The elderly attendant passes by, her head visible above the grass, and flashes Ana another of her kind smiles. Upon her shoulder rides a yellow-feathered bird that Ana doesn’t know.
Presumably, this woman, this custodian, spends all her days here. Playing with animals and Recalling aspects of the Earth from before the wounding.
And I am to return home to work the ground for my father. Until he passes me off to pock-marked Carlo. Who’ll make me work in that and other ways.
She doesn’t shudder. She lifts her chin and gazes toward where the old woman disappeared through the grass. What a grand life the custodian must live! Bringing the glories of Old Earth again to life. And what if—what if, Ana thinks as her pulse beats hard again—this is just the beginning? What if it is possible for the attendants here to not only summon the ghosts of extinct creatures, but to summon back their bodies too, bring them back to the Earth and heal the Earth to host them once more.
She makes her decision quickly. She gives the pony a final pat and chases after the old woman.
Ana has a question to ask her.
Q is for Question
Sarah Van Goethem
Every night Rowena Hayes walked. The door to her yellow bungalow would click shut behind her and she would stroll down the little stone path to the sidewalk in the middle of the night. The path was edged with boxwood hedges and iceberg roses, their soft white petals shining glossy in the moonlight. The scent always made Rowena crave honey. Max had always bought The Janson’s natural wildflower honey, harvested from their own farm-based hives. But Max was dead now, gone some months past (how long had it been now?) and so was the honey.
Oh, how Rowena missed that honey.
Perhaps she’d walk out further one night, straight out of town and down Millard Line. Perhaps she’d come across the Janson’s farmhouse, the windows dark for the night, Hilary and John (Max and John had loved to go fishing together) tucked neatly under their sheets while their teenage daughter Olive (why were parents recycling these dull old names?) snuck out with one of those Miller boys. Perhaps she’d catch the girl in the act, all flushed, shimmying her way up the old cedar below her bedroom window. Well. If that happened, Rowena would have to let Hilary and John know. There was no other way around it, of course. Rowena had a duty to the citizens of Hazel Grove. Even if they had abandoned her, she would not forsake them. Certainly not. She couldn’t fault them, not really. Widowhood was a strange period, after all. But in time Rowena would recover her stable position in society. Just wait and see if she didn’t.
Rowena turned right at Green Street and walked another block. Hazel Grove was so quiet at night, so sleepy. The witching hour, Rowena’s mother used to call it, when she paced the halls at midnight, unable to sleep. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, the night had quickly turned cool, and a light mist draped the streets. How eerie, Rowena thought, keeping a sharp eye out. The warmth of the summer nights had faded and the mist gave Rowena an unsettling feeling.
It was the Moore girl, Stacey, that had started the rumours. Hazel Grove, haunted. The girl claimed to have seen a…no. Rowena was not going to even think it. Stacey clearly had too much time on her hands. She should get a part-time job or perhaps volunteer at the animal shelter. Haunted. How ridiculous. And yet, Rowena caught herself looking over her own shoulder quite frequently. Perhaps more so tonight. The blasted mist was unnerving.
Only a few times had Rowena come across someone else at night, though. Once, Old Man Harvey, rocking in a wicker rocker on his wraparound porch, puffing on a cigarette (Rowena had left a note for his wife Aubrey the next night, Imagine continuing to smoke when you know it causes lung cancer) and another time, the Miller boy (was it Jake? Sam? There were far too many of those rowdy boys, really) trundling back into town in his old Chevy pick-up (Rowena had left a note for Mrs. Miller, I wonder, does teenage pregnancy run in the family?). But… then there was the time…Rowena shuddered.
No.
She couldn’t have seen him. Maxwell Hayes, her husband, was dead. Gone. She’d imagined it was all. What with all the spooky rumours flying about now thanks to that blathering Moore girl, tongues wagging about a—no. The fools, they probably only wished it was her husband returned. Maxwell the beloved. Everyone loved Max.
Everyone except Rowena.
