Before and Afterlives (29 page)

At the Jacobs House, Ariel leans close to Sylvie and whi
spers, “Who’s that guy?”

Sylvie looks at Ariel, who nods at a middle-aged man in an old black suit standing next to their circle, listening to the J
acobs ghost tell her story. Sylvie shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “Another actor?”

The man turns and looks at Sylvie as the Jacobs ghost fi
nishes her story of eternal love for a boy who died before he could marry her, of how she drowned herself in the Mahoning River to join him. The man in the black suit nods at Sylvie. He has a strange beard, like Mr. Marlowe in her album, pointy and black with two lines of gray down the center. Skunk stripes. Sylvie nods back. Then their guide ushers them on to the next house. Sylvie hangs back until everyone is slightly ahead, and the man in the black suit falls in step beside her.

“Lovely night,” he says. Sylvie nods again. “Are you enjo
ying the Ghost Walk?” he asks her.

“It’s fun,” she says, noncommittal, looking ahead at the others.

“But you’ve seen ghosts before. Other ghosts
.
Rea
l
ghosts. This is nothing for you.”

Sylvie stops and looks at the man, hard. “Who are you?” she asks.

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” the man says. His voice sounds gravelly and vaguely British. His face is lined with acne crevices, but she can tell he’s not as old as his scarred skin and pointy beard make him look. “Your father is the ghost hunter, isn’t he?”

“That’s right,” says Sylvie. “What about it?”

“I want you to give him a message,” the man in the black suit says. “Tell him he’s being watched. Tell him perhaps he should put that camera down before someone gets hurt. Perhaps himself. Or perhaps his daughter, for example. Tell him some of us can do more than haunt. And we would hate to see such a bright young girl like yourself fall down a staircase in one of these old mansions. I hear some of these places aren’t as safe on the inside as they appear.”

Sylvie narrows her eyes. The man smiles and performs something like a little bow, holding one hand against his chest. “You’re lying,” she says. “Ghosts can’t touch.” She knows this because if they could, she and her mother would have always been hugging.

He takes her hand in his and bends to kiss it. It’s cold to the touch, and solid. Sylvie flinches and takes a step back toward the edge of the street.

“Sylvie!” Aaron calls from nearly a block away. “What’s the hold up?”

“Nothing!” she shouts over her shoulder. “Coming!”

She’s already decided she will ask the man in the black suit how he did it, how he touched her, if it’s because, as she sometimes worries, she spends more time with ghosts than living people, if it’s because her father keeps asking her to find them, to see them, to talk to them. But when she turns back to question him, he’s gone. Nothing is there but the wind pushing leaves across the sidewalk.

At home her father asks if she had a good time. “Good enough,” says Sylvie. “But there was a man there. I think he was a ghost.”

“What sort of man?” asks her father, spinning away from his computer on his desk chair to face her. “What sort of ghost?”

“It was weird. He could touch me. He took my hand and tried to kiss it.”

“Sylvie,” her father says, red flags waving in his voice, “did he hurt you in any way?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. I pulled away from him and this kid A
aron yelled to ask why I was lagging behind. I turned to tell him I was coming, and when I turned back, the man was gone. He said he was a ghost, and that you’d better stop hunting them.”

“Ghosts can’t touch people, Sylvie. You know that.”

“But he did,” says Sylvie. “I can still feel the cold on my hand where he held it.”

Her father stands and comes to inspect her hand, holding it in his own like something broken that needs to be fixed. When he touches her, Sylvie begins to feel warmth in her hand again, but her father says, “It’s like ice.”

“You should stop, Dad,” says Sylvie. “He said something else. He said he’d hate to see your daughter fall down a staircase in one of those mansions.”

“Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie,” her father whispers, pulling her i
nto a hug, holding her, his arms wrapped all the way around. “You’re tired, that’s all. Whoever this man is, he’s not dead. The dead can’t touch us. He’s probably some wacko. We have to keep an eye out for people like that.”

“You can do something else,” she says into his fuzzy wool sweater. “You can get a different job and then they’ll leave us alone.”

