Steinbeck’s Ghost

by Lewis Buzbee

  The crowning touch: trickles of bloodred lipstick from the corners of his mouth.

  He sprayed canned cobwebs up and down his body, over his head and arms. Newly risen from the crypt.

  Last, he put his dad’s best pen in his pocket, a fountain pen, and hung a composition book from a plastic prisoner’s chain around his neck.

  The only thing that would have made the costume better was if he’d been able to have the pen protruding from his cheek or neck, as if he’d been stabbed with it. He just couldn’t figure out how to do it. His mom was good with stuff like that, she would know how. But.

  One last glance. He was the ghostwriter.

  Hil picked up Travis at six. They were in awe of each other’s costumes, and overjoyed they hadn’t given in to the easy-out of hoboes.

  Hil was a perfect Day of the Dead figure, like one of the toy skeletons for sale at the mercados in Oldtown, skeletal bakers and musicians and priests. Hil’s dad had turned his head into a sugar skull. Instead of blending the white and black to Travis’s ghoulish gray, Hil’s face and forehead were the brightest of whites. To emphasize the blocky shape of a skull, his dad used pure black under Hil’s jaw, and on his temples and around the eyes. His father had drawn long teeth on Hil’s lips, so that when his real mouth was closed, a skeleton’s toothy grin showed. Pink- and- purple geometric patterns had been added for decoration, to complete the sugar- skull eff ect. It was hard to fi nd the real Hil under the makeup.

  He wore white jeans and a white shirt, over which he wore a black serape. On his feet he wore leather huar-aches, and on his head a conical straw hat. He was a Day of the Dead Gitano.

  In one hand he carried his plastic pumpkin, in the other an odd- looking garden tool.

  “It’s a short hoe,” Hil said. “They’re illegal now, but for years they broke the backs of farmworkers all over this valley. And now I have risen from the dead to wreak vengeance for my people.”

  Hil cackled and slashed at the air. He was actually pretty scary.

  “I shall wreak the vengeance,” Hil said. “And you, Señor Ghostwriter, you will create my legend.”

  Together they cackled and set out. Travis turned off all the lights, inside and out. He hoped this would prevent angry trick- or- treaters from too much tricking.

  Dusk had already settled, purple- blue, but it was still warm out. The strong afternoon wind had died. The orange streetlights hummed. Travis stopped when they reached the sidewalk. Bella Linda Terrace had been transformed.

  Across the street, Mrs. Juarez was putting up a string of orange lights around her front windows. Glowing purple bats hung from the empty branches of her little trees. A smoldering cauldron invited children to her porch.

  Up and down the blocks, the houses were illuminated and decorated. Green and orange and purple lights shone on skeletons and headstones and giant spiders, on roofs and in front yards. In open garages, black lights and strobe lights hinted at spookier goings- on. It was a carnival, a carnival of the dead. Bands of costumed kids, mostly little kids at this hour, roamed from house to house. Bella Linda Terrace was almost beautiful.

  “You know,” Hil said. “It’s like the Camazotz game out here. Except all the creatures from the hidden worlds have broken out of their prisons. Cool.”

  “That’s what Halloween’s about, right?” Travis said. “The mysterious world and the real world meeting. It’s way cool.”

  They fell into the stream of the night, following trick-or- treaters from house to house, careful to not miss a single one.

  They traipsed behind ninjas and princesses, vampires, Harry Potters, a few Hermiones, frogs and cats, mummies, ghosts, robots.

  When they got to the second block, Hil started working the other side of the street. They’d never give out all the fl yers working together.

  That plan worked better, but as the blocks went by and the candy piled up in their pumpkins, it got harder to make their spiels about the library. More and more kids were out now, and they kept pushing past Travis to get to their candy. On one block they saw two other kids from school, duded up in serious Star Wars swag and toting their library pumpkins.

  Travis pulled Hil to a streetlight on a busy corner.

  “We’re just going to the houses,” he said. “But look aTheverybody else here. We’re missing most of them, and there’s a lot more trick- or- treaters than houses. If we stay here, they all have to walk past us. We’ll get all the parents.”

