Steinbeck’s Ghost

by Lewis Buzbee

  If he’d been reading the book of his own adventures, Travis thought, he’d be able to feel the end of story coming on, feel it with his fingers; there’d only be a quarter- inch of pages left to go.

  Then Travis called Hil. He had loaned Hil his library copy of Corral de Tierra last night after trick- or- treating, and he had just started the first chapter.

  “Dude,” Hil said. “I’m only like this many pages into it, and I can’t believe how good it is. You’ve been holding out on me. I’m sure I’ll get it done by Saturday. I want to be ready for this.”

  “Oster says it’s totally cool for you to come. I knew he’d say yes. Three o’clock?”

  “Excellent.”

  Travis picked up the check his mom had made out to the Save Our Library committee, which made it easier than lugging all those coins. She’d also left a note. “We promise to be home for dinner. See you at six.”

  Travis scribbled a note for his parents. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Williams, don’t hold dinner on my account. I’ve got a prior engagement. I’ll see you when I get home. Love, your son.”

  It was kind of a funny note, Travis knew, but a little bit mean, too.

  The library was practically empty. It was as if Halloween had taken the life out of everybody. Maybe they were communing with the dead. The cemeteries had to be packed.

  Miss Babb was shelving in the kids’ section.

  “Mr. Williams,” she said. “You have outdone yourself again. I heard from several of the other volunteers. You’re well on the way to a thousand dollars. And all that money will go straight to the library. No more flyers.”

  “But we still need—”

  “I know, calm down.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s better than that. We’ve got plenty of money for flyers. It’s great news. I met with several of the other committee heads this morning. Get this: Altogether we’ve raised almost one million dollars. From corporations to piggy-banks.”

  “Wow.”

  “That’ll keep the library open for at least another month.”

  “A month? That’s all?”

  “Do the math, Travis. It’s money. There’s no mystery to money. But see: That means we’re being heard. The word is out. I can feel it; we’re gonna win. Our hours may get cut, but we’ll be open.”

  “I didn’t really believe you. I didn’t think a lot of littles could add up to a whole bunch.”

  “Do the math, Travis.”

  And he reached over and hugged her.

  “Gotta go.”

  Miss Babb was yelling after him as he ran out of the library.

  “Don’t forget next Tuesday,” she called after him. “The reading committee. It was your idea. Where are you going? You never leave the .library this fast.”

  Clouds had come back in, though the day was still warm; the world was soft and gray. The dead leaves of summer rattled in the autumn breeze.

  Gitano was nowhere to be found. The alley next to the library was deserted, and the lawns to the south of the library were oddly vacant of anybody, homeless or otherwise. Gitano was the answer, Travis was sure, and he had to find him.

  He hopped on his bike and orbited the streets near the library, but no Gitano, no nobody.

  He kept expanding the circle of his search until finally he was cruising down Main Street. Silent cars sailed by; here and there people stood alone and quiet under the broad eaves of the local shops.

  There he was, Gitano, turning down the alley between Sheila’s and The Swim thrift store.

  By the time Travis turned into the alley, Gitano had assumed his usual stance. He squatted on his heels, his back against the alley wall. Gitano was rolling up tortillas and slowly chewing on them. They were fresh and warm, Travis could tell; he could almost smell them.

  For a second he imagined flying up to Gitano on his bicycle and skidding to a halt, gravel flying. Like cops on TV. But that thought fled instantly; it would be cruel. Gitano had done nothing wrong. Travis got down from his bike, walked up the alley with soft steps.

  “Hello,” Travis said.

  “Buenos días,” Gitano said. He did not look up, although his voice was friendly.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. But is your name Gitano? ”

  “I am Gitano,” he said. He looked up at Travis, smiling. “And I have come back.”

  “Would it be okay if I talked to you for a little bit?”

  He assumed he should be nervous right now, but strange to say, he wasn’t. Gitano’s dark eyes were not frightening at all. They were calm, inviting.

