by Tim McGregor
“That doesn’t mean you can’t aim for perfection.” Jen straightened the gingham spread on the picnic table. “Oh look, Tammy finally arrived.”
Tammy worked through the crowd toward them, her ever-present camera bag slung from one shoulder. Swiping someone’s unattended beer from a table, she dropped onto the picnic table next to Billie. “Ladies,” she said, hoisting the beer in salute.
“Did you forget the time?” Jen asked.
“I was working,” Tammy said. “You knew that. Nice party.”
Jen clinked her glass against Tammy’s bottle. “I’m glad you made it. How did the shoot go?”
“I hate these amateur fashion shoots,” Tammy said. “These college kids wasted the daylight because they were so unprepared.”
“Did they pay or was this another volunteer job?” Billie asked.
“Pro bono. I need to pad out my portfolio with fashion stuff.” Tammy rabbit-punched Billie on the arm. “Nice to see you out for a change.”
Jen rolled her eyes this time. “I had to literally drag her out tonight.”
“Puh-lease.” Billie groaned, knowing full well that her friend was right. She had become something of a recluse since the summer when her whole world had changed. Her eyes were now opened to the dead that haunted every shadow and dark corner. These days, she spent most of her energy trying to close her eyes again. Or, at the very least, barricading herself at home to keep the dead out.
“Is Kaitlin coming?” Tammy asked.
“She’s running late too,” Jen answered.
“Oh? She and Kyle out picking china for their wedding?”
“She didn’t say,” Jen said. “She hasn’t mentioned the wedding in weeks, actually. Do you think she and Kyle are okay?”
Billie looked up at Jen. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. She just seems distracted lately.”
Tammy chortled at Billie. “She’s too busy trailing you around like a puppy. I’m surprised Kyle hasn’t gotten jealous.”
Billie sipped her beer, thinking of a way to change the subject.
“Why is she doing that?” Jen asked.
“She’s trying to unlock Billie’s spooky powers,” Tammy laughed.
Jen bristled and stepped away. “Where the hell is Adam? I can’t trust him to do anything right.”
Billie watched their friend march into the house. Tammy shook her head. “She still won’t talk about it, huh?”
“She doesn’t have to,” Billie said. “Hell, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m glad you came,” Tammy said, glancing her way. “Does this mean your self-imposed exile is over? You ready to rejoin the world?”
Billie shrugged. A habit she indulged too often and one she was trying to stop. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“I don’t have problems,” Billie replied.
“You need to meet a guy,” Tammy went on. “Someone to bring you out of this funk.”
“That is sooo not an answer right now.”
Tammy guffawed. “I didn’t say marry one. Just meet one. Mister Temporary, as opposed to Mister Right.”
Billie brought the beer to her lips but the bottle was empty. She didn’t bother responding.
Tammy wagged her chin at the crowd of people in Jen’s backyard. “Plenty of guys here. A few of them real candidates.”
“Then why don’t you meet them?” There was a snarl to Billie’s tone. She disliked her friend’s diagnosis and easy remedy. Like it was that easy. Tammy wasn’t the first one to suggest that she needed to meet somebody either. Jen and Kaitlin had both tried their hand at it. And had their hands slapped for their efforts.
“I might,” Tammy said. She surveyed the faces around her. “But that’s not a problem for me. We need to find you someone to waste time with.”
Billie took a deep breath. “I know you mean well but I’m just not in the right space for that. Honest.”
“Okay.” Tammy set her bottle on the picnic table. “Let’s get another drink, then I need to vent about working with these stupid bitches today. Deal?”
One of the things that Billie liked about Tammy, and there were many, was her lack of drama and ability to speak plainly. The matter was dropped and within minutes she had Billie laughing over the details of today’s photo shoot with the high-maintenance fashion students. They scrounged more drinks from the perfectly quaint tin ice tub that Jen had laid out and after a while, Billie relaxed into the old routine of simply hanging with the ladies. Kaitlin arrived shortly afterwards and the trio convinced Jen to let Adam handle the hosting duties for a while so they could talk. Billie began to relax. It was almost like the old days.
An hour onward and Billie realized that she had relaxed too much. Her guard was down, the closing-off to the dead had slipped and when she looked up, she saw the dead woman marching straight for her.
Terrific.
Billie tried to close herself off again but it was too late. The woman drew up before her, her lips pursed in a cold frown.
“I didn’t do it,” the dead woman said.
Billie didn’t even look at her. She picked at the label on the beer bottle, trying to remember how many she’d had.
“I didn’t, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The woman sat down next to Billie at the picnic table, her back rigid and her manner prim. She smoothed her long skirt and straightened her hat again, as if making herself presentable to the party. Despite the daintiness of her movements, the dead woman’s hands were raw and hard, the hands of a woman who had worked them hard all her life.
“The shame of it is what burns me,” she said. “What people would think of it. Suicide, of all things. You’ll be denied Heaven if you give in to that sin.”
Billie turned her head to the woman and then looked away. “I can’t help you,” she said.
