The Ghosts of Now (9 page)

My words straggle through gulps of air. “I didn’t hear you. I was listening to— I didn’t know you were— What are you doing here, Del?”

“Looking for you,” he says. “I saw your car parked on the street.”

“But how did you know I’d be here, at this house?”

“I didn’t. I thought you might be—” He stops and looks in the direction of the intersection. “You weren’t at home. You weren’t at the hospital. When I got to the end of the street I saw your car parked down here.”

I’m surprised how glad I am to see Del. But the gladness is mixed with anger as I remember the way Debbie looked when she told me they’d been together Friday evening. Del hadn’t told me about being with Debbie. I had begun to trust him, but he hadn’t been honest with me.

Del cocks his head and stares at me. “Did you just say you were listening to something? What?”

Whatever is on the other side of that door might be waiting for my answer too. Stiffly I walk across the porch and down the steps and face Del. “Why were you looking for me?”

Del shoves his hat to the back of his head and
scratches his forehead. “Seems like we’ve got a lot of questions without answers.” When I don’t say anything he adds, “Okay. Me first. I wanted to tell you something.”

“About Debbie?”

He looks puzzled. “Nope. Not exactly. I got word about your being stopped by one of the cops. I wanted to tell you that things don’t work here the way they probably did in the city where you came from. Don’t try to push this, Angie. You’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

For an instant I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I
am
the one who was hurt. “Then you know I went to see Debbie.”

He nods.

“Do you know everything? Do you know what she told me?”

“Don’t get so riled.” His hands rest on my shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, so why don’t you just tell me instead of yelling at me?”

“I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that— Why didn’t you tell me that you were with Debbie Friday night?”

“
With
Debbie? I’d hardly call it that.”

“That’s what Debbie said.”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Did she tell you about the others on the senior party committee who were there too? We had a meeting to work out stuff for the graduation dance that will come up next semester.”

“A meeting? But then afterward—?”

The question hangs there, unfinished. Del shakes his
head. “Afterward I went to my aunt’s house. Angie, I don’t know what Debbie told you, but that’s the way it was.”

I’m surprised at the relief that rushes through my whole body with a happy, zingy sensation, like bubbles in my bloodstream. “Del, I’m sorry. She was just so convincing, and I was upset. I don’t know why she lied to me. She made it sound as though you dated each other.”

“We did,” he says, “but not Friday night.”

All I can think of to say is, “Oh.” I hope the jealousy doesn’t show.

“Don’t press Debbie too hard,” Del says. “The most important thing you’ve got to worry about is your brother gettin’ better. Finding out what happened to him doesn’t matter that much right now.”

“No one can stop me from getting to the truth.” I take a long look at Del. “Like that person who did the body work on Debbie’s car. I thought maybe you’d help me find him.”

Del scuffs the toe of one of his well-worn boots against the bottom step and says, “I’m one ahead of you there, but I found out something you won’t like. He left town on what I guess you could call a paid vacation, according to what my cousin said.”

“Surely the police could find him.”

“Yeah, but I doubt if they’ll look for him. There’s still no proof that Debbie’s car hit your brother.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Lots of things aren’t fair, Angie. But you’ve got to
be realistic. Without real evidence they can’t make a case.”

I sag against him, and he puts his arms around me. “There’s so much I need to find out—so much about Jeremy too.”

“You didn’t answer the question I asked you,” Del says. “You told me you were listening to something. Listening to what?”

“I don’t know. I walked around this house and felt as though I were being watched. And when I tried the back door I got the feeling that someone was on the other side, holding it shut.”

“It’s probably locked tight.”

“Maybe. But I want to go in this house. I can’t get it out of my mind. This house might be able to tell me something.”

“You playing hunches or getting into ESP? I don’t understand what this house has got to do with Jeremy.”

“Because Jeremy—” I begin to tell Del about Jeremy’s poem, but something holds me back, so I say, “I think that Jeremy knew something about this house. He warned me not to come here. I have to know why.”

For a few moments Del looks at me. Then his fingers twine through mine, and he leads me up the steps and into the back porch. “We’ll go through this old place together. And if we get picked up for breaking and entering it will be your job to post bail, because I’m down to my last ten bucks.”

