by E. C. Bell
“The what?” My voice reached registers that only Millie could hear, I was sure. “The what? A frigging business plan?”
James looked down at the business plan, and I noticed that every page had a bright pink boundary. “You can do it, you know,” he said. “You can actually make money off the ghost thing. If you work at it.”
I grabbed the pages of the business plan. Looked at them. Blanched when I saw the five year projection. “Are you kidding?” I finally gasped. “I mean, really. Are you kidding me with this?”
“No, I’m not kidding.” he said. He’d gone from miserable, to slightly pissed. He flipped open another folder. Inside were business cards. All bright pink. “You have a saleable skill, Marie. All you need is a push, to get things going.”
I stared at the business cards. “This is a push?” I reached past them and flipped the last folder open. Looked at the flyers he’d made and the list of psychic conventions he’d typed up. There was an asterisk beside the one being held in Edmonton. I pointed at it and he shrugged.
“I bought you a table,” he said. “A vendor’s table. You know, so you could get out there and press the flesh. Let people get to know you, face to face.”
“Face to face?”
“Yep,” he said. “Face to face.”
Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the sounds of Millie chewing the champagne cork and then puking it out on the rug.
Believe it or not, I decided to be tactful.
“I can see that you worked very hard on all this,” I said, doing my best Vanna White impersonation as I gestured at the coffee table and the white board. “But honestly, James, this isn’t going to work. It would be better if you’d suggested I find lost dogs. That, at least, pays.”
“Marie, you only brought in one hundred and fifty bucks with the lost dog,” he said. “You know that.”
“I guess,” I said. “But ghosts don’t pay at all.”
Honestly, I was thinking of Karen, trapped on second base. And my mother, who never charged anyone a penny. But James wasn’t.
“You’ve made two thousand dollars from ghosts in the past three weeks,” he said. “I’d say they pay a bunch better than lost dogs. All you have to do is get your name out there, so people can find you.” He pointed at the pink bordered business plan with the five year projection. “It’s called developing your brand, Marie. I have it all written out in the business plan—”
And then, the time for being tactful was over.
“I don’t give a shit about your business plan!” I yelled.
“You said you wouldn’t yell,” James said. He looked furious.
Maybe I had said that, but sometimes yelling was needed.
“I’m not doing any of this!” I cried. I swept the folders with the business cards and the flyers and the business plan onto the floor, and then stormed to the door. “I can’t believe you sprung this on me!”
“I told you not to look,” he said, acidly.
“So, this is all my fault?” I said. “Screw you, James!”
I stomped out of his apartment. Slammed the door, and Millie barked crazily inside. I ran down the stairs to the main foyer and out into the dark, cold night.
I had to wait for half an hour for a cab, but James didn’t come down. Didn’t check on me, or anything. Which was just fine with me. Screw him and his business plan. I was out.
BY THE TIME I got to Jasmine’s place I’d calmed down, a bit. Enough so that I was beginning to think maybe I’d overreacted, just a little. That maybe I should give James a call, and apologize, or something.
Jasmine was sitting on her couch in her pyjamas, and she looked pissed.
“Is everything all right?” I asked. “I—I didn’t expect to see you.”
“And I didn’t expect to get a frantic phone call from James a half hour ago,” she snapped. “But we don’t always get what we expect, now do we?”
“Jesus,” I said. “James called you?”
“Yes,” she said. “He was worried about you. Said you left all in a lather. I’m supposed to call him, and let him know that you got here safely.” She cocked her head and arched an eyebrow at me. “So, am I going to call him? Or are you?”
I sighed. “I’ll call,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “And I’ll make tea.”
I pulled out my cell and stared at it as she disappeared into the kitchen. Water ran, and then the kettle clunked on the stove.
“Have you called him yet?” she called.
I stared down at my phone. “No,” I said. “Maybe I’ll text him.”
“Call,” she said. “He’s waiting. And then, you can tell me why you ran out of his house in the middle of the night.”
I sighed. This was going to be a long, long night.
JAMES WAS GOOD, of course. He apologized to me for hitting me with the whole second revenue stream idea the way he had, and didn’t mention once that I was the one who’d pushed him to show me all of it. He’d warned me, and I hadn’t listened.
“I shouldn't have showed you any of it,” he said. “Until you were ready.”
I was pretty sure I would never have been ready for his pink bordered business plan, but I told him that I’d think about everything he’d shown me and talk to him about it the next day.
“So that means you’re coming to work tomorrow?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. Then my stomach tightened. “Why? Don’t you want me to?”
“Good grief! Of course I want you to. I was afraid—”
“Afraid of what?”
“That you’d walk away from—everything. From the job. From me.” He sniffed, and my stomach tightened even more. He wasn’t going to cry, was he? Had I actually pushed him away so hard, hurt him so much, that he was going to cry? Had I?
“I’m not going to leave you, James. And I’m not leaving the business.”
“Good,” he said.