  Gitano held out a rolled tortilla for Travis. He shook his head, but Gitano urged the tortilla on him, pushed it at him. Travis reached out for it, hesitated one short moment, then took the tortilla—it was warm. Gitano patted the ground next to him.

  Travis lowered his bike and sat Indian- style next to Gitano. The tortilla was sweet. He couldn’t remember ever tasting anything better. He gobbled it down.

  “Gracias,” Travis said.

  “De nada.” He rolled another tortilla and gave it to Travis.

  “Gitano,” he said. “Why have you come back?”

  “I am from here. I have come back because I am very old and I am ready to die. I must die here.”

  When he spoke, Gitano looked across the alley at the wall of Sheila’s bar, but Travis knew his eyes did not see the white cinder block.

  “Where is here?”

  “Salinas. I was born here, and now I have come back.”

  “Where have you been?” Travis stared at Gitano, his brown and weathered face, the hatched lines around his dark, shining eyes.

  “Down the valley. I have been working there. Nuestra Señora, King City, Soledad, Gonzales, Jolon. I have worked in the valley my whole life. And now I have come back. To die.”

  “ To die? Really? Are you sick?”

  “No, I am old, that’s all. It is not bad. I am ready.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Can I help you?” Travis reached into his pocket. He’d brought along his saved- up allowance.

  “Gracias, no. I am fine.”

  The sound of Gitano’s voice reassured Travis.

  “For you,” Travis said. He laid the handful of bills at the old man’s feet. “ To thank you for all your work.”

  “Mi amigo,” Gitano said, and he gave Travis another tortilla. Travis felt he could eat these tortillas forever.

  Gitano scooped up the bills and stuffed them in the pocket of his denim jacket.

  “Have you ever been to the Corral de Tierra?” Travis asked.

  “¿Mande ? ”

  “Corral de Tierra, Las Pasturas del Cielo. The Great Mountains.”

  “Ah, the Great Mountains. Yes, I went there once with my father, when I was only a child.”

  “What did you see there?”

  “It was very beautiful there. Yes, Las Pasturas del Cielo.”

  “Anything else? ”

  “It was very beautiful. I remember.”

  Gitano spoke without looking at anything. It was as if he were still standing in the Corral, watching himself as a child.

  “Did you ever go back?”

  “To the Great Mountains? Never. Never.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to go back?”

  “No.” Gitano’s voice was suddenly hard. He said this with such authority that Travis stopped asking questions. The look on Gitano’s face told him that his questions would not be answered. Gitano would not talk about it anymore.

  Gitano packed up his tortillas, stood, and swung his bindle over his shoulder.

  “Mi amigo,” he said to Travis. “You must see these things for yourself. That is all I can tell you. And now, I must go.”

  Gitano whistled sharply, once, from between his teeth. From the other end of the alley, an old white horse clopped toward them. It wore no saddle. Gitano went up to meet it, and using a milk crate for a stool, climbed onto the old swayback. Gitano clicked once, pulled the reins to one side, and horse a
nd rider turned away, headed west, toward the ocean.

  Travis couldn’t move for the longest time. When he finally did, he raced to the end of the alley, but both horse and rider were gone.

  A horse? In Oldtown? Travis was ready to accept what he’d seen, if only because a bigger question was haunting him.

  If Gitano was telling the truth, and he had never gone back to the Corral, then who had he and Oster heard last week?

  The first thing Travis saw when he walked in the house was his father’s shirt. It was hanging off one of the kitchen stools, which had been placed squarely in the entrance to the kitchen. The shirt was obviously meant to be seen.

  If this were a book, Travis thought, he would … But no, this wasn’t a book.

  The front door slammed behind him, pushed closed by the wind. He sensed, deep down, that his parents were waiting for him in the kitchen. Was it their breathing, the heat that came from the kitchen, made by their bodies? What sixth sense told him so? He froze in the front hall.

