Vintage: A Ghost Story (6 page)

In the bathroom, I leaned against the sink and sighed at my reflection in the mirror. I hated my looks, always have. Trace was the first person to ever call me pretty. Best friends had to lie about such things. My nose looked too sharp, my hair never the way I wanted it to be, despite dyes and expensive mousse.

I opened the medicine cabinet to rid myself of the re flection. My aunt shared one trait with my mother: both never threw out any prescription, even ones that had expired in the last decade, on the hunch that one day some topical ointment, some little pill, would cure a future malady.

I wasn’t so bored as to start popping. After one unsuccessful suicide attempt, I never sampled alone. Had it been four months ago? One weekend when my parents were away, I had decided the only solution to being secretly gay in a home where I wasn’t wanted could be found in swallowing twelve colorful prescriptions with a glass of gin. I woke the following afternoon, disoriented and my mouth tasting nasty. My cheek next to the puddle of vomit that had saved my life. Whatever combination I had taken hadn’t sat too well with me. Even days later, I had still felt unsteady, hearing voices that weren’t there, catching glimpses of things that didn’t exist out of the corner of my eye.

Was Josh the reason I was so anxious? I desperately wanted to see him again, even if it meant breaking curfew. I glanced at the clock and it was hours until midnight. Would he show again? I could be asleep when he did. I wasn’t tired and my restlessness wasn’t all because of him.

None of the thoughts in my head were comforting. They ranged from: Work. Tomorrow would be the same Monday for me as it had been for al most three months, working at the shop. Which I loved, I truly did. Malvern was a quirky but kind boss. All those wonderful vintage clothes thrilled me. Even if we never made a sale, that was fine. But the day would be identical. Hell, one day at the shop was the same as every day. A year could pass, two, three, an eternity, and it would all be the same until Malvern’s liver finally stopped soaking up alcohol and he expired.

Family. Trace had been obviously proud of the kelpie figurine Mike had sculpted. Weird, I mean in some ways I’m an expert on dysfunctional fami lies. I hate my parents. They hate me. Very simple really. Trace’s father seems barely there. Her mom is institutionalized. Her older brother ran away but no one thinks he’s alive anymore. Her younger brother is just odd. Yet she never says a bad word about her family. The only relative I care about is my aunt.

School. I had escaped that daily grind and should be happy. Now and then I wondered if all that arguing with my aunt convincing her to let me drop out had been the right move. Except for Trace and her few friends I knew no other kids in town by name. The thought of enrolling so late in the year was daunting. Although, at least, it would change my days, make them different, did I truly want to go back? My aunt wanted those three letters, G. E. D., in my future. I dreaded any standardized test; I wasn’t standard and never tested well.

Regret and envy swirled inside of me, leaving me queasy. But more than that, I felt something strange happening. Or about to. Maybe because of my ghost. Everything else in my life had been confined to a quiet, dull routine and now Josh’s appearance had changed all that. Life was now… weird. Had I always wanted it this way?

I cracked open the window and let some cool air into the room. I leaned out on the ledge, looking outside at the quiet town, the still houses. None of the stars were out and everything looked caught in mid-moment, as if also expectant.

Trace’s warning came back to me.
Be careful.
Knowing she felt apprehensive scared me a little. I always trusted her, relied on her for so much. But Josh seemed sincere in his loneliness. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in that soft, gentle voice. What harm could it be to let him haunt me a while?

Trace’s voice carried weakly through the Fuji wall telephone. Malvern had brought it back from some antique hunt in Japan last winter and its square black metal case gleamed as if fresh from the assembly line. Too bad the rotary dial didn’t have Japanese characters instead of numerals; that would have been cool. Still, actual bells rang inside, which made me smile whenever a call came.

“No.” I drew the word out to show my disappointment. I had waited until after 2 a.m. Twice I came close to heading out to Rt. 47 to see if he was walking there, but both times stopped myself. I felt sure I had been wrong about Josh’s interest. In life, he would have never paid any attention to me. Why, dead, would he be different?

