He struggled to find something to say, to find something in common. It shouldn't have been that hard.
She made a sound.
"What?" he asked.
"I was just clearing my throat." She patted her chest with her fist. "Sorry."
"No, that's alright."
More quiet. Kerchack struggled for a topic. The only one that came to mind was how dreadfully long they could go just half-smiling at each other and not saying anything. Morbidly, he began counting the seconds, and while it wasn't helpful, he couldn't stop himself. When he hit thirteen seconds, he noticed Denise was staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles, he assumed.
He noticed she'd gained a few pounds since high school, but she was fortunate enough to have a body that took the extra weight and put it in the right places. No longer in control of anything, he found his eyes fixed on her tight t-shirt. The rhythmic rise and fall of her bosoms transfixed him. He couldn't look away.He wasn't even that into tits. He was more of an ass man. Yet her chest, the most famous in three counties, refused to release him. And sure, there were bigger breasts in Rockwood, but none so pert and round and —
She was saying something.
He shook off her hypnotic breasts and raised his head. "Uh, what?"
"So why'd you ask me out?" she asked.
"Uh, I didn't. You asked me out."
Denise narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure?"
He nodded.
She made a strange noise which could not be translated via the most creative onomatopoeia. It was impossible to interpret, but Kerchack took it to mean that she was now wondering what had possessed her.
How could two people who'd grown up in the same boring patch of desert have nothing in common, he wondered. No longer self-conscious at all, he'd gone onto acceptance. Some things just weren't meant to happen, and Denise was obviously one of those things for him.
"Y'know, I always liked you, 'Chack," she said, throwing him for a loop. "Most the guys in this town are assholes. Like Jerry." She sneered. "God, what a prick."
"Uh, yeah."
"And Bobby, man, that guy was such a douche. Lousy lay, too."
"Uh, yeah." Grasping for any conversational strand, he went against his better judgment. "Bobby Reynolds or Bobby Simpson or Bobby Hanson?"
"Take your pick," she replied. "Although Bobby Hanson at least always bought me diner, so he was kind of cool." Idly, she began swishing the salt shaker back and forth across the table. "I'll tell you something, 'Chack. I haven't met a lousy screw yet who didn't think he was Casanova. And believe me, I've met a lot of lousy screws."
Unsure of the proper response, he elected to nod.
She grinned. "Wow, 'Chack. It's real easy to talk to you. Most guys, they hear this stuff, they start freakin' out. Not you. You're cool." She leaned across the booth and flicked his nose with her finger. "You're the kind of guy I need."
"I am?"
"Sure. Why not? I tried all the cool guys. And a couple of the dorks. But none of them were like you. Y'know what I mean?"
He had no idea what she meant, but he smiled and nodded.
Things went much better after that. Denise's revelations of the past dispelled the awkwardness between them. It also told Kerchack that this was in fact, an honest-to-God date which put him in solid ground, and he was fairly certain he'd score tonight since Denise had apparently been working her way through the county, and his number had finally come up. He wasn't complaining.
Denise was funny and laid back, and she seemed to think Kerchack was funny, too. She did most the talking, which was also fine by him. His conversational skills had never been very sharp, and having a comic book-obsessed ghost for a best friend had done little to improve them over the years.
After they'd finished their burgers, she checked her watch. "Damn, look at the time. I have to get up early tomorrow. It's my turn to open the garage. Plus, there's this carburetor I have to rebuild by noon. We better get going."
Kerchack's hopes fell. He'd seen the 'Getting up early' tactic before. She'd appeared to be having a good time, but he must've done something wrong. Desperately, his memory searched for the fumble. He couldn't find it. Which meant he couldn't correct it.
He might have not done anything wrong. Denise might have just decided it was time to be a "good girl." His timing, as always, was impeccable.
She dug in her purse. "So how much is my half?"
His heart sank. Paying half the check was the deathblow to this date and his hopeful libido.
"Shit!" Denise snapped her fingers. "I forgot to bring a change of clothes. Well, fuck it. I'll just wear these tomorrow."
Kerchack paused. The only reason she'd need a change of clothes would be if she wasn't going home tonight, but where was she going? One destination came to his optimistic imagination, but it seemed unlikely. She hadn't said anything about coming over to his place tonight or dropped any hints. He didn't want to assume, and he wasn't sure if she'd be offended if he asked.
Confusion set in, and Kerchack felt his heart beating faster. It was like facing a bear and not knowing what its plans for you were. If it was hungry, you should run. If it were curious, you should just stand still. Only the bear knew the right decision, and it'd only let you know after the fact.
Denise, however, was no bear.
"You got condoms at your place, right?" she asked. "'Cuz I've got a real strict policy on that."
"Yes!" he almost shouted. "Yes, I have condoms. Lots of them."
He winced. That probably came out wrong.
"Cool." She tossed a few dollars on the table. "But we better get going."
Kerchack threw his half of the bill on the table, plus a generous tip. Halfway to his car, he realized it was a bit too generous, but there was no way he was going back.
Kerchack lived in a small house on a half-acre of neglected, overgrown desert. The house itself was falling apart, a victim of his complete indifference toward it. It was all paid for, and he had neither the interest nor money to pay for its upkeep. The shingles were peeling. The walls needed repainting. The front window was broken and covered with a square of plywood. It resembled a dying thing, but some places, like some people, took a long time to die.