The doorknob turns easily under Del’s grip, and I shiver.

“Nothin’ to be scared about,” Del says. “You were probably tugging it the wrong way.”

But I wasn’t.

The kitchen’s high wooden cabinets and huge gas stove are out of a museum catalogue. A pair of grimy aluminum salt and pepper shakers sits on the shelf above the burners, and a tea kettle rests on the stove’s metal wings. A ragged straw broom leans against the far wall. Even the sunlight coming in the bare window over the large, chipped sink doesn’t improve this room.

“This poor old house,” I whisper, as though the house can hear us. I stick close to Del.

There’s an open door, leading to a dim room that looks like a dining room. But there are two closed doors to our right. I simply point toward them, and Del seems to read my mind.

“Probably open to a broom closet and a storm cellar.” He looks down at me. “The early houses around here had cellars where people could go in case of tornadoes.”

“Should we go down there?”

“I doubt if we’d find anything more than a stray rattler.”

I shudder. “Let’s check the other rooms instead.”

The fear remains, even with Del at my side. We’re picking our way through a skeleton, with someone’s memories blowing aside like dust under our footsteps. The cobwebs and faded carpets, the old plush-covered chairs and the photographs on the wall accent the gaps where a few valuable pieces of furniture must have been. The remains of the deceased.

But where are the ghosts?

We have moved through the rooms on the first floor, passing the heavy staircase that leads upward to a landing, then turns.

Del stops and looks at me. “Well?” he asks. “Do you still think someone is here?”

“No.” I try a smile. “I guess that ghosts must stay out of sight until after dark.” The rooms are chill, even in the midday heat, but whoever had been here has gone.

“Then let’s forget about looking upstairs and get out of this place,” Del says. “I’ll follow you home, and if you haven’t got anything better to do, we can get hamburgers.”

We leave the house by the front door. It’s got one of those locks that automatically fastens without a key.

“Ghosts don’t leave footprints,” Del says, staring at the front porch.

“Those are my footprints. I was on the porch, trying to look in the windows.” I stoop, leaning down to stare at the boards. “I know I wasn’t wearing one shoe and one tennis shoe.”

“Which means?”

“Look,” I say, pointing at a partial ridged footprint in the dust. I stand, and we stare at each other for just a moment. “Someone was in the house. He left by the front door.”

“He or she. There’s only part of a print. The rest must have been scuffed.”

“On purpose.”

“We don’t know that.” Del looks down the street. “Why would anyone be in this house?”

I can’t help glancing at the shut-in face of the house. “Maybe it’s something we wouldn’t notice, something that can’t be seen.”

“Forget it for now,” Del says. “It could also have been some kid in the neighborhood who hides out here for kicks.”

We leave it like that.

It’s good to forget for a little while. I drop our car at the house, climb into Del’s pickup, and spend a couple of hours munching through fat hamburgers and skinny fries and talking about nothing important because just being together is important enough. I memorize the crinkle laugh lines around the outer corners of Del’s eyes and the firmness of his lips and the way one corner of his mouth turns up more than the other when he smiles. So he cares for me, does he? Well, maybe I’m beginning to care for him.

Finally he squeezes out of his side of the booth and holds out a hand to me. “Time for me to tend to my chores. Got some horses to get in.”

“I’d like to see your horses some time,” I say.

“Want to ride?”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’m a good teacher.”

“Then I’d love to—after Jeremy’s better.” As we walk to the truck I cling to Del’s hand and say, “He
will
get better. I’ve got to help him get better.”

“I know,” Del murmurs.

As Del parks in front of our walkway, Mom comes around the corner of the house carrying a small birdhouse that’s painted yellow with a green roof. She
holds it up as we climb out of the pickup and walk toward her. “Hello, Del,” she says. “I’m looking for a good place to put Jeremy’s birdhouse.” She stares at the birdhouse as though she’s never seen it before and adds, “Jeremy made this for me when he was a cub scout, years ago. We moved so often, it just didn’t seem worthwhile to put it up, and I packed it away.”

