by M Dressler
“They gave me a letter. From him. It explains about a school, in a meadow. Was it”—I point to the Ghost Door—“the same meadow?” No matter where we put our feet, no matter how high or low, we’re always walking the trail of the dead.
She nods. “That is so great they lent it to you, Rose. It means the old-timers really trust you. They mean it for a compliment. I know it might seem a sort of strange welcome-to-the-neighborhood present, but they’re honoring you, trying to show you how much the Bar likes you. Have you read it yet? When I did, a few weeks after I came, I felt terrible. You can see, actually feel the disaster coming in it. Then, after a while, I can’t explain it, I also felt . . . at peace, somehow. With being shown the words. It’s something, when someone shares a secret with you, and they don’t say, ‘Now don’t tell anyone about this!’—because they already know you won’t. Because they trust and believe in you. They feel about you the thing you’ve always known about yourself: that you can be trusted, you know what you’re doing. That meant a lot to me when I first came here. Did I tell you my family did everything they could to stop me from being an artist?” She looks away, half laughing. “My father wanted me to stay in his tech firm, marry some guy who worked for him he’d already picked out for me, stay in the company, be one of his vice presidents. He said it was ridiculous and crazy for me to want to play with ‘junk’ all day long, and that if I did, I’d never amount to anything, plus he’d cut me off without a penny.” She shrugs, twisting on her stool. “I left, and he did. Cut me dead. Still doesn’t talk to me. My mother and I are the only ones who still speak. I say more, I share more with Martha and Bill and Mary and John, and Harry, than I do with my own family. You want to know what’s crazy?” She laughs again, but not in a way that hurts. “That is. Being up here, in the middle of nowhere, and getting more love from the Bar than I can get from my own kin. And love is what matters. Believe me. Love, and getting to do some work that feels meaningful.”
Yes. And failing love and hope, what?
She’s brushing something from her face. I would comfort her, but she’s already asking if I want anything to drink, how about some tea, hot, does that sound good?
She’s showing me such kindness . . . but . . . I have my own work, I have to remember.
She jumps up from her stool. “Okay. You stay right where you are, enjoy my work. I’ll go in the gallery and make you some cha. Be right back.”
She leaves me with the Ghost Door and its whispering.
Haunting is listening.
I leave my stool and go to the arc of metal. There’s a sound to it, inside its empty center. Hushed, but not soft. Wordless, but not silent.
I draw still closer, till I stand beside its opening. I hear what sounds like heavy breathing. In. Out. In. Out. I reach a hand toward it, into the empty space between the metal. And feel the damp exhale against my cold skin.
I pull away.
“Rose!” Su’s come back suddenly, flinging the barn door open with a gust of snow, staring at her telephone. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we have to get moving.”
“Where?”
“We need to get to the café. The Berringers have called a special meeting.”
“I know, so I can meet more of you.” But now—
“No. This isn’t that. The town council and Martha have called some sort of emergency meeting. I hope it doesn’t have to do with Ruth. I have to go. Please, Rose, come too? The Berringers asked that we both come. They want you to be part of us. I want you to be. And emergencies need calm voices, like yours. Will you come?” she asks, a look of friendship and eagerness in her face. “It would be so good if you could.”
Here is a different breath, I think, a fresh gust of air, right in front of me. Her face so open I could walk through it.
Why do I want to go with her, I wonder? Is it this skin I wear, remembering other skin? Or the memory of old, dead friends, inside me, or inside this body . . . remembered lives . . . I don’t know, I don’t know. I know only here is some kind of hope, looking at me, and if you don’t have that, what?
“I’m coming.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Rose!”
In the alley, the snow is whirling now, thick and wild.
“Big storm coming finally,” she says as she takes my arm and we both race.
13
We slip through the back door of the White Bar Café, past an old butcher’s block, boxed and canned supplies on shelves, a latched meat locker.
I hear the voices before I see the bundled bodies that go along with them. The townspeople have come alone or in pairs under the ringing bells of the front door, in snowy coats and caps, some finding their way shivering to booths and stools, others standing just inside the frost-tinged windows.
Su is greeted warmly, folded into kind embraces, and asked, does she know what’s happening?
“No, not really, do you? I worry it’s something about Ruth. Have you met Rose yet, our newcomer? She’s so special, and we’re so lucky to have her staying with us.”
Welcoming faces smile at me, hopeful and worried at the same time.
Someone in a booth shouts, “Okay now, where’s our mayor?”
“She’s on her way,” Bill calls from his red counter. “Driving back from the hospital right now.”
Su whispers to me, “We should stand here at the back, and let the older folks have the seats.”
“Bill, is this about Ruth?” another calls.
“That’s what we’re all waiting to find out. Her son’s been with her, I know. Martha will tell us more.”
John Berringer holds the ringing door open for his wife and they both come in, shaking the snow from their fur-lined hoods. Bill comes forward and takes their coats.
“Everyone’s here?” Mary Berringer asks.
“Just about, Mary.”