  Without blinking, Hil began to shout, in a movie-newsboy voice. “Save our library, save our library right here.”

  In one hour they got rid of all the fl yers, talked to hundreds of parents, even some kids, and collected a ton of money. And best of all, everyone dropped candy into their pumpkins. They each earned a mountain of tooth-melting sugar.

  They went to Travis’s house, where they counted the candy and the money. They’d collected $212.37; Travis had 135 pieces of candy, Hil 177. An impressive haul all the way around. If each of the other pumpkins brought in close to the same amount of money, that would be over a thousand dollars. Better than the car wash. Maybe people were fi nally getting the message.

  But they couldn’Theat any more candy, and it was still pretty early, just after nine. It was Halloween! They couldn’t stop now. So they went off in search of something spooky.

  A smudged moon rose from behind the Gabilans. The streets were nearly empty, only a few knots of older kids here and there. Bella Linda Terrace was still lit up, though for the first time since he’d moved here, it looked tired to Travis, a bit worn. He couldn’Thexplain why this was a nice feeling.

  Hil knew a secret passage he’d been dying to show Travis. He led him to the bottom of Green Town Court, where between the last two houses on the cul- de- sac, a narrow alley opened.

  “I think it’s a maintenance thing,” Hil said. “You know, so the gardeners and stuff can get behind the houses. They’re all over the place, but this is the best one.”

  Travis had not noticed these tight alleys before, and he’d lived here fi ve months. He needed to pay more attention.

  The court was lit up buThempty. They looked around, rather conspicuously, Travis thought, then whooshed into the alley.

  The path was a thick carpet of new grass, pale blue in the moonlight. Hil might have been here before, but no one else had. This was unknown territory.

  The stucco walls of the two- story houses—hard to know their color in this light—rose high above them, an impossible canyon. And higher still, the moon sat imperturbable in the sky, at its zenith, looking down on them, shining down on them. Hil crept along, bent low, as if he were a jewel thief on an escapade. All the white in his costume, his pants and skull and skeleton hands, was literally glowing. The black of his serape made him appear disjointed, fl oating. He really was a ghost.

  Travis discovered that he was moving the same way, hunched over, stealthy.

  “Hey,” Travis whispered. “Why are we walking like this? We’re not really doing anything wrong.”

  “I know,” Hil whispered. “It’s just more fun this way.”

  The alley continued between the high fences of the backyards, then opened up into a flat area between the backs of the fences and the stone wall that circled Bella Linda Terrace. This area was like a moat around Bella Linda Terrace, but instead of water, the moat was fi lled with plants and large river stones, a few spindly trees.

  Travis realized for the first time that Bella Linda Terrace would be a much better place to live once the trees were fully grown. He could almost picture how the streets would look with big trees and their shade.

  “No- man’s-land,” Hil whispered, spreading his arms. “And it’s all ours.”

  “Yeah, great. I mean, it’s cool and all. But what now? What do you do with a no- man’s-land anyway?”

  “You escape.” Hil trudged off through the thick carpet of ice plant.

  “We can’t climb that wall. Look at the spikes.”

  “Aha,” Hil said.
“You are a wise man, ghostwriter. So, if you can’t go over it …”

  “You go under it?”

  “Exactamente.”

  When Hil got to the wall, he pasted himself against it, like a convict during a prison break. Travis did the same. All Hil had to say was, “Well, Mugsy,” and the two of them were on the ground howling, trying their best to stifl e their laughter.

  Hil led them, crouching, to a drainage grate below one of the wall’s big pillars. He pulled up the grate and invited Travis to jump in.

  “Dude, we’ll get all dirty,” Travis said, only half serious.

  “We are ghouls,” Hil said. “We do not concern ourselves with hygiene.”

  Hil jumped into the hole, and it splashed a little when he landed. His head barely reached the top of the hole. He waved at Travis, then ducked down and was gone. Travis heard another grate being lifted, then Hil’s voice from the other side of the wall.