“How unChristian of you.” The woman stiffened up, her eyes narrowing. “But I didn’t ask for your help, thank you very much. I just hate the thought of anyone thinking I killed myself.”
“My mistake,” Billie said. “I shouldn’t presume.”
The woman adjusted her hat and then probed gently at the catastrophe that was the back of her head. “It’s ghastly, isn’t it?”
“Maybe a bigger hat would help.”
“I had a damn sight just finding this one.”
The woman smoothed down her skirt again. The two of them fell silent for a time, watching the people around them. The chill emanating from the dead woman crept along the bench toward Billie.
Billie sat up. “Was it a gun shot?”
“It was.”
“Who did it?”
“My husband. He was mad with drink and in a rage. He knocked me senseless, then propped me up in a chair and fetched up his Winchester. He fitted the stock between my knees and put the barrel in my mouth. And then it was over. A suicide to any who had eyes to see.”
“I’m sorry,” Billie said. “No one ever learned the truth?”
“No. The children had their suspicions but none ever voiced them. Too afraid of their father.”
The people around them laughed and chatted and carried on, unaware of the spectral tragedy in their midst. Billie turned to the woman’s direction but did not look at her. “Can’t you move on?”
“I’m afeared to. Purgatory holds a special place for suicides.”
“But you didn’t kill yourself.”
“Do they know that? On the other side?” The dead woman folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll bide my time here, thank you very much.”
“I don’t think it’s like that,” Billie said. “On the other side.”
“How do you know?”
Point taken, Billie thought. She became quiet.
The woman stood up. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Where will you go?”
“Somewhere quiet. This damn city is too loud by far.” The woman stepped through the crowd and made
her way toward the gate. She stopped and looked up at the sky. “There’s a storm coming, child. A nasty one too. It’ll spoil your little garden party I’m afraid.”
None of the party-goers had noticed the clouds forming in the night sky. When the rain came down, they squealed and ran inside.
Billie decided she’d had enough for one night and followed the dead woman through the back gate.
3
THE HALF-BOY was waiting for her when she woke up. Coiled in a corner of the ceiling, he hovered there like a grotesque spider watching Billie to come to life.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes, her skull thumping a little heavy from last night’s party. She looked up at the little ghost on the ceiling. “Morning,” she said. “How was your night?”
The Half-Boy said nothing. He never did. He crawled down the wall, leaving behind bloody smears from the stumps of his amputated legs. Reaching the window, he settled onto the sill and looked outside.
“Looks like a nice day out there,” Billie said. “Maybe you should get some air.”
He looked at her once with his dark eyes and then turned back to the window.
He was a mystery, this phantom of a boy. He had shown up shortly after the accident that had triggered Billie’s ability to see the dead and he had stuck around ever since. She didn’t know his name or how old he was or where he had come from. She hadn’t learned how he had died or lost his legs. Although Half-Boy never spoke she had, almost accidentally, discovered the reason why he remained silent. One night when he was haunting her apartment, she had caught him mouthing words when he thought she wasn’t looking. It took a moment before she realized he was singing, although no sound issued from his lips. His mouth flapping open, she caught a glimpse of his maw and saw that his tongue was missing. Like his crudely severed legs, all that remained was the stubby eel of a muscle that wagged from the back of his throat. There was a slight chance that he had been born that way but she had a strong notion that it had been cut out.
She didn’t know why or who had done such a thing to him. She probably never would.
Uncovering that grisly fact had brought some small relief. At least she knew that the Half-Boy could not speak, as opposed to refusing to speak to her. She had tried other forms of communication to learn more about him but nothing had worked. She had brought home a child’s slate chalkboard and tried to get him to write something down but the chalk sat untouched. She had tried alphabet fridge magnets and even sand poured into a dish where he could trace a finger through. He attempted none of it and after a few more attempts, Billie hazarded a guess as to why. The boy was illiterate. He hadn’t learnt to read or write while alive and remained illiterate in death. She stopped trying after that. Half-Boy would simply remain a mystery, his story and his motives for hanging around kept to himself.
“I had an idea,” she said. “Something you and I could do to understand each other.”
The boy in the window turned his head partway to her.
Billie reached down to the clutter of books and magazines beside the bed and plucked out one in particular. It was large, with big letters and colourful pictures. A children’s book for primary readers. Seeing it at a yard sale the other day had given her an idea.
“I thought we could work on this together.” She opened the book and held it up for him to see. “I could teach you to read and write. Just simple stuff. Then we could communicate.”
His face soured. He dropped down from the sill to the floor.
“It won’t be easy,” she said. “But if we’re patient, we’ll get there.”
The Half-Boy trotted across the floor on his hands and left the room.
Billie set the picture book down on the night table. “Guess not,” she said.
~
“Do you think Adam’s changed?”
The question came out of the blue, lobbed by Jen like a loose hand grenade. Billie had stopped by the Doll House shop to chat with Jen, something she often did since she worked evenings. She would often mind the shop while Jen ran a few errands. Not that she was much help if a customer needed advice on a dress. The clothes on the racks, both the vintage stuff and Jen’s own designs, were pretty and fun but not Billie’s style. She didn’t have the knack for assessing certain dresses on certain women. She’d often overcompensate by telling everyone that they looked smashing in everything.