He still sounded choked up, and suddenly I felt like crying myself. What the hell was I trying to prove? All he’d tried to do was help me figure out a way to make more money. Didn’t I bitch to him, every day, about how I needed more money so I could get my own apartment, and buy nice shoes and get a better haircut than Millie?
“I’m sorry if I made you think that,” I said. My voice sounded stiff but my throat was so tight I could barely speak. I’d figure out a way to make it up to him. I had to. I could be such a jerk sometimes.
“It’s just,” he said, “that I love you—”
What?
“—And I want you with me—”
What had he just said?
“—For the rest of my life.”
He stopped, but I couldn’t make my mouth work, so he rushed on to fill the stupid ugly silent void. “Besides,” he said, trying for light. “I think you should be as happy as I am. That’s why I came up with the bloody business plan. So you could be happy.”
Speak, that little voice in my head screamed. Speak to the man who had just professed his love for you. Right now!
“I am happy,” I said, my voice a literal mouse squeak. “Really, I am.”
“Well, good,” James said. He sounded confused and I imagined him deciding I hadn’t heard him. That he’d need to say those words again, louder this time. More clearly.
“Look,” I said. “Can we talk tomorrow? Jasmine’s making me tea and—”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. You want me to pick you up?”
“No,” I said, quickly. “I’ll take the bus.”
“Oh. All right.” Another silence as he digested what I’d said. And hadn’t said. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yep,” I said. “You’ll see me tomorrow.”
And then, my phone went silent. He’d finally hung up.
Jesus.
“So, what did he say?” Jasmine called from the kitchen. “Did he fire your ass for treating him like crap even though he acts like you’re a queen, or what?”
I gulped, and then t
he words flooded out of me in a rush. “He told me that he loves me,” I said.
“What?” All tea making clatter in the kitchen stopped. “What?”
“He said he loves me.”
Jasmine flew through the doorway into the living room, the tea pot forgotten in her hand. “What did you say?” she asked again.
“You heard me,” I said. And then, stupid me, I burst into tears.
“Well, this calls for more than tea,” Jasmine said. “A lot more.”
THE SCOTCH TASTED good but didn’t help me come to terms with what James had said. Neither did Jasmine who stated, bluntly, that if I didn’t ask her to be my maid of honour she just couldn’t be friends with me any longer.
“I’m not—we’re not getting married!” I’d gasped. “Just get that thought right out of your head.”
But she hadn’t, and for the next hour pummelled me with even more crazy suggestions for the perfect wedding. When she said she thought camouflage bridesmaid dresses would be over the moon, I told her she had to go to bed. Then I helped her to her room.
She stopped at the door and stared at me.
“What?” I asked, afraid that she’d say she thought she was going to throw up or something. I’d had enough drama for one evening.
“Sergeant Worth called,” she whispered. “She wants you to call her tonight.”
“It’s too late,” I said. As if I was going to call her. I wasn’t speaking to her ever again after the Calgary Triple Threat.
“Oh no,” Jasmine whispered. “She’s working tonight. She said you had to call her.” She tried to wink, but ended up blinking like a half-cut owl. “Tell her about the wedding. I bet she’ll want to get in on the ground floor of this shindig.”
“Jesus, Jasmine, there is not going to be a shindig,” I said.
“But you’ll call her. Right?” She blinked again. “Don’t make me a liar. I promised her you’d call.”
I sighed, and pushed her gently onto her bed. “I will,” I said. By the time I closed her door, she was asleep.
I walked into the living room and pulled out my phone.
“Might as well get this over with,” I muttered. So much for no more drama.
SYLVIA WORTH ANSWERED on the third ring. She sounded exhausted, and I wondered for the briefest of moments if Rory, her old, dead boyfriend, had somehow fooled me and had come back to her. But her voice brightened appreciably when I said hello.
“Marie!” she said. “Good to hear you! I’m so glad you called.”
“It kind of felt like a demand,” I said. “But whatever. What do you want?”
My tone stopped her cold for a moment and the exhaustion crept back into her voice. “I wanted to know how the tournament went,” she said.
“Oh.” I knew very well she didn’t want to talk about the tournament. She wanted to talk about her friend and the ghost. “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” she said. “I talked to Henry. She said it went very well. That you played well, for them.”
“Yeah,” I said. “They loved me so much they want me to move down there, so I can play for them full time.”
“Seriously?”
Her surprised tone pushed me to the edge, and then over it. “Don’t sound so shocked, Sergeant,” I said. “It isn’t all about the frigging ghosts, you know.”
“I know,” she said. “I know that.” Then she stopped, and I could almost hear the wheels turning. “What happened?” she asked. “With the ghost? Henry paid you, didn’t she? She said she would.”
I pulled the cheque from my hoodie pocket and stared at it. “Oh yeah,” I said. “She paid me.”
“Good.”
“I just don’t understand why you thought it was okay to tell her about me and the ghosts.”
Silence again. Wheels still turning, I was sure of it. “Henry needed help,” she finally said. “And you could help her. Why wouldn’t I tell her about you?”