“Well then!” She looks around at the gathered town before taking an empty booth. Her husband sits down beside her. “So. Martha is on her way. She said to come and be prepared to hear news regarding Ruth that we all need to hear.”
A ripple of nerves flutters through the room.
“What news is that?”
“Has poor Ruth passed on?”
Mary shakes her head. “I know it’s not that.”
Someone points at the wall where Su and I lean. “Should they be here?”
“Who?” the old woman says sharply.
“Su and the new one, Mrs. B.”
“Of course they should!” she says, impatient. “Exactly how many people do you see in this room, Pete Collier? How many of us are left to carry on the responsibilities and duties of the Bar? With Ruth not here, there are fewer than thirty of us. Of course everyone should be here. Everyone who was invited is welcome.”
“You got it?” John Berringer snaps.
Su looks a question at me. “Have no idea what that was, but I guess we’re cool.”
Another shout. “Here comes Martha’s truck!”
The mayor pushes in now under the jangling bells, in a flurry of snow and mud. She pulls her hood back from her head, her hair standing on end. She seems upset and uncertain.
“What is it, Martha? What’s happened to Ruth?”
She drops on a stool by the counter. “We have only a few minutes, friends.” She deflates, out of breath. “I’m only just ahead of Ruth’s son, Seth. He’s on his way from the hospital. He’ll be here any second.”
“But why does it matter? What about Ruth?”
“Ruth is fine.”
“Then tell us what’s happened,” Mary Berringer commands.
“Ruth’s doing much better. She’s speaking again. That’s the problem. She’s told her son everything. So get ready, everyone. He’s already called someone.”
“We are perfectly ready.” Mary puts her chin up. “We always have been.”
Martha straightens. “All right then. He’s here.”
A fresh motor halts outside the frosted windows. A young man, his head
bent against the wind and snow, bursts through the door and rings into the quieted room.
He’s out of breath, too, and it takes a moment for him to find his balance. I see he has his mother’s soft face, but his shoulders are hunched and narrow.
He glares at Martha and the rest of the room.
“Seth, dear!” Mary Berringer sends a little wave up from her table. “How nice to see you again. It’s been so long! Since you were a tween, I think.”
He turns to her, angrily. “Who are you?”
“Mary Berringer. A good friend of your mother’s.”
“Right. Mama told me. The queen bee. So. This is the rest of the hive?”
Su bristles beside me. “What the hell?”
I say nothing. I have no eyes except for the young, angry man. I know rage ready to strike when I see it. And I know what Ruth Huellet saw. As does he. Soon everyone will know. Hunters, cleaners will be called. There won’t be much time, now. I’ll have to—
Su grabs me as I start to go.
“It’s all right,” she says. “Stay here.”
Bill steps out from behind his counter, a fist curled at each side of his apron.
“It’s all right, Bill,” Mary Berringer says, without turning toward him. “It’s all right, everyone. Seth, dear. You look like you have something you want to say to us?”
“I do! And I think you all know what. Mama’s got her voice back, and she says it’s all your fault she’s lost the use of half her body. She says you have a whole pack of them here. She says one of them attacked her!”
“Excuse me? A whole pack of what, dear?”
“You know very well what!” he sputters. “She says everyone here is in on it, that you have some kind of arrangement with them. But she’s done, she’s tired of all of it, pretending like you’re some kind of gods, like you have everything under control. When obviously you don’t, not if one is on the loose. I’m here to tell you all your sick little party is over. I’ve reported you. I’ve called it in, said you’ve been aiding and assisting and protecting ghosts illegally, and you’ve been doing it for forever, it sounds like.”
Aiding and protecting . . . us?
“Holy shit.” Su whistles.
White Bar knows its ghosts. What does that mean? My soul beats, unbelieving.
Mayor Martha stands up from her stool. “I’m afraid we don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
Mary Berringer, still seated comfortably, says, “Martha’s right, dear. We can’t imagine what on earth your poor mother must be thinking. All we know is she hit her head. Very badly. The doctors say there’s been a great deal of neurological damage. I’m so sorry to have to break this to you, dear, but it sounds as though your mama’s been having some trouble with . . . reality. She’s been in and out of consciousness. Isn’t that right?”
Bill and Harry are inching closer to Seth.
And I’m nearer now than I’ve ever been to embracing—cheering—the living.
Ruth’s son cries, “She still knows what she’s saying when she’s awake! She was lucid enough with me! She said ghouls have always been here, and you all know it, you keep them, you protect them, and you make her be the front woman in that museum even though it’s against the law what you’re doing, and she’s exhausted, she’s plain exhausted with all of it and all of you. You dump everything on her because that’s the way it’s always been. The Huellets are always the ones left to make things work, right? Well I’m a Huellet”—he wheels and faces all of them—“and I’m telling you, this ends now! I say we’ve had enough hiding and lies. I’m putting a stop to it. You know I could have you all put in jail for harboring fugitives? But Mama said that would make her unhappy, so fine, I’ve called in a private cleaner instead, and he’s on his way, and you’re going to pay his fee, and you’re going to get this place straightened out, and then, and only then, when you’ve taken care of what should have been taken care of a long time ago, only then will we call it even, and Mama and me will be gone.”