“Honey!” her father says, pushing her out at arm’s length to look at her. “This is the best we’ve ever been able to do. The best we’ve ever lived. There’s no reason to be afraid of a ghost. Besides, if he comes around, we’ll take his picture. See how he likes that.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this. Mom—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t bring your mother into this, Sylvie. It’s been over a year now. I think it’s time to move on, don’t you?”

Sylvie shakes her head and sniffs, realizing she’s about to start crying. She pulls away from her father and folds her hands under her arms, nods, and walks upstairs to her be
droom where the ghosts in the photo album are mumbling, conversing, skipping rope and barking, gossiping and reasoning. Sylvie opens it to talk to her mother, but when she pulls the cover back she sees her mother is asleep on the mattress on the floor of her old bedroom, her breathing even, her chest rising and falling. She looks so peaceful. Sylvie could wake her, but she decides to get through this on her own. “Good night, Mom,” she whispers. Then gently shuts the book.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I didn’t expect you all this early,” says Mary Caldwell when Sylvie and her father arrive at the Caldwells the next morning. It’s ten A.M. and Mary Caldwell is in the side yard burning trash in a barrel when they pull up her long, gravel drive. Smoke rises into the air in long dark tendrils beside her. The Caldwells aren’t usual customers.  They live in an old farmhouse on land where there’s no longer an actual farm, in a township called Mecca. Years ago it was sold off, piece by piece, Mary Caldwell tells them as she invites them in to sit in the living room for coffee, leaving the barrel burning behind them. So now the land that was once the farm has other houses on it. Mary Caldwell’s husband has gone to a bar down the road, a place Sylvie noticed when they drove around the town circle. The Hole in the Wall. Mary Caldwell’s husband is often there, she tells them. He’s a friend of the owner, but mostly he’s always down there because he can’t stand being inside the house with the baby. “I mean the ghost,” says Mary, blushing. “We don’t have any children of our own.”

“I understand,” says Sylvie’s father. “We’ll take care of everything, rest assured. In fact, you should probably join your hu
sband. It’s better if we’re left alone to take care of the matter.”

So you can’t see how we do it, thinks Sylvie. But she holds her tongue.

Mary Caldwell sits up straight in her chair, puts her hands on her thighs and breathes a long sigh, as if she’s entered a yoga position. “Thank you,” she says. “But please, it won’t be painful for the poor thing, will it?”

“Of course not,” says the ghost hunter. “Think of it as r
eleasing a lost soul. I’m sure it’s simply confused about the state of its being.”

“Yeah, probably,” says Mary Caldwell. Sylvie likes Mary Cal
dwell. She likes the man’s flannel shirt she’s wearing, the way she hasn’t done much with her hair but it still looks real nice, wavy, and that she doesn’t wear any makeup but somehow still looks soft and pretty. That was how her mother used to be. Mary Caldwell catches Sylvie staring and smiles. “Would you like to come with me, honey? We could drive on out to the mall. I’m sure the whole thing must terrify a young girl like yourself, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, Sylvie is my assistant,” says the ghost hunter. He turns to Sylvie and smiles. “And it’s not so terrifying an exp
erience, really. Sylvie has seen other ghosts, obviously. Does it scare you, Sylvie?”

“No,” says Sylvie. “It’s not scary. Just sad.”

“What do you mean?” says Mary Caldwell, her brows furrowing in alarm now.

The ghost hunter takes over. “She means simply that it’s sad to see ghosts stuck here, instead of where they should be.”

“Oh,” says Mary Caldwell. “Well, yes, I can see that’s certainly a sad thing. I’m always thinking that way about the baby. Wanting to help it somehow. I hope this is the right thing.”

The ghost hunter assures her it is. He asks Sylvie to show her the photo album. Sylvie takes it out of her backpack and shows Mary Caldwell pictures of ghosts, flipping from page to page while Mary Caldwell nods and mmm-hmms. Her f
ather says, “These are all ghosts we’ve been able to help on their way.” Sylvie doesn’t show Mary Caldwell her mother. She shows her Mr. Marlowe, who plays with his mustache and snickers, though only Sylvie sees and hears him. She shows her the little girl skipping rope and the dog chasing his tail.