“How is Jeremy?” Del asks.

“The same. The doctor says that all Jeremy’s vital signs are good.” She takes a long breath that comes out in a shudder. “But he doesn’t wake up. He just keeps sleeping.”

“Maybe that’s good for him,” Del says. “While he’s sleeping his body is working to heal itself.”

“Yes,” Mom says.

Del takes the birdhouse out of her hands. “Y’all tell me where you want this, and I’ll hang it for you.”

“Where?” Mom repeats. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“How about that mulberry between your house and garage? It’s a sheltered place, and Jeremy could see his birdhouse hanging there when you bring him home.”

“That’s a great idea,” I answer, and Mom’s head bobs in agreement.

It takes Del just a few minutes. He returns, accepts Mom’s thanks, and we all just stand there. I’m desperately trying to think of something light and conversational to say when Del says, “Is it okay if I get a drink of water?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll get it for you.”

“I don’t want to bother you,” he says. “I know where
your kitchen is. You and your mother go take a look at the birdhouse. See if I put it in the right place.”

Mom and I walk around the side of the house and stare up at the birdhouse.

“Very nice,” Mom says.

“It looks good there,” I tell her.

This is dumb
, I think.
Why are we here, staring up at a birdhouse?

Del strides across the lawn, a smile on his face. “Everything okay?”

“Lovely,” Mom says, and she thanks him again.

He grins at me. “See you, Angie,” he says, and leaves.

As we watch his pickup move down the street Mom says, almost grudgingly, “He does seem like a nice, friendly boy, Angie.”

I put an arm around her shoulders and lead her into the house, through the back door into the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s at the hospital.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“I don’t remember.”

I pull out a kitchen chair and guide her into it. “Mom, I’ll make you a sandwich. Okay?”

“That’s too much.”

“All right. I know we’ve got crackers and cheese. I’ll put them on the table, and you can eat as much as you like.” While I’m talking I’m moving, and before she can object the food is in front of her along with a plate and a knife.

“Don’t you want some cheese too?” Mom asks. I’m glad that she has begun to eat.

“Del and I had hamburgers.”

I guess I expect her to ask where I’ve been, or something about Del, but she’s off somewhere, probably with Jeremy.

Mom doesn’t need me now, so I go into the den and quickly look up Debbie Hughes’s phone number. The anger burns more fiercely when I hear her mother’s voice.

Making my own voice light and giggly I say, “Hi, Mrs. Hughes. May I please speak to Debbie?”

“Yes, dear,” she says, and I can almost hear her thinking that she obviously should recognize the voice of someone who must be one of Debbie’s friends. “Just one minute, and I’ll call her.”

Debbie picks up the extension in her room. I wait to hear Mrs. Hughes replace her receiver while Debbie says, “Hello? Hello?”

The click comes, and I say, “Why did you lie to me?”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Why are you lying?’ Debbie, were you the one driving the car that hit my brother?”

“You stop this! You hear? You stop bothering me!”

“I’m not going to stop until I find out what happened to my brother. And if your mother gets the police on my back again, I’m going to work even harder to make sure the hit-and-run driver goes to jail—especially if the driver was you.”

“I don’t know what you mean about my mother!”

“Why don’t you ask her? And ask her and your father where they sent the mechanic who did the cover-up on your car.” If Debbie answers I don’t hear it, because I’m so angry my hands are shaking, and I hang up.

I rest my head on my arms for a few moments, taking deep breaths, beating down the anger. Finally I’m okay; so I wander back to Jeremy’s room and sit at his desk. I want to read his poetry again.

As soon as the drawer is open I see a gleam of gold, a sliver of metal shining under a wad of paper next to the notebook. I pull out a wristwatch. It’s a man’s watch, and I know it’s expensive without looking at the make. Who’s been in this drawer? The watch wasn’t here when I first read Jeremy’s poetry. I would have noticed it. Wouldn’t I?

There are a couple of paperback books on the desk. They’re not textbooks. And a tennis team schedule. I don’t remember these things being here when I first looked in Jeremy’s desk.