Dying on Second

by E. C. Bell

  I was trying to think of a response to his deal, when Henry yelled, “We gotta go!” from the relative safety of the kitchen.

  “Give me a minute!” I yelled, then turned back to the ghost.

  “She’s a pushy broad, isn’t she?” he said.

  No kidding.

  “I’ll tell her about your deal,” I said. “But only if you promise to think about some things while we’re gone.”

  He shrugged, then nodded, so I rolled out a quick and dirty version of “this is the way I can help you move on.” Then, before he could react, I left. As I walked into the kitchen, I listened for crashing and banging, but there was only silence. So far, so good.

  “Did you do it?” Henry asked. “Did you get rid of him?”

  “Not yet.”

  She looked disappointed, which didn’t surprise me. She seemed the type that would expect things to happen at light speed. Like the ghost had said, she was a pushy broad. But, whatever.

  “I told him his options,” I said. “And that we’d talk again when we got back.” I looked down at my travelling clothes, which were, in reality, my every day clothes, but more wrinkled. “Should I change or something?”

  “No,” she said. “You look fine. And we gotta go. So, lets.”

  I SHOULD HAVE known Henry wasn’t telling me the truth about the clothes, but there you go.

  The bar she took me to was pretty upscale, and I could tell by the horrified glances that most of the other well-dressed individuals there thought I was probably a street person who’d inadvertently invaded their territory. But the rest of the team, crammed around two high tables littered with glasses, welcomed me with open arms.

  “It’s the triple threat!” one of them cried. She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Carmen,” she said. “Third base. Glad to finally meet you in the flesh!”

  “Triple threat?” I asked. Carmen’s hand shake was firm and cool. I glanced down at her fingernails and could tell they’d recently been done. But no gel, so she could probably play.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s what Henry says Sylvia Worth calls you. Good defence, a better bat, and you can run off ghosts. Serious triple threat!”

  I blinked as the rest of the team cheered. Then I turned to Henry, who was swilling back her third margarita of the night. “You told them?”

  “Of course I did,” she said. “Hell girl, you gotta get your name out, if you want to get business. Am I right?”

  “Business?” I asked. I took the glass proffered by someone and guzzled. Sweet and green, but not a margarita.

  “Absolutely. That ghost thing you got going on. That could really turn into something if you figure out the right way to brand yourself.”

  The rest of the team nodded enthusiastically, and for the rest of the evening talked more about branding me—which sounded truly horrible—than the upcoming tournament.

  I felt like I was in hell.

  Surprisingly, I managed to keep from drinking too much and at the end of the evening, it was decided, by Henry, of course, that I would drive her home.

  I don’t think she realized she’d said it that way. That I would drive her home. But she did. So, I felt a lot like a chauffeur as I mucked around with the GPS and finally got the Beamer on the road and back to her McMansion.

  SHE GOT HERSELF to bed under her own steam, thank goodness.

  “We gotta be up early,” she said, from the top of the stairs. She stared myopically at the oversized wristwatch on her arm and clucked her tongue. “Really frigging early. Why the hell do we always seem to get the eight o’clock games?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Good night, Henry.”

  “Good night,” she said. Then she was gone, and I was alone with the TV room ghost.

  I could see his weak light emanating from the TV room. “Can I come in?” I asked, deciding on the fly that being polite was probably going to work with this guy.

  “Sure,” he said.

  He was back in the recliner, staring at the wall. “I thought about what you said,” he said. He glanced at me. “Did you talk to the bitch about the TV and sports package?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I will. Did you think about moving on?”

  “I did.” He stared at the wall. “Might be something to it,” he finally said. “Because she’s not going to go for the sports package, is she?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “She seems pretty set on having things her way. Know what I mean?”

  “I do,” he said. Then he chuckled. “She’s like me, that way. I liked things the way I liked them, and didn’t give a shit about what other people thought. You know?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “You know, I built my house with my own hands,” he said. “Did everything myself.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I was going to retire here. Was gonna sit right here and watch all the sports I wanted. But that didn’t work out.”

  I didn’t say a word. Just waited to see the direction his dialogue would take.

  “So now,” he continued, “here I am, stuck here with a bitch of a woman that I didn’t even marry. And no sports.” He sighed again. “Doesn’t seem quite fair, now does it?”

  “Not really,” I said. “But death rarely is fair.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You got that right.”

  And then he asked the question that the ghosts always ask. The one that let me know that he’d made his decision, even if he didn’t yet know that he had.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked. “This moving on thing. Does it hurt?”

  “No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”

  HE DIDN’T MOVE on right away, of course. It’s rarely ever that simple.

  Henry’s team, the Thunder, had three games the next day. I played second base and we won the first one quite handily. When we went back to Henry’s McMansion, the ghost had a few questions for me. Apparently he’d decided he needed to make sure I was a decent human being or something before he made his decision.