A private cleaner. My thoughts freeze. Which cleaner?
“Gone?” Bill stares him down. “How do you figure that?”
“I’ll have Mama sell the mansion and then we, she’ll take the money and clear out to Palm Springs. Just like any others around here with any decent sense should do.”
“You say we.” Mary Berringer stands up from her booth. “But you never gave your mother the time of day before now. I wonder why that is?”
I begin moving away, toward the back door. Which cleaner?
“Your mother,” Mary goes on, “always did say both you and your father were nothing but leeches and not to be trusted. If she’s exhausted, it’s because of you. Draining and draining her. Keeping poor Ruth poor, keeping her working two jobs, not even able to put a coat of paint on that mansion, as you call it, while you lazed around Reno with your worthless father and played blackjack. Why, you’re not a Huellet! You’re not even worthy of the name. But I’ll tell you what: if your dear mother did see a ghost, then fine, we’ll do as we’ve always done. We welcome cleaners, we tolerate no trouble here, we—”
“Not one ghost. My mother said you keep a pack, like pets. And you can’t fool me.”
“Bill.” Mary makes a signal with her hand. “Harold.”
“And—and—” The boy stammers, looking afraid. “You won’t be able to fool this cleaner when he comes later on tonight, because I’ve called in the best, the one who’s been all over the news lately. He says we have to be more vigilant now than ever because the lawbreakers are getting more creative, more powerful, they’re going rogue, they’re turning into—hey—what are you doing—take your hands off me!—hey—hey!”
Pratt. Philip Pratt, he means.
Su steps forward. “Wait a minute, what are you—?”
“Bill and Harold are just going to give Seth some time to think things over,” Mary says, nodding.
“Are you with us, everyone?” John Berringer shouts to the room.
“We’re with you!” comes the shrill answer.
“He needs a little time to come to his senses.” The old woman waves a spotted hand as Seth Huellet is dragged away. “It can be so easy to become confused and make mistakes, when you’re under stress, as poor Ruth and Seth have been. Bill and Harold, take him to the freezer to cool off a bit . . .”
“. . . while we get serious and get ahead of this,” Martha finishes.
“But a hunter’s already been called!” someone cries.
“We can manage that.”
Philip Pratt. Pratt is coming here.
As I reach the back door, Su marches forward to confront them. “Stop. You need to explain what is going on. Right now!”
Mary takes her by the hand. “Of course, dear, of course. We didn’t mean to spring things on you this way. So hectic and bewildering this all must seem to you. Although we’ve certainly given you enough hints and clues, over the past months. We have a special duty and responsibility here in the Bar. We, yes, keep watch over the dead. We have done so for nearly two hundred years. We know how to keep the frightening from being frightening. We control it. Corral it. We have tamed it. And we’ll show you how. We have a tradition that requires much strength and imagination and creativity to carry out—just like your own work. You have power over the elements—fire and metal. Now imagine having power over the souls of others. It takes a special strength, I can tell you. A strength you already have—you just don’t know everything you can do with it yet. But you will know, I promise, and come to cherish it as we do, and help us to preserve it. Along with young Rose, who also has more strength than she knows.”
“Where is that gal, anyway?” John Berringer looks around.
I’m behind the butcher’s block, at the door to the alley. I could turn back. Attack them. But how, in this body, without giving myself away?
How, how could I have thought I could trust the living?
“What are you saying?” Su is asking. “Are you saying you’re
. . . masters of the dead?”
“Yes, dear. That’s exactly what we’re saying.”
Su sucks in her breath, awed.
How long do you walk the earth before you give up all hope?
I hear the cries of the young man being dragged into the meat locker. I see Mary and Martha and the others eagerly drawing near an eager Su. I want to terrify and scatter every one of them, yet I have no time, no time, for it’s the dead I must find my way to, before Pratt comes and finishes us all.
Failing love and hope, what?
The only hope of a ghost is other ghosts.
I’m a ghost.
PART TWO
THE DOOR
14
A rubbish bin stands in the alley behind the White Bar Café, an icy metal box, dark in the whirling snow. I leap onto it, push against it, fly up to the false-fronted building’s roof, high in the night above the town.
I look down at my borrowed rubber boots.
There’s only one thing I can do now. So I’ll do it.
I slip from the dead woman’s soft, gashed body and leave it tucked in the ice behind the town’s deceitful gables.
Wait here, I whisper. The cold will keep you.
Without a body, I’m unframed, loose, naked. Yet also light and free.
I race, weightless, over all the false faces of the Bar, dropping into the alley at Su Kwon’s barn.
I glide between the barn’s cracks. I stand before the whispering, breathing steel that I know, that every inch of my bared soul knows, is more than just a piece of metal bent into the shape of luck.
Here’s what being dead teaches you:
When one door closes, imagine another.
I step through the Ghost Door.
_________
Something tickles my hand. Not my invisible, ghostly hand. When I look down, it’s a strong and muscled fist. The fist of Emma Rose Finnis.
Horseflesh nudges against it, steaming.