A streetlight flickered overhead and Rowena quickened her pace, crossing to the other side of the road. Goodness, she was such a goose sometimes. There was no such thing as…well, there wasn’t anyway. Thinking she heard footsteps, she glanced over her shoulder. But there was nothing. No one.
But if there was…well. Rowena dared her do-gooder dead husband to return. Double-dared him, actually.
Soon Rowena stood in front of a brick four-square house, her destination. Electric candles burned in the windows, illuminating lacy curtains. The widow Woods was always one for the antiquated look. A bun in her hair and a cameo at her throat. The aesthetic must have been appealing for Mr. Moore (and probably Max, too, the men had been like two peas in a pod), very different than his modern wife with her sleek ponytail and her knee-high boots. Rowena had the fleeting thought that the widow Woods would surely appreciate the manner in which Max had died. If she knew, of course.
Rowena let out a lengthy sigh. Sometimes it was difficult doing the right thing. But someone had to do it after all, lest the whole town fall into disorder; everyone had been so distraught by Max’s death. Maxwell Hayes, gentleman and pillar of the community may be gone, but alas, Rowena was still here. And as long as she lived and breathed, Rowena would set things right. She couldn’t have all of Max’s friends’ lives falling into chaos with him gone. No, that would not do.
Besides, the widow Woods gave Rowena hope. She’d carried on after the death of her husband and the townsfolk had embraced her once more (though Mr. Moore had taken it a step further than necessary).
Rowena stood in the shadows of the giant maple.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and plucked out the envelope. It was small, made to appear vintage, yellowed and aged, same as the paper inside. Like old parchment. Rachel Woods, she’d written on the front, in perfectly spaced and curved letters. Rowena still knew the message on the note inside; she’d rewritten it several times to ensure it was perfect. You can never be quite certain about where one’s been. Remember, an STD test is simple.
Rowena made her way up the treads on the porch and dropped the envelope through the brass mail slot in the widow Woods’ door; Rachel had had a proper, old-fashioned mail slot put in, like the Victorian-era lady she thought herself to be. The door of the slot clicked shut decisively. Well. That was that. Rowena didn’t know for certain, of course. But she had seen Mr. Moore at the doctor’s office (the doctor…actually that reminded her), and she had seen Mr. Moore and the widow Woods conversing at the coffee shop, and well…better safe than sorry. She imagined the widow Woods would thank her if she knew who it’d come from, but Rowena didn’t sign her notes. She wasn’t looking for praise. Goodness no.
Rowena only wanted to return the favour. Whoever had left her that note about Max…well. Let’s just say that was a real lifesaver.
Rowena made her way back to the street. A dog growled and lunged at a chain-link fence and she sped up. The mist had grown, thickening into a heavy fog, and something worrisome swirled in Rowena’s gut. She didn’t like when she couldn’t see things clearly and she had the distinct impression she was lost somehow. Misplaced. Like the world had gone on without her. Like she’d forgotten something important, an idea swallowed in the fog.
Her fingers closed over the remaining letter for Jennifer Moore in her pocket, but she couldn’t deliver it now; her breaths were becoming quicker, her heart a ridiculous fluttering thing. She had to get back, back to her little bungalow. And then tomorrow she would wake up to the sun in her window and she would make herself a cup of tea and she would be ever so thankful she had the whole glorious house to herself. And she would remember what
a goose she’d been tonight, of course.
But right now, her hairs stood on end and invisible fingertips kneaded her scalp and she thought her throat may close in. What might be lurking in the fog?
Just follow the streetlights, she told herself, and she stumbled along, her memory carving a path back home. She was almost there, almost to her little stone path with her boxwood and her pretty ghostly roses, when all the streetlights, as far as she could see, began to flicker.
Did she smell cinnamon?
Rowena froze, a hand to her throat. But just as quickly her fear was replaced with a hot and consuming anger. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. If Max was here, if he was really here…well, he’d be sorry.
There was a crack of a branch in the yard. Rowena ran.
She scurried as fast as she could into her house, slammed the door shut, locked it, and hid, panting, behind her chintz curtains. She peered out her huge front window, but all the street lights stayed on and no one passed by.