  When he found out I lived in Edmonton, he tightened up and got all cranky until I convinced him that I didn’t cheer for the Oilers. Apparently, that could have been a deal breaker.

  “I’ll give you my answer in a couple of days,” he said. “But remember to ask about the sports package, just in case.”

  “I will,” I said.

  And I did. I quizzed Henry, after game number two, which we lost three to four. Henry was cranky about the loss though, and snapped that there was no way in the world she was wasting money on a stupid sports package she’d never use.

  “You tell him that,” she snapped. “And find out what the hell his deal is with the candles in my bathroom. They were back in the tub again this morning.”

  “I will,” I said.

  This was starting to feel like one of James’s divorce cases. Two people living in the same house and not communicating in any meaningful way whatsoever. Except for throwing things, and whining, of course.

  All I can say is, James has a lot more patience than I gave him credit for. Divorce can get pretty nasty.

  THE THUNDER HAD to play one more game on Saturday, which we won. And then it was decided, by Henry and Carmen, that we all had to go to the tournament dance that night, which was just an excuse for more drinking, as far as I could tell. I didn’t drink anything stronger than water though, so I was the one who had to drive back to Henry’s from Shouldice Park.

  The ghost was waiting for me. He looked agitated.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “She did it again,” he said. “She left a candle burning upstairs. Jesus Christ, she’s gonna burn this place to the ground if she doesn’t stop lighting candles in that frigging bathroom.”

  Oh.

  “I’ll tell her,” I said.

  “Because I won’t always be here to save her,” he said. “You know?”

  There it was. The real reason he was sticking around.

  “I know,” I said. “But yo
u know that she’s not your responsibility. Your only responsibility is making a decision about what you want to do now.”

  “I get it,” he said. “But the house—”

  “The house is hers,” I said. “If she burns it to the ground, that’s on her. Not you. Not anymore.”

  “Yeah.” He looked sad, but relieved. As though I’d lifted a huge burden from him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. None of this is my responsibility any more.” He shrugged. “I don’t even miss the baseball and the hockey. Not really. It was just something I thought I’d be able to do. You know?”

  “I know,” I said.

  And then, as easily as that, he made his decision.

  “I guess I’m ready,” he said. He flared bright white, and then clear. “Think I can come back as a baseball player?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “That will be up to you.”

  He laughed. “Good enough,” he said. And then, in a sudden blizzard of white, red, and black light bees, he was gone.

  WHEN I TOLD Henry about the candles the next morning, she had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Oh wow,” she said. “So he’s been trying to save me from myself all this time?”

  “Looks like it,” I said.

  “Maybe the sports package would have been a good deal,” she said. “I don’t want to burn myself up.”

  “So buy some of those fake candles,” I said. “Because he’s gone. Your house is completely your own.”

  She blinked. “You know,” she said, “I didn’t think you’d actually pull this off.”

  “Could’ve gone either way,” I said.

  “What was his name?” she asked.

  That stopped me, for a moment. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “He never told me.”

  “Oh.” She was sombre, unsmiling, for the first time that weekend. I couldn’t tell if she was hung over or upset about the ghost leaving. The problem was, we didn’t have time for a debrief.

  I pointed at the door. “You gonna drive?” I asked. “Or am I? We got a game.”

  WE GOT KNOCKED out in the semi-finals, which was a bit of a drag even though I was ready to go home. I did get a hug from everyone on the team, though. So it looked like they weren’t going to use me as the scape goat for losing that last game.

  “Girl, if you ever decide to move to Calgary,” Carmen said, “remember that there will always be a place on our team for you.” She smiled. “Always, Triple Threat.”

  Henry barely spoke as she drove me to the bus and dropped me off, but pressed the envelope with the certified cheque into my hand as I prepared to get out of her car.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Really.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “And if you ever want help, you know, with branding and outreach for your business, just give me a call,” she said. “I’d be honoured to set you up.”

  Honoured. Huh. That was kind of cool. But I shook my head.

  “I don’t need any of that,” I said. “This isn’t my business. I was just doing a favour for a friend. That’s all.”

  As if Sylvia Worth was a friend. Sylvia Worth would be extremely lucky if I ever spoke to her again. Ever, ever again.

  Marie:

  That Good Old Second Revenue Stream

  JAMES WAS WAITING for me when I got off the bus at 10:30. He ran up and grabbed me in a big bear hug, swinging me around like I didn’t weigh anything at all.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” he said. “This is a pretty boring city without you. Did you know that?”

  “Didn’t realize,” I said. I felt my face heat and tapped his arm. “Put me down. We’re causing a scene.”

  He set me on the sidewalk, gently, and picked up my bags. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “You gotta tell me exactly how that last game went. Man, I thought you guys were going to win it all.”

  “Getting to the semis wasn’t bad,” I said. “And I did get home early.”