  “Hurry up, ghoul-boy,” Hil shout-whispered. “The spirits won’t wait all night. Or will they?”

  Travis jumped in the hole, ducked under the wall, and clambered out the other side.

  “We made it, Mugsy,” Travis snarled. “Free at last.”

  And they did the little dance of joy.

  They moved to the side of Boronda Road, looked both ways—they were ghouls, not idiots—then zipped across the empty street. The whole way, Travis hummed the Mission Impossible theme. Hil joined in on the high-pitched doodle- oos.

  Travis had stood here before, in front of the barbed wire fence looking up at the Gabilans. He’d always wanted to go beyond this fence.

  He lifted his father’s clunky old shoe and pushed down on the sagging wire between two barbs. Hil delicately climbed over. Hil held down the wire for Travis. They were on the other side.

  They swished through the dry grass up the gentle slope of the hill, not talking. The farther they went, the louder the silence that swallowed them. They came to a dead oak trunk lying on its side and sat on it, looking out across the valley. There was Bella Linda Terrace, all lit up in Halloween colors, and beyond it, Salinas. In the moonlight, Salinas seemed more a refl ection of the moon’s brilliance than a city of its own.

  “Now what?” Hil asked.

  “I guess we wait for the spirits to rouse. Or something.”

  Because of the recent rain and the warmth that followed it, the earth beneath them breathed a sweet, soft smell into the night air. That smell was enough spirit for Trav i s.

  They sat without talking. The y d i d n’t n e e d t o t a l k . E v e r y once in a while, a car would come down Boronda. One car honked all the way, fi lled with screaming passengers.

  “High schoolers,” Hil said, and he spit in the dirt.

  It was great just sitting there with Hil. Their friendship felt healed, back to where it should be. Maybe even further along.

  Travis understood why he hadn’t invited Hil to come along to the Corral with Oster, why he hadn’t invited him to follow the mystery he was following. He was afraid. He was afraid Hil would think the whole thing was stupid, childish, insane. He was afraid Hil would turn away from him. Mostly, he was afraid that Hil wouldn’t be able to see the things Travis saw. Oster saw them, yes, but Hil? Oster had his reasons for seeing all this. If Travis asked Hil to see what he saw, it would be a test for Travis, not for Hil. If only he could fi nd the right moment to tell his friend everything.

  Hil was talking about the Day of the Dead. He and his parents would go to the cemetery and offer sweets to one of his grandmothers—the other was still alive—and both his grandfathers. They would picnic in the cemetery, say some prayers, and talk to their ancestors as if they were still alive.

  Travis felt something behind him. When he turned around, what he saw was more confusing than frightening. Orange lights bobbed in front of his eyes. Firefl ies? No, there were no fi refl ies in California. And fi refl ies were green; he’d read about them in books. Then he realized the orange lights weren’t in front of his face, they were farther up the hill. There was a ragged line of bobbing orange lanterns, twelve of them. No one held the lanterns.

  “Hil,” Travis whispered. “Do you see what I see?”

  Hil turned, already starting to talk, but when he saw the lanterns, his mouth fell shut.

  After a long time, he said, “I see them, Big T. But only if you see them. Do you see them?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Lanterns?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “But.”

  “I know.”

  They stood at the same time, moved quietly up the hill after the orange lanterns. No matter how fast they moved, or in which direction, the lanterns stayed far away.

  The lanterns moved to the top of the first ridge, spread ouThevenly along it, then disappeared over the other side.

  “Whoa,” Travis said.

  “That about covers it,” Hil said. “But let me repeat: Whoa.”

  They just stood there.

  And then Travis did it. He told Hil all the rest— Gitano and the Watchers, and finally, Steinbeck’s ghost. While Travis spoke, Hil stared up at the ridge where the lanterns had been.

  Travis stopped talking; Hil was silent.

  “Well, what do you think, Hil? Am I crazy, or what?”

  “No, no, man, you aren’t crazy. I don’t know that I believe in ghosts, like out of books. But I know what I saw just now, and I know you saw it. And what ever is happening to you, with all this Steinbeck stuff , well, it can’t be unreal.”