Hazel Grove, haunted, echoed in Rowena’s ears. She knew they whispered it behind their handkerchiefs and murmured it over their menus at the coffee shop. She didn’t have to walk during the day to know this; that was always the way of it in Hazel Grove. And they’d stopped talking to Rowena, started avoiding her altogether. Pretended she didn’t exist. Fear was funny like that. Had a habit of showing you who your friends really were. And all because they thought her husband had returned, that he was a… no. She wouldn’t say the word.
Well.
It was all ridiculous, wasn’t it? The longer Rowena stood there behind her curtains, and the longer nothing happened outside, the more ridiculous the idea seemed. Finally, her hands stopped trembling and she smoothed them down the front of her jacket. Yes, it was ridiculous. Except…well.
Rowena wouldn’t put it past him was all.
Rowena awoke to the sunshine and her husband’s sickly body floating near the ceiling. She gasped and choked, tried to manage a scream, and then twisted in her bedsheets, her eyes clamped shut. Her teeth chattered. She wouldn’t look, she would not look.
The birds chirped outside. A bicycle bell dinged. A car started; Mrs. Drew was leaving for work. Everything sounded normal, as it should.
But then Rowena realized she wanted to look. He had no right to make her life hell, not now, not after he was dead. He’d done enough of that while he was alive, always expecting things of her, prying at her thoughts, are you feeling quite alright today, dear? And attempting to make her socialize with his friends, wouldn’t you like to come out, love?
Well. Not anymore.
Rowena opened her eyes. But there was nothing. Only the ceiling fan set to low. A soft breeze, marked by the faint scent of cinnamon. And she was in the guest room.
Right. Rowena had started sleeping in the guest room. But why?
Yes, yes. To be away from Max. She eyed the closed door of their original bedroom as she crept to the kitchen. She could sleep in there again, if she wanted to. Max was gone.
No, she decided. She did not want to sleep in there again, thank you very much.
Anyway, she was only seeing things. Her imagination had run wild. Perhaps she should leave herself a note. Like mother, like daughter. Rowena winced. What an absurd thought. Leave herself a note, my oh my. No, she wasn’t crazy. Why then, did she have the uneasy feeling that something was amiss?
She shook off the thought and made herself a cup of tea and a boiled egg and ate in her pajamas. Max had always insisted on her dressing first. She sat in the only chair with arms at the table, Max’s chair. Go on, she thought, stirring sugar noisily around in her cup. If anything, the sugar would bring him back. Max hadn’t liked when she had too much sugar. Darling, I really think that’s enough.
But nothing happened and she finally went and took a shower and brushed her teeth and set about tidying the house and scrubbing the dishes and repotting a geranium she’d brought in. Rowena very much liked it when things were in a neat and tidy order. Which was much easier without a man around, she had to admit. It was amazing how much better she felt since Max was gone, as if a weight had been cast off. She was as light as a feather now.
A bit later, she sat at the desk in the study and retrieved her lovely parchment papers and meticulously wrote a letter to the good doctor, in perfectly spaced and scrawling letters. How old-fashioned to die by arsenic poisoning. In turn, she had her lunch and then her dinner, and then dusk rolled in and then the darkness, and still no Max.
Well, he was dead of course. She was just allowing the fears of the townsfolk to get the better of her.
Well that was enough of that.
She plucked Crooked House, her favourite Agatha Christie novel, off the bookshelf and sat down to read a little. But a short while later she heard a rustle at the front of the house. Her heart skipped a beat. Rowena crept into the living room and perched, once again, behind the chintz curtains. But it wasn’t Max. It was the blasted neighborhood kids, one of those Miller boys (Jake? Sam?) and a brunette with a thick braid. Oh goodness, it was Stacey Moore, the little rumour-starter. How adorable. Max had doted on the little Moore girl once, said he’d wished they had a daughter just like her, with pigtails and freckles. She wasn’t as cute any longer, not even borderline pretty. Max wouldn’t want her now. On second thought, she wasn’t adorable at all. Plus, she was clearly acting out, poor thing. Kids weren’t stupid, after all. She’d probably seen her father with the widow Woods, the way his eyes lit up, the way his hands roamed. Well. An unfortunate circumstance. Regardless, that didn’t give her the right to press her flat face to Rowena’s window now, trying to catch a glimpse. Of a….