“Changed?” Billie asked. “Changed how?”
“I don’t know,” Jen said as she straightened the clothes on the racks. “Just different lately.”
“No. He seems the same as always. What happened?”
Jen sighed. “Nothing. It’s just—I don’t know.”
Billie settled onto the old church pew near the wall and patted the seat beside her. “Come on. Out with it. Did Adam say anything?”
“No. Like I said, it’s nothing. Nothing I can point to, anyway. Just a feeling.”
Billie mulled it over. She didn’t know Adam well, even after all the years that he and Jen had been together. She didn’t dislike him, they just didn’t have much to say to one another. Like herself, Adam was quiet and somewhat reserved. A listener more than a talker. If anything, he was a rock. Unchanging, unflappable.
“I think you’d know if something had changed with him,” she said. “He’s straight forward. Not one to play games.”
Jen fussed with a loose thread trailing out of her hem. “Maybe.”
“Do you think—” Billie cut herself off, unsure of what she wanted to say.
“What?”
“Don’t get mad. Okay?”
“What is it?”
“Do you think you’re the one who’s changed?”
Jen got to her feet. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“See? I shouldn’t have asked.”
“But I haven’t changed. I’m the same person. Maybe that’s the problem.” Jen returned to straightening the racks, becoming very busy.
“Your life has changed,” Billie said. “Since opening the shop. You practically live here. Maybe that’s what’s different.”
“But I have to be here. I don’t have a choice. Especially in the first year. He should know that!”
“Easy.” Billie watched her friend move about the shop. “I’m sure he does know that. It’s probably just hard right now because of the new business. No one’s to blame.”
“Well that’s not fair.” Struggling with a tangled spaghetti strap, Jen dropped the dress on the counter in disgust. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t trash the place for starters.” Billie got up and fetched the garment. “Jen, this isn’t about paranoia, is it? Like what happened with Jeremy?”
“No!”
“Uh-huh.”
Jen had been cheated on once and it had destroyed her at the time. Her old boyfriend Jeremy turned out to be a serial cheater. Humiliated, Jen had become paranoid of it ever happening again. When stressed, it often reared its head and Jen would spin off until someone, usually Adam, talked her down from the ledge.
Jen’s posture fell. “Am I doing it again?”
“I think so. You’ve been worried and overworked. It happens.”
“Maybe.” Jen took the dress from Billie and hung it back up. “It’s just, we barely talk anymore. Or spend any time together.”
“Because you’re always here. Communication is hard when one person isn’t there.” A flash image of the Half-Boy popped into Billie’s mind. His silence and refusal to learn to communicate.
Oh God, she thought. Jen was talking about her boyfriend and all she could relate it to was the ghost of a long-dead, legless boy currently haunting her apartment. How pathetic was that?
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jen said. “Did you meet Nick at the barbecue?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s a friend of Adam’s. Tall guy, beard?”
“Uh, that describes every guy at the party.”
“Whatever,” Jen continued. “He was asking about you.”
&nbs
p; Billie stretched her back. “You hungry? I need to eat something.”
“I knew you’d react that way. So I made plans. We’re going out tonight.”
Billie’s radar pinged. Danger. “Who’s we?”
“You, me, Adam. Kaitlin and Kyle. And Nick.”
“Jen, don’t—”
“You’re coming so don’t argue with me. If I can take time away from this place, you can come out to meet someone new. It won’t kill you.”
“How do you know I don’t already have plans?”
“Because you never have plans,” Jen said. “Nine tonight, at the Ship. And if you don’t show, I’ll march over to your place and drag you out by the ear.”
Billie soured at the thought of being set up. “Barf.”
“Don’t be like that. You’ll have fun. I promise.”
4
“RAY, HOW DO you feel about working a double?”
Detective Ray Mockler looked up from the file he’d been studying to find his superior leaning on his cubicle. “Is that a trick question, Sergeant?”
Staff Sergeant Gibson tapped her nails on the metal cap run of the cubicle wall. “No, unfortunately.”
Mockler pushed aside the binder he’d been pouring over and rose from his chair. He scanned the bullpen of the Homicide Unit. Not a soul in sight. Checking the clock, he realized the shift change had come and gone with nary a peep. Shift change was usually a loud affair when the graveyard crew came in to relieve the daytime team.
“Where is everybody?”
“Unavailable,” Sergeant Gibson said. “I’m short a few warm bodies.”
Detective Mockler squinted at his superior in disbelief. “Everyone’s busy? Come on.”
“Hoffman’s down sick.” Gibson counted off her fingers one at a time to underscore her point. “Trelawney called in about a family emergency and Reznikoff is already on a call.”
“What about the other day-shifters? I just rotated off night-shift.”
“They’re already occupied or pulled seniority. That leaves you.”
Mockler sighed and knew he was sunk. He was still the rookie member in Homicide. He drew the short straw by default. He stretched his back and tried not to yawn. “Okay.”
