the other side. How wonderful it must have been. Even then she was looking to be somewhere else.
And here she was, on the other side of the rope. Great.
She hugged her knees, feeling more cold and alone and afraid than she ever had. She’d thought a lot about what would happen next, and she didn’t know what she dreaded more – that she might pass to some unknown after-after-death place, or that she’d stay here for an eternity. William said others had come and gone. Was he right about the fixation thing? Did a ghost leave once they stopped fixating? Maybe she needed to stop fixating on McHenry.
She floated over the fireplace and tried to pick up a match off the tiles in front of the hearth, but her fingers went through. She’d managed – she didn’t know how – to dump the matches out there. Now she just needed to grab one, strike it and light the wood. The flue was open, the chimney was clear; she’d checked the whole thing out. She wanted a fire in the fireplace so badly. Today she’d really enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It had made her feel more real, and not so alone. But now it was almost night, and she felt so blue.
Uncouth, he’d called the toilet joke. You and your precious flush toilet. She laughed softly. Old-fashioned as he was, he had a point about the toilet thing. He’d said people would come to hate it, and they would. Particularly her parents – the thought that she was stuck there in Clancyville would torment them.
Yes, William McHenry was downright perceptive. Gruff, but perceptive. Thoughtful. Of all the flowers, he’d sought out a daisy for her.
And she’d been such a bitch to him! Not just lately, but forever, making him feel mocked. It had never occurred to her to treat him as human – he was just a ghost, after all. But even a ghost felt despair, joy. A ghost could cry, or feel heart-pounding excitement. Sure, maybe it was just a ghostly heart pounding away, but it felt real.
She smiled in spite of herself – she never thought she’d meet somebody who hated that Old Salt caricature more than she did, and now she had – McHenry himself. And it was so wrong! Who knew Old Salt was super hunky in big black boots and beat-up mariner clothes? And that little smile when she told him to flush the toilet. Uncouth. He was a Southern man of his time. She liked that, too. Could she touch him if she concentrated?
Not that he’d want her to.
She’d gone down the pier at eight a day or so ago, just to see him. She’d stayed hidden as he searched the tourists’ faces, and then he’d yelled out for his Nell so mournfully. He was like a lost animal, baying for his mate. And what had the people of Clancyville done for him all these years? They’d made him feel like a sideshow freak. Even the saying “Never give up on love” trivialized what William McHenry was going through. His devotion wasn’t something to be made fun of. It was amazing, and powerful, and so sexy. McHenry was a rare kind of man. And that Nell was a lucky woman.
She tried again to touch a match, concentrating hard, like William had said, even just to move it a hair.
She floated back to the sofa, frustrated, feeling the tears come. Ghost tears. But they felt wet and hot all the same.
How many nights had she been floating about? Time was weird, but things around the tavern seemed to have returned to normal. She guessed it was three days past her memorial, maybe four.
Sitting up there on the rafters during her funeral, there had been this one moment when she’d felt such peace, just being there with McHenry. She thought about his big sad eyes, his quiet calm. She’d always been so busy hating where she was or trying to get somewhere else, she’d never known what it was to just be. So weird.
It was just dusk outside, but the room had grown fully dark thanks to the heavy draperies. And the cosy lamps weren’t lit as they were during the tours. Cassie fell into a gloomy reverie – for how long, she didn’t know.
Some time later, she was startled to alertness by the whooshing roar of a fire. A figure stood before her; thanks to the bright flames behind him, she couldn’t see his face, but his hook hand glinted. And she could see the outline of his cap, and the anchor and the chain he carried.
“William!” Cassie sat up, grateful for the warmth and light. “Thank you.”
One shoulder lifted. “It’s nothing.”
“How’d you know?”
“Wasn’t me that made a mess of the matches.” He sat next to her and set the anchor on the floor. The firelight gave his skin an amber glow. There was a tiny white scar above one of his thick dark brows that look etched. Like a drawing. Gold twinkles danced in his dark curly hair. “I used to come here, too. Used to love it here. And I made a fire for myself a few times. A fire’s cosy. Feels like life.”
“Feels like . . .” she whispered.
He nodded. “And cuts the aloneness.”
“You used to come here, but you don’t anymore?”
“Nah . . . it’s a family home. Made me feel more like I was on the outside looking in than the people they have parading through here.”
God, how had he endured all this alone for so long? Could she have? And he seemed to care about the feelings of people, even though they mocked and feared him. “I’m so sorry for how I’ve been to you, William,” she said. “I had no idea . . .”
“It’s OK, Miss Cassie.”
“Just let me apologize,” she said. “I was pretty awful to you.”
He nodded. “That you were.”
She gave him a playful look of warning that made him smile his beautiful smile.
“Apology accepted,” he added.
“Good.”
He watched the firelight. There was something deep and ancient in his big eyes, his quiet beauty, and she was glad it was him with her. She felt happy suddenly. They were just sitting there, and she felt happy. Was that a ghost thing? After a while, she said, “It’s all I could do to knock the stupid matches over.”
“It’s a start.”
“I tried to pick them up, to concentrate on grabbing them.”
“That there’s your problem. You shouldn’t think about how you move; you should think about how you touch. The point of contact.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned to her and lifted his hand up near her cheek.
Her heart beat like crazy. She wanted more than anything for him to touch her.
“You mind?”
“No,” she whispered.
He moved his hand, but if he was touching her, she couldn’t tell.
“You lay a hand best you can,” he said, “and then c
oncentrate on feeling it form under your touch.”
Suddenly she felt it. His hand was warm. She wanted to cry. She hadn’t touched or been touched in days, and now this. His hand on her cheek. A fire in the fireplace. He drew his fingers down to her jaw.
“Don’t,” she said, lifting her hand.
He took it away. “Don’t?”
“Don’t take it away. Keep it there, I mean.”
“You sure are bossy.”
She smiled. He laid his hand back on her cheek and she placed her hand over his, trying not to go through it. She could feel nothing.
He said, “Imagine a tiny layer between your hand and mine. Tiny as metal shavings. Touching something big or small, don’t matter, there’s always just that thin plane under your fingers – it’s that you must feel.”
“I can’t.”
“Where skin meets skin—”
Suddenly it was there. “I feel it! I feel your hand now. Like it appeared.”
“It appeared to your touch is all.” He smiled. “Now you’ll do it easy.”
He kept his hand there on her cheek, under her hand. Slowly she slid her hand up and down over his weathered knuckles, his warm skin. And then she slid her fingers down to his wrist, and she wrapped her fingers around it, much as she could. Just this little bit of touch – there was something so real about it. So human.
So erotic.
His grey eyes looked light, like a cloudy sky. She was in this pretty place on the good side of the velvet ropes with this man she’d despised and belittled all her life. But now she wanted to kiss him.
His gaze fell to her lips. He’d thought the same thing. A kiss was thick in the air now.
“William,” she said, sliding her hand back up to his, curling her fingers around his, bending them, feeling his fist form under her touch. She closed her eyes and turned her head, concentrating, dragging her lips across his knuckles. She could feel.
“Cassie—” A slight tug. He took back his hand.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Your Nell.”
“No apologies needed.” He went over and knelt in front of the fire, pushed on the logs with his hook hand. The flames blazed.