  “Travis,” his mom called. “Would you come in here.” There was no question mark at the end of that sentence.

  He’d never known that the front hallway was so incredibly long. Didn’t know that the white, plastered walls were so fascinating.

  But the hall did end, and there were his parents, seated on stools that faced the shirt, as if the three of them had been having a nice little chat. His mom and dad were each holding a coffee mug, a sign; what ever was coming was serious.

  “Yes?” he asked. For now, the less said, the better.

  “Travis,” his mom said. She looked him straight in the eye. He tried not to look away. “What is this?”

  “That’s Dad’s shirt.”

  He looked at his dad. It was no wonder his dad wasn’t talking. He looked so tense Travis thought the coffee mug might splinter in his hands.

  “Don’t get smart with me,” his mom said. There it was, proof. Trouble had arrived.

  “It’s my Halloween costume,” Travis said. He looked at the floor. Where else could you look? “I’m sorry.”

  One long silence. Then the sound of his dad’s coffee mug being set down, gently.

  “Sorry?” his dad said. “Sorry? Is that all? Sorry? Well, I’m sorry, too, because sorry ain’t going to cut it today.”

  Travis found it difficult not to laugh. But he managed.

  He looked up, and as he feared, his father was glaring at him.

  “I just—”

  “Just nothing,” his father said. Travis looked at the floor again. “You ruined that shirt. It was brand- new. It cost seventy- four dollars. What were you thinking?”

  What he was thinking was that his father would never have been so angry as he was now, not in the old days, not before the move. Not happy, sure, but this was beyond not happy; this was straight- up anger. And Travis couldn’t believe his father had thrown the price of the shirt at him either. When they had no money, money didn’t matter, but now that they did, it seemed way too important.

  Travis waited. His father appeared to be done talking. For now.

  “I needed a shirt for Halloween.” He paused. Went on. “And this was the only one I could find that worked. It was getting late.”

  “Travis.” His mom slipped in quickly. “Why didn’t you ask us? We could’ve helped you.”

  He knew he shouldn’t say what he was going to say. He knew the “discussion” would only get bigger and louder if he said it. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “Because you weren’t here,” he said. He wasn’t looking at them, or at the floor. He looked past them, to the backyard. Dusk was giving way to true night. At least he’d made it home before dark.

  “We were at work, you know that,” his mom said. “You can always call; we gave you the cell.” She was trying to soften everything, but it was too late.

  “I know,” he said. “You’re always at work. That’s the problem.”

  “Now, sweetie,” his mom said, softer than soft.

  But his dad crushed all the softness in the room.

  “No, no, no,” his dad said. He stood up. “No, that’s not the problem. The problem is, you weren’t thinking. You ruined a perfectly good shirt, and there’s no excuse for it.”

  His mom cut across his dad again.

  “Travis, honey,” she said. “You know we’re doing the best we can. Yes, sometimes we have to work late, but—”

  “No, not sometimes,” Travis said, and he stared at his mom and then at his dad. “Every time. Every. Single. Time. That’s all you do anymore. Work. This sucks.”

  His father took a deep breath.

  “And who’s going to pay for this house if we don’t work?” His father sat down, trying to look reasonable.

  “What does it matter?” Travis said. His arms were starting to wave about. “You have this big old house but you don’Theven live here. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Travis?” His mom’s voice was soft again. Maybe if she talked softly enough, Travis would stop waving his arms. “Don’t you like it here?”

  He didn’t have to think.

  “No,” he said. Too late: He was shouting. “No, I hate it. I hate this stupid house. And I hate this stupid place. I mean, c’mon, Bella Linda Terrace? What kind of a stupid name is that? I hate it, I hate it, and I hate you.”

  And he was up the stairs and in his room, the only sound in the house the echo of the slammed bedroom door.

  In books and movies at a time like this, one of the parents usually whispers, “Let him be now, he needs some time alone.” But Travis’s parents weren’t like that. It was family policy during big arguments that the arguments get settled, talked out. No one got to hide.