Fine, she’d say it.
A ghost.
Rowena put her hands on her hips as the two skulked about, tramping down her hostas. For goodness sakes, didn’t they know haunted houses were big old derelict beasts in the countryside, not sweet little bungalows in town? Well. She’d give them a good scare if that’s what they were after. Rowena reached for the light switch. Turned it on and off, on and off. It was the Miller boy who screamed first, the cowardly thing. Rowena hadn’t expected that, but found it rather satisfying.
Either way, they dashed off and Rowena resumed her evening. She’d nap a bit before she went out tonight; she still had a couple of notes to deliver after all. She couldn’t let Jennifer Moore go on pretending her husband was faithful, not when it was affecting her daughter like this. You never knew how events would affect people.
The townsfolk probably thought that about Rowena. So shocked by her husband’s death she hadn’t even attended the funeral. She hadn’t, had she? Rowena circled around the thought in her head, the blank space that she couldn’t seem to access. One moment Max was here, telling her to fix her hair just so and that her meatloaf wasn’t entirely cooked through and there were cobwebs in the high corners and why didn’t she clean them? The next moment….just this house, all silent and still. Gloriously peaceful. Gloriously hers.
No Max.
Just that strange gap, a blur in time between when he existed and then didn’t.
Oh well. A minor inconvenience.
Rowena slipped out again that night, like she always did now. She stopped on the front porch, her head cocked to the side. She hadn’t really noticed until now how overgrown the gardens had become. Weeds poked up between the hostas and sedums and the iceberg roses had become a heavy thicket, needling their way over the boxwood. It put a sour taste in her mouth; Rowena hated disorder.
Thankfully the air was clear, the moon bright and shining overhead. Rowena pasted on a smile and held her head high and made her way to the Moore house first. She left the envelope on the front steps, atop the silly floor mat with the pumpkins on it. Jennifer would find it first thing at daybreak when she went for her morning run. An awful way to start the day, certainly, by finding out about your roaming husband, but alas, it had to be done.
Rowena glided across the street again but,
feeling as if she were being watched, she looked back. And froze. There, in an upstairs window, was Stacey. The girl’s mouth and eyes were round and big, her chest rising and falling too quickly beneath her nightshirt. Had she seen Rowena on their property?
What a predicament this was. But the girl wasn’t doing anything. She wasn’t screaming or yelling for her parents or dashing down the steps to see what mischief Rowena had caused. No. She only stood there stupidly, her face as white as Rowena’s roses, blowing her breath into a foggy circle on the glass. She seemed to be looking right through Rowena and it gave Rowena a jolt. Rowena spun about and something flit into the shadows. Was it Max? Had the girl been seeing Max? Rowena trembled, scanning the darkness. Damn him. Rowena blinked, then whirled about again. But Stacey was gone. The window was dark and empty.
Well.
That was something.
Rowena didn’t wait around. She still had one last note to deliver—Dr. Anderson’s. Rowena found herself in front of his old gothic Victorian house in no time. She observed the green trim and curving turrets and ironwork, and thought, this is where those nosy teenagers should be looking for a ghost. She’d been inside on many occasions, toasting holidays and having dinners, and she’d always thought something had prowled there. Shadows in the corners. Secrets under the floorboards. If Max had been hard-pressed to choose a best friend (he had so very many), she thought he would’ve picked the doctor.
A sad choice, really.
Rowena attempted to slide the envelope through the mail slot (this mail slot was original to the house), but the envelope simply fell to the ground at her feet. How odd. Rowena picked it up again and tried to push it through the slot, but no. It wouldn’t budge. She crouched down and flipped the flap aside with her finger. Nothing wrong at all. Rowena peered through the slot into the void of the house. Eyes stared back at her. Rowena gasped and fell backward, scrambling away. Those were Max’s eyes.
G is for Ghosts Page 23