  “Yeah, but still. Winning the whole thing would have been nice.” He smiled at me, and unlocked the car. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, actually, it would,” I said. I reached into the back seat and patted Millie. She allowed me to, so I took that as a good sign.

  Traffic was light so it didn’t take us long to get back to Casa del James. I’d managed to tell James everything he decided he needed to know about the last game, and then all the games, and then about the team, and then about Henry.

  I even told him about the ghost.

  “It was actually pretty easy to move him on,” I said, and held the cheque out. “And look what Henry gave me.”

  He glanced at it, and blinked. “Is that a thousand dollars?”

  “Yes, it is.” I tucked the cheque away. “It even has my name on it, and everything.”

  “Look at you,” he said. “Developing that second revenue stream.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I stretched, and the muscles in my back pinged. My legs were sore, and I’d gotten sunburned in the last game. Having a nice, long bath would be heavenly. “I’m like a financial genius. I have to tell you, though, I am going to kill Sylvia when I see her again.”

  “Why?” James asked.

  “Because she told all of them about me. About what I could do. After I told her not to.”

  He frowned. “But didn’t it all work out?”

  “I guess, but now all those people know about me. And you know how I feel about that.”

  He blinked. “I thought, after you moved Sylvia’s ghost on, that you were kind of loosening up about the whole ‘I don’t tell anybody about being able to see ghosts’ thing.”

  I stared at him. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “It was the invoice,” he mumbled. “You made an invoice. You know, like a real business person.”

  “Trust me, that invoice meant nothing,” I said. I stretched again. “It’s going to be great to get back to your place. Maybe we can celebrate my almost win? After my bath, I mean.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. “While you’re bathing, I’ll clean the place up, and then we can celebrate any way you want.”

  “Clean up?” I asked. “What, were you partying while I was gone?”

  “No,” he said. “I just have some—stuff—lying around. I thought you’d want to see it, but now I don’t think you will.”

  “What is it? A surprise?” I smiled. “You have to give it to me. You know I love surprises.”

  He laughed, tightly. “You hate surprises. And I should have remembered that.”

  “Well, yeah,” I replied. “But if it’s a good one, I could learn to love them. What’s the surprise?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just forget about it.”

  Forgetting wasn’t in my repertoire, and when Millie decided she needed to pee when we got to Casa del James, I started guessing.

  “Is it a new ball glove?” I asked. “Because that old one is okay, you know. At least to the end of the season.”

  “It’s not a new ball glove,” he said as Millie finally, finally squatted. “Please, forget about it. I’ll show you sometime, just not now.”

  Millie finished and led the way to the front door, to the elevator, and finally, to James’s apartment.

  He opened the door and ushered me in. Dropped the bags and released Millie, who ran into the living room and stood beside a big—huge, really—whiteboard set on a pedestal. Emblazoned across it, in James’s oh so boyish handwriting, was “Marie Jenner. Psychic.”

  “Don’t look,” he said. “Just go have your bath, and it will all be gone. Really.”

  How could I not look? “I’m not a psychic,” I said, distantly. “James, what exactly am I seeing?”

  “Please,” James said. “I’m begging you. Forget everything you see here. Just go take your bath.”

  “I don’t think I can do that.” I stared at the white board. My stomach clenched. “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Fine,” he said. He took my arm and pulled me to the
couch. “Sit down, and let me tell you all about it. But you can’t yell. Just let me explain.”

  There was a small bottle of champagne sitting on the coffee table beside two wine glasses, three file folders, and his portable computer. I pointed at the bottle.

  “That for me making it to the semis?” I asked. Please. Please. Please.

  “Nope,” he said. He looked absolutely miserable. “It was so we could celebrate your newest revenue stream.”

  Oh my God.

  He flipped open his computer, and the screen sprang to multicoloured life. “Here it is,” he said. “My thoughts on the beginning of a new revenue stream for you. And remember, you said you wouldn’t yell.”

  The mock-up of the website was as tasteful as a website for a psychic could be. There was a crystal ball up in one corner, and what looked like tarot cards fluttering, in a never ending stream, across the screen.

  Marie the Psychic! it read. Specializing in ghost removal! 98% accurate results, or your money back! The phone number of the office blinked across the bottom in bright pink numbers. Under it, Call now for an appointment!

  For a few seconds, all I could do was stare.

  “There are a lot of exclamation marks,” I finally said. “Aren’t there?”

  “Yeah, probably,” James said. He sounded relieved, like he thought he’d passed a big test. “But I figured those were the details you could work on. Colour, too.” He pointed at the pink flashing nightmare on the screen. “I used the pink because you made Sylvia’s invoice pink. But it could be any colour, really. Maybe green would be better. Or blue. I like blue—”

  I grabbed the bottle of champagne and popped the cork. It bounced around on the floor, and Millie chased it as I poured some champagne into one of the glasses and guzzled it.

  “I probably shouldn’t have started with the website,” he said, and flipped open one of the file folders. “Here’s the business plan—”