  “So, you believe me?”

  “I have to,” Hil said. “You’re my best friend. And besides, I saw those lanterns, too. If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy. And that’s okay. At least we have each other to talk to.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, man. No lie. But I swear, you have got to take me to the Corral with you.”

  Travis sighed. Finally, he’d finally told Hil. Travis’s shoulders seemed to unscrunch; he seemed to be taller than just a moment before. Finally.

  The world below them, the great and long Salinas Valley, seemed infinite.

  The moon had moved past its zenith, west toward the ocean. Without a word between them, the two friends turned and headed back down to Bella Linda Terrace. Every few steps, one of them would say, “Whoa.”

  Halfway down the hill, a thought flew into Travis’s head: The moonlight was so bright he could read in it, write in it.

  “Hold up,” Travis said.

  He opened his ghostwriter composition book, took out his father’s pen, and scribbled these words: “The night so bright, even Bella Linda Terrace is beautiful. Halfway to home with a good friend.”

  He shut the book before the ink had time to dry. The words would be smeared, but that didn’t matter. They were written.

  FIFTEEN

  FALLING ASLEEP ON HALLOWEEN, TRAVIS KNEW WHAT HE HAD TO DO THE NEXT DAY. And when he woke up on the Day of the Dead, that thought hadn’t changed. He had to call Oster and see if they were still going to the Corral on Saturday and if he could bring Hil along. Not only did he want to make it up to Hil for lying to him and not taking him to the Corral, but he sensed, deep down, that having Hil there would be a help. Hil saw what Travis saw, believed as he did. The lanterns last night had convinced him of this. If Hil also saw the statue, or what ever they might find in the Corral, then Travis would have another witness, and that would be a relief.

  As soon as he got home from school that day, he called Oster. It was the Day of the Dead, the day after Halloween, the crux of autumn, Ray Bradbury season. Bradbury always seemed to be writing about this time in autumn, when the world shifted from light to dark, and the two mixed in spooky and beautiful ways. Just by thinking this, Travis could smell the sweet decay of fallen leaves.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll see you Saturday, of course,” Oster said.

  “Did you find out anything this week?” Travis asked.

  Oster had been reading Steinbeck all week, he told Travis, and eve
rywhere he turned, he found a reference to the Corral, and each of these passages was beyond mysterious. Then there was the letter, Steinbeck’s letter to Oster: What had Steinbeck seen in the Corral that he would not talk about? Oster’s letter wasn’t the only one. In some of his other letters, he talked around the Corral, and was very vague about what he knew about it. Being vague was something Steinbeck rarely was, and Oster could only guess that he was covering up what he knew. Something strange had happened in the Corral. Maybe there was a curse.

  Oster believed Gitano was the key. In The Red Pony Gitano spoke of having been in the Corral as a child, but after that he pointedly refused to go back. But Oster and Travis had heard him there last weekend. Or was it him?

  What most disturbed Oster was the silence around the Corral, not just Steinbeck’s but the world’s. He’d spent hours that week at the library and in the hall of records at City Hall, just as he had over thirty years ago. Nothing. Not one single mention of the town, as if it had never existed. Or had been erased.

  Saturday, then, but would Oster mind if Hil came along? And could they wait until three? Hil had a soccer game. Oster didn’t hesitate at all.

  “The more eyes,” Oster said, “the more we see. I already like the sound of this Hilario. Oh, by the way, how was Halloween? Miss Babb told me all about it.”

  “Have I got a story for you.”

  Travis told him about the orange lanterns he and Hil had seen bobbing bodiless through the hills.

  “Oh, my,” Oster said . “ I know that story. I came across it yesterday. In one of the letters, Steinbeck writes about all these stories his mother used to tell about the Corral— she was a teacher there for several years, in the town we’re looking for. He talked about those lanterns, just like you described. That’s a hard one to get around. And Hil saw them, too?”

  “Right, and I didn’t say a thing to him, just said look, and he described them to me.”

  “Perfect,” Oster said. “See you Saturday.”