“Well, then,” says Mary Caldwell. “All of these folks seem ha
ppy, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” says the ghost hunter. He inquires about the form of payment, and Mary Caldwell pulls a folded envelope from the back pocket of her jeans and hands it to Sylvie’s f
ather. The ghost hunter accepts it appreciatively and leads Mary Caldwell out her door to the porch, down the steps to her car, where he shuts the door for her and waits in the drive until she’s backed out onto the road and is on her way to the Hole in the Wall to meet her husband. After she’s gone, he returns to the living room and says, “Okay, Sylvie. Where can we find this baby?”

Sylvie begins walking through the house, looking around, pic
king up snow globes, which apparently Mary Caldwell collects. They are everywhere Sylvie looks, on shelves and tables, on the hutch in the dining room. She picks up one with the Statue of Liberty inside it and shakes the globe, stirring the snow. She wanders up the wooden steps of the farmhouse to the second floor, leaving her father in the living room below. She peeks in doorways as she passes by them, the master bedroom with the unmade bed, the guest bedroom where everything is neat and tidy, the sewing room, where everything is a bit disorderly, pieces of fabric, spools and thimbles and pin cushions tossed on a worktable and in baskets littered on the floor. When Sylvie is about to leave the sewing room to check out the bathroom, she hears the first cry.

Angry but tiny, it comes from behind her. She turns around, and the cry comes again, then again. The voice does not seem to come from any one place in the room, but from the room itself, as if from every nook and cranny. “Hello?” Sylvie says. “I know you’re here. Why don’t you come out? Let me see you.”

The baby’s cries grow louder and faster, as if it’s throwing a tantrum or suffering from colic. Sylvie coos to it several times, coaxing, and finally, suddenly, it appears on the worktable next to the sewing machine. It’s so tiny! It wears a cloth diaper that’s actually pinned. It’s face is red and squinched up, as if it’s in pain, and she goes to it, picks it up and says, “Hey now, hey now. No need to cry, baby.” The baby’s cries stretch out like taffy, but a silence grows between them, longer and longer, until it gives up and looks up into her eyes and quiets for good. Sylvie smiles, then realizes she’s actually holding it. “Oh my God,” she says. “You’re like him. The man in the black suit.”

The baby blinks twice, then fades away, leaving Sylvie holding nothing but empty air.

It reappears on the worktable a minute later, crying again. She goes to it, picks it up and tries to sing it a lullaby. Slowly, surely, it quiets again. “You’re playing with me,” says Sylvie, and the baby giggles and makes a handful of sounds like vowels.

“Excellent, Sylvie,” her father says behind her. She turns quickly, still holding the baby in her arms. “You weren’t l
ying. I can’t believe it. You can touch it.”

“I told you,” says Sylvie. “I told you what the man said. You’ve got to stop, Dad. I have to stop.”

Her father lifts the Polaroid to his eye and Sylvie spins around as it flashes behind her.

“Sylvie!” her father says. “What’s the matter with you?”

“You can’t, Dad. It’s just a baby. And they’re not gone. You know that.”

“This is nonsense, Sylvie,” her father says, his camera arm g
oing limp beside him in exasperation. But Sylvie won’t turn around. She curls herself over the baby as if any bit of it is exposed, the Polaroid might snatch it from her. “Sylvie, show me that baby,” her father demands.

“Hide,” she whispers to the baby. “And don’t come back. You’ve got to hide, ok?”

The baby begins to disappear just as Sylvie’s father places a hand on her shoulder and spins her around. “Stop this,” he says, and then, when he sees Sylvie isn’t holding anything at all, says, “What did you do, Sylvie? Why are you being so stubborn?”

Just then the baby begins crying again. Sylvie looks over her shoulder at the worktable. There it is, plopped down next to the sewing machine. Her father lifts the camera and snaps the baby while its mouth is wide open, screaming. The scream is cut short, replaced by a hissing sound, air leaking out of a balloon. The ghost hunter retrieves the picture, waves it in the air, and with each flick of his wrist the baby wavers, fading on the worktable, until it disappears. When her father hands the photo to her after it’s developed, the baby’s in the picture. Still screaming. “Dad,” she says. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”