It was my turn to fall silent. How stupid was this woman?
“I told you not to spread it around,” I said. “Remember that? After I helped you? It was the one thing I told you not to do.”
I realized my voice was getting loud. Maybe so loud that it would wake Jasmine’s kids, so I toned it down considerably. “Remember that?” I whispered.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “The thing is, I told Henry about you before you told me to keep my mouth shut.”
“You could have given me the heads up, then,” I said. “Before I went down there. She blindsided me with the whole ghost thing you know. Jesus!”
“Yeah, I probably should have,” she said. “But if I had, you wouldn’t have gone. Would you?”
“Don’t you think that should have been my decision?” I asked, acidly.
“She’s my friend, and she needed help,” Sylvia said.
“That’s beside the point,” I snapped.
“No, that is exactly the point,” she said. “You can help people this way. So you should. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I want to be normal!” I yelled.
“Well, you’re not!” she yelled back. “Can’t you just get over it?”
“No!”
I hammered my phone off, then threw it more or less at the couch, so it wouldn’t break. She was such a bitch!
Then, a thin cry echoed from somewhere in the back of the house. One of the boys was awake. Because of me.
I sighed, and trudged down the hall. The drama of this night was never going to end. I could just tell.
Karen:
Deciding What Was Right
I NOTICED MY team looked nervous when they came to the diamond. I couldn’t blame them. After all, I’d really lost it before.
I was ready for the questions, the accusations, and the “Oh, he wouldn’t have done anything like that! He’s a great guy!” from the ones who knew Andrew before they died.
I was ready for all of it, but none of it happened.
Well, there was one question. And I didn’t know how to answer it.
“Why didn’t you tell us before?”
My excuses for hiding what had happened suddenly felt stupid. And I felt stupid for existing that way for so long. Luckily, Charlotte wouldn’t let me dwell.
“She’s told us now,” she said. “And now, we have to do what’s right. We have to run that son of a bitch off.” She pointed at Rita, of teacup moving fame. “And she’s going to help us.”
“How am I going to help?” Rita asked. She looked confused, and I didn’t blame her.
“You’re going to teach us how you do that thing,” Charlotte said. “That moving stuff thing. By the time you finish teaching us everything there is to know about how to move things in the real world, we are going to go after Andy, and we’re going to run him off.”
Even Joanne was on board. “Swarm him,” she said. “Just like we did to Marie.”
“No,” Charlotte said shortly. “We’ll do it right, this time. Because we’ll all be able to touch him. Hurt him. Give him exactly what he deserves.”
They all nodded, even the old umps.
“So, what about it?” Charlotte asked Rita. “You ready to teach us all?”
Rita turned to me. “Is this really what you want?” she asked. “After all these years?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “It’s really what I want.”
“Good enough for me,” Rita said. Then everyone cheered, and we got to work. Didn’t even play the game that night, but no-one seemed to care.
And through it all, all I could think was, we are really going to do this. Really.
WAY IN THE back of my mind, I wondered if I was making a mistake about not telling Marie about what Andy had done to me. There were all those other girls who had disappeared from the ball diamond over the years. They’d never come back. Had he killed them, too? Were they trapped in their own personal hells, just like I was?
I’d tell Marie after, I promised myself. But first, Andrew had to pay for what he’d done to me.
>
Marie:
The “I Love You” Conundrum
and Miriam Kendel’s Rise Ball
I WOKE UP and stared at the dusty open beams of the basement ceiling above my bed, and hoped that things that had been said the night before—by James—had been part of the nightmare, but they weren’t. He’d said what he’d said to me. Really.
And I’d told Jasmine.
The last thing in the world I wanted from her was another pep talk about bridesmaid dresses, so I showered quickly and left before she and the kids got up. I arrived at the office two hours before James and pulled out a sheet of paper. Wrote “pros” and “cons” across the top but nothing more, because this was not really a pros or cons situation, was it?
I stared at the stupid piece of paper and tried to think.
James had said, out loud, that he loved me.
He loved me. Me.
Jesus, I couldn’t even get my act together enough to get my own apartment. Didn’t have the guts to call my shrink and break up with her. I felt closer to the dead ball teams than my own live one, for heaven’s sake.
What the hell was wrong with him, falling in love with someone like me?
I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash can just as James walked in.
Well, actually, Millie and James walked in. James didn’t look at me as he uncoupled Millie’s leash from her collar, and she didn’t look at me as she trotted over and rolled herself up into a tight little ball in her bed.
Oh man. The silent treatment from both of them. This was not boding well.
As James hung Millie’s leash on a hook on the wall just above her bed, I went through potential conversation openings in my head. I’d almost decided on, “James! So good to see you!” in my version of a high brow British accent that I’d heard on a TV show James made me watch once, when he turned to me and smiled.
“The coffee smells great.”
“Thanks.” I sounded almost normal, with no accent, thank God.
“You want some?”
I looked down at my shaking hands. “No thanks. I think I’ve had enough.”