He tried the front door. It was locked.
"Damn."
Denise came up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed against his back. "What's wrong, 'Chack? Forget your key?"
He didn't have a key. He'd lost it a few years ago and never gotten around to getting a new one. There wasn't really a need.
He pounded on the door. "Gramps, damn it, open up!"
"Isn't your grandpa dead?" Her warm breath tickled his earlobe.
"He is." Kerchack turned. Denise held him close and now she leaned against his front. He tried to move his hips in such a way so as not to prod her with his boner. "I've got a few ghosts."
"How many?" she asked.
"Five."
"Five ghosts?" She whistled. "In that little place of yours? Must be crowded."
"We get by," he said.
"Who are they?"
"There's my Grandpa, Joyce, Tederick, The Guy, and The Attic Spook."
"Who's Tederick?"
"My dad's old cockatoo."
"Birds can be ghosts?"
"Apparently."
"Who's The Guy?"
"Just some guy. Came with the house."
"Are they going to be cool with me spending the night?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah. No problem," he lied. It wasn't a big lie. Only Joyce would have some trouble with it.
He kicked the door with his heel. "Goddamnit, Gramps! Open the door!"
He put his arms around her, moved his hands down to her butt. His mind swirled with thoughts. Foremost among them: I'm touching Denise's ass. While technically not much of an accomplishment, considering the many hands that had been there before him, he still felt as if he'd achieved something spectacular.
"Sorry. He's probably waiting for a commercial."
"The ghost of your grandpa watches TV?"
"All day, every day."
The door opened. "Keep your pants on, son. Not like it'll kill you to wait for five — "
Gramps spied the young woman in Kerchack's arms, and his eyes went wide.
"Goddamn, boy. Is that a girl?"
Kerchack ignored the question and pulled Denise inside.
"Well, ain't that sumthin'?" said Gramps. "I thought you was gay."
Kerchack stopped. "I've brought girls home before, Grandpa."
"Only two and neither of them were nuthin' to look at. Thought you was just puttin' on an act."
Denise laughed. "Your Grandpa thinks you're gay?"
"You can hear him?" asked Kerchack.
"Naw, just pieced it together from your half of the conversation. Anyway, I thought you were gay for a little while, too. In high school you were the only guy who didn't stare at my chest when you talked to me."
Kerchack frowned. "I was being polite."
"Holy Jesus, boy, what's wrong with you? When a girl's got a rack like that, it's a compliment to notice it." Gramps ogled Denise thoroughly and licked his lips. "Little more junk in the trunk than I like, but I could work with it."
"Junk in the trunk?" Kerchack immediately regretted saying it.
Denise twisted to try and check her own ass.
"What?" asked Gramps. "Ain't that what the kids say now?"
Something thumped the ceiling hard, and a low moan chilled the air.
"Attic Spook?" asked Denise.
"Attic Spook," Kerchack confirmed.
"Oh, that little shit has been in a mood tonight." Gramps sat in his recliner and focused on the television. "Think he does it on purpose. Knows X files comes on at eleven."
Denise glanced around the room. "Wow, your place is really neat."
"Joyce does it," said Kerchack.
"Maybe I should get a ghost of my own."
The Spook thumped again and howled.
"Maybe not."
Denise leaned in and kissed Kerchack, lightly this time. She turned her attention to the television. "Hey, is this the one where Cancer Man kills Kennedy?"
"Yeah, it's a good one," said Gramps.
"It's a good one," echoed Denise.
"Hell, boy, don't you lose this one. I like her."
Gramps glanced from the TV to Denise's ass and made kissing noises. He'd been dead a long time now. Manners had never been his strong suit and being invisible hadn't improved them.
"Where's Joyce?" asked Kerchack.
Grunting, Gramps waved down the hall. Kerchack left Denise to watch TV and be invisibly ogled.
Joyce was in the kitchen, scrubbing the already gleaming sink. The restless dead were generally driven by one or two passions. Clark had comic books. Gramps had television. Joyce was a cleaner. That passion defined not only their activities, but there particular talents. Clark could touch comics. Gramps could manipulate the TV just by willing it. Joyce had cleaning supplies and mops. It was a bit of a vicious cycle. A ghost could only interact with the world in a limited number of ways, and what usually started as a hobby while living soon developed into an obsession. Ghosts had a lot of time to pass, and only so many options for passing it.
"Kerchack, you're home," she said. "How are you, sweetie?" She set down her sponge and kissed him on the cheek with her cool ectoplasmic lips. Her other passion, other than cleaning, was Kerchack himself. Joyce wasn't technically his mother, but she was close enough. She'd been his dad's girlfriend just before his father left town, never to return. She'd raised him since ten, and she remained to take care of him even beyond the pale of death.
More than just seeing ghosts, he also attracted them. He had no proof, just a feeling. People around him who died tended not to move on. Most did, of course, but it was still an anomaly. Many families in Rockwood had ghosts, but none had collected as many as Kerchack. He felt bad about that. He wasn't doing anything consciously, wouldn't have minded if Joyce and Gramps one day decided to move on, leaving behind their earthly desires. He still felt responsible, if only indirectly.
"What's that on your face?" Joyce ran a thumb across his cheek. She drew a spectral handkerchief from her apron, spat on it, and scrubbed his face. The icy spit of the dead made him shiver. "You're a mess. What is all this?"