Trace hesitated before speaking again. “Maybe that’s for the best.” In the background I could hear the other conversations around the pay phone she used at school. “So how depressed are you?”
₅₁
“Not so bad that I’ll draw dotted lines on my wrists.” Truthfully, I was more resigned to being alone, that I’d not have a long enough life to try suicide again.

She chuckled. “Good. Listen, come over to my house tonight for dinner.”
“Oooh, sounds like a date.” I had never actually been over to Trace’s for a Vaughn family dinner.
“Until tonight then, my sweet.”
I spent the next hour with a needle and thread repairing a slight rip in a jacket’s satin lining. I distracted myself from the pain of being stood up with thoughts of what to bring tonight. Why didn’t Josh want me?

Trace greeted my knock on the door with a smile that widened as I held up a cake box. She cooed with delight. “What is it?” She tried to peek inside but the box was taped shut.

“Black forest cake, the most Gothic of desserts to be found at the local baker’s.”
I followed her into the kitchen. She refused my offer to help so I sat down at the table. The settings were all rough around the edges: frayed table cloth, chipped dishes, and silverware mottled with age, but by scallop fold ing the paper napkins inside each glass and using old crystal salt shakers she found at the flea market, she had made the table look ready for a banquet.
At the stove, Trace lifted a lid and the smell of something delicious with traces of garlic and rosemary spread through the house. Normally, I’m hesitant to eat anyone’s cooking the first time—I’m such a picky eater—but whatever she stirred on the stovetop had me salivating and fidgeting in my seat.
Dressed in faded jeans and T-shirt that seemed a little small on him, Sec ond Mike came walking in, his hands kneading a caramel-colored block. He gave me a pleasant, chirpy hello and sat down in the empty seat next to me.
“Put down the clay.” Trace wiped her hands on a dishrag. This matronly side of Trace I had never seen before.
Second Mike glanced up at his sister. “I just started. And it’s not clay,” he said without whining.
“Fimo, whatever. We have company tonight.”
Second Mike looked up at me. Failing to keep a smirk off my face, I stared back at him. And it must have been my night to discover new things about the Vaughn family, because Second Mike’s features caught me. Why I’d never notice how green his eyes were or given any thought to the scattering of pale freckles on his cheeks? He dropped his gaze—as if he had read my thoughts—back to the Fimo and never saw me blush.
The sound of the front door opening broke my weird new fixation with my best friend’s brother. Mr. Vaughn had come home, still wearing the drab, olive-colored overalls that marked him as a mechanic from a local car dealership.
I never really talked much with Trace’s dad. He always seemed distant, a tired soul that just wanted to withdraw from the rest of the world.
“’Bout fifteen minutes before it’s ready,” Trace said to her father as she gave a kiss to his oil-smeared cheek. He washed his face and hands in the kitchen sink. When he came to the table, his fingernails were still dark. He grunted a hello in my direction and asked me how my aunt was.
Trace cooked an amazing chicken dish with savory dark rice and steamed vegetables. Back at my folks’, dinnertime equaled interrogation: my father asking what I did in school and how, my mother questioning who I spent time with and what their parents did. By the time I turned thirteen, I had developed a tightrope act, performed nightly, my answers not too long lest I be accused of “trifling” the discussion and responses not so brief that I was being curt. With my aunt, when we did find time to sit down together, there was no structure. Sometimes we’d both be reading at the table or laughing over a joke.
With Trace’s family, I had expected something between these two extremes and I was right and wrong. As we all began to eat, there was actual conversation with everyone involved. Trace started by telling how they can now turn a person’s cremated remains into gemstones. “They take dull carbon from the ashes and presto, you have a colored diamond.”
“Not sure I’d want to wear a bit of grandma on cuff links,” her father said with a laugh.