  Travis seated himself at his desk and opened The Pastures of Heaven to chapter twelve. He was pretending to read and doing a very poor job of it.

  He didn’t know how to feel. Part of him wanted his parents to stay away. That would allow him to get even angrier with them. There was a guilty plea sure in that feeling. But part of him also wanted them to come running up the stairs.

  The echo of the slammed door died. Travis pretended to read one whole page of Steinbeck before he heard his parents’ steps. They weren’t running up the stairs, but they were coming.

  They knocked on his door. He’d take that as a good sign.

  “Come in,” he said, but he didn’t turn around.

  His parents sat on his bed. He waited for them to speak first.

  “Travis,” his dad said. “Listen. Let’s forget about the shirt for now, okay? I’m still mad, but we can talk about that later. There’s obviously something else going on here. Bigger things. Can we talk about those?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t want to be crying when he turned around, but he was. They weren’t angry tears, though, these were tears of relief.

  His mom and dad got up and came to him and hugged him. And it felt really great.

  The three of them talked together for a long time. Travis told them everything he could, including things he didn’t know until he said them. He told them all about Bella Linda Terrace and Camazotz. He told them how much he missed their old life; no, not the old life, really, just the being- together part.

  His parents listened. Carefully, he could tell. And then they talked. They knew, they told him, that the move and everything else had been hard on him. But they hadn’t realized how hard. In the end, they agreed with Travis. They were working too much.

  And in the end, Travis agreed—surprising himself— that Bella Linda Terrace wasn’t all that horrible. He was actually starting to like it. A little bit.

  They had delivery pizza in the kitchen, and afterward, they sat out in the backyard on an old quilt and ate tons of Halloween candy. Travis told them all about Halloween with Hil, and their costumes. And about the library. And as the night moved on, he even told them about Gitano and the Watchers, and the Corral, what he and Oster had seen. He told them about Hil and lying to Hil and how everything seemed so much bette
r now and how happy that made him. He even told them about Steinbeck’s ghost.

  Much to his relief, they didn’t phone the loony bin and arrange to have him tucked away in some rubber-padded cell. His parents thought it was way spooky, and urged him to go back. If he felt that what he was doing was safe, and if Oster felt the same way, then, of course, they wanted him to go back, to unravel this mystery.

  “Would you feel better if we went with you?” his mom asked.

  “No,” he said. “I mean, no thank you”—they all laughed—“but I think I better do this on my own. I mean, with Oster and Hil. But thanks. It’d be great, though, if you were here waiting for me when we got back. Just in case I have lost my mind.”

  “You know,” his dad said. “I can’t say why exactly, but it makes me feel better knowing that Hil is going with you. That’s some friend you’ve got.”

  Later, they all ran out of things to say, but it didn’t matter. Together, they watched the moon course through the sky. It was almost full tonight.

  The next morning the rains returned. The whole house smelled of rain.

  When he went downstairs, his father was still in his old pajamas, making pancakes. His mom was there, too, being waited on and looking as though she were enjoying every minute of it. Neither of them was in a hurry.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Well,” his dad said, flipping a pancake onto a plate. “I called in sick this morning. I don’t look well at all, now do I?”

  “Oh, no,” Travis said. “You look terrible. What about me? Do I look terrible, too? Maybe I shouldn’t go to school.”

  “You?” his dad said. “No, you look fine. You’re going to school. But your mom, now, she’s gonna start looking terrible around lunchtime. I think she’ll be completely under the weather by the time you get home.”

  “That’s right,” his mom said. “And your dad and I are both gonna be sick all weekend. Terribly terribly sick. Not an ounce of work.”

  Something had changed. Travis knew it. This was no empty promise. The argument over the shirt yesterday and the enormous one that followed, had helped his parents become unconfused. Travis saw it in their eyes, heard it in their voices. His dad was even wearing his ratty old pajama bottoms and an AC/DC T-shirt with great big holes in it.