“What about Morgan?” Trace turned to me. “She was a black cat we had when I was little. I couldn’t pronounce her name right so I’d always say ‘Good morgin, Morgin’ when I woke up.”
“Back in Victorian times, they would make funeral jewelry from the hair of the dead.” Mike talked with his mouth full. “Braids and locks kept inside a brooch, stuff like that.”
This must be a nightly event for them. I was amazed that a family could be so congenial. My folks would
never
sit down and talk about weird things during dinner, with each person adding to the conversation.
After finishing everything on my plate, I picked up the lump of Fimo next to Second Mike. It still felt warm from his hands. “Your sister showed me the horse you made her.”
“It wasn’t a horse,” he shot back at me.
“Right. A kelpie. It really looked great.”
His hurt expression softened. “You liked it?”
I nodded. Trace chimed in, “He thought it was professional.”
Second Mike blushed.
“He must have gotten it from Mother’s side of the family.” Mr. Vaughn held up his hands for a moment. “I can take things apart and put them back together like new, but to create something?” He shook his head. “Nah.”
“So do you have more?” I held out the block.
“Yeah, in my room.” When he took the clay, his fingertips brushed my hand. My skin echoed his touch.
“Can I see?” I surprised myself by asking. I mean, sure I was curious about his artwork, but in the back of my head I really was thinking I wanted to know more about
him
. I didn’t really understand why I suddenly found him cute rather than annoying. Maybe it was seeing him for something other than a typical fifteen- year-old kid.
I expected Second Mike’s room to be cluttered, much like his sister’s, maybe with art supplies haphazardly thrown about. But his neatness surprised me. Pinned newspaper articles and old postcards decorated the walls. The floor was clear and the bed neatly made; its corners tucked in and pillows hidden beneath the comforter. Except for a couple of pictures in frames, the dresser top was clear. On a small desk lit by a tiny work lamp, he had arranged sculpting tools, lined up by length, and a rainbow array of Fimo blocks.
Second Mike had converted half of his closet into a mini gallery. Sculpture and carvings hung from tiny wires, others sat on wooden shelves or in cardboard shadow boxes: a marionette of a black swan dangled from a coat hanger, the small red bill a ruby against the dark; a miniature schooner with full sails; a cannon menaced a battalion of old wooden soldiers.
“I’m cutting the cake,” I heard Trace call out.
I did not want to leave this strange new treasure trove.
“I’ll bring us cake,” Mike said. I nodded absently, not looking away from a horned serpent that had slithered out of myth to coil on the floor at my feet.
He came back with an old tray bearing two small plates with thick slices of black forest cake and two sweating glasses of what could only be milk. He set the tray down carefully on the desk.
When had I last drank plain milk? I sucked down half of the glass. I had to drink it fast or gag on the taste.
Second Mike tasted his milk after I had nearly finished mine. As he sipped, he closed his eyes, as if concentrating on the single act. I watched him drink, amazed at how beautiful he made it look. When he finished, I continued staring at his lips, all damp and whitewashed. I found myself leaning toward him. His eyes opened and watched me.
Trace came into the room holding two mugs of steaming coffee. “Figured you’d like some java.”
I grabbed a mug from her hand, hoping that she had not glimpsed anything
about
to happen. If anything could have happened between Second Mike and me. Had I really considered kissing her brother? What was that all about? I gave him a half-smile and a shrug before following Trace back to her room.
She sat down on her bed. “Have you ever seen a ghost before Josh?”
Sipping coffee, I walked over to her bookshelf and tapped the bobble-headed Nerwin the Troll atop some paperbacks. “No. Why?”
“Just odd that he broke out of his routine for you,” she said.
“Routine?”
“Ghosts are trapped spirits. They’re always repeating themselves.” She slipped off her shoes and flexed her toes. “Josh always walked the highway. Another ghost might only roam up and down a flight of stairs.”
“So we set Josh free?”
She started to say something then shut her mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just don’t know what we did or how.”