Poe (5 page)

We decide that since there is no plan of action per se and the floorboards are dicey, we’ll settle into the former dining room, which has a couple of rotted, questionable chairs and plenty of spider webs. The psychedelic wallpaper theme continues, this time with purple blobby colors that trigger a flashback to my hallucinogenic trip. Just looking at them makes me queasy. Maddy sits on a child-sized stool, rolls of butt fat hanging over the edge, and keeps her eyes closed while she mutters a rapid prayer that blurs the words into one barely intelligible sound.

“OhsweetJesusletthespiritscomeandprotectusinthynameamen.”

Meanwhile, Nate proceeds to pull a large battery-operated lamp and inflatable chair out of his massive pack. Impressive. The inflatable chair has a built-in air pump, and in about three seconds he’s seated comfortably. I try to pick up one of the dilapidated chairs for Lisa, but the whole thing falls apart as soon as I touch it.

“Nice one, Shakespeare,” says Nate. “That was probably an antique.”

“As if you would know.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable on the floor,” says Lisa, sitting down and arranging her legs cross-legged. I join her, but there’s hardly anything perfect or comfortable about it. My ass is instantly chilled.

Nate leans back. The chair squishes. “Dad said if nothing happens to just make some shit up.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” I mutter. “He could have told me that to start, and we could have saved ourselves the trip.”

“Are you kidding?” says Nate, pulling out a bag of chips from his bag. Of course he also has a cold six-pack in there. “This is going to be a blast. I could stay here all night.”

Even Lisa’s casting a few envious looks at the inflatable chair.

“You want to switch?” he asks her.

“I’m fine,” she says firmly, but we all know she doesn’t mean it.

“Suit yourself,” says Nate. “Chip?”

If Lisa goes for the chip, then the beer isn’t far behind. Next thing you know, they’ll be cuddled up on the inflatable chair, feeding each other Lay’s from the bag, talking about bars where the cool people go.

“You want some coffee?” I ask.

Lisa shakes her head. “I wish, but I can’t take the caffeine. It’ll keep me up for days.”

“It’s decaf.” Now I’ll go to hell for sure. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

“All right,
Shakespeare
, just a little,” says Lisa wryly. “Maybe it’ll warm me up.”

Nate glares at me. Two points for Dimitri.

I pour a steaming cup of my extra-caffeinated coffee into the thermos top and hand it to her, hoping she doesn’t suffer from a heart murmur and that she has excellent health benefits. She takes a sip.

“This doesn’t
taste
like decaf,” she says, peering suspiciously into the thermos top. “Tastes Colombian. Like premium dark roast.”

I give my most innocent shrug. “Maybe because it’s organic.” But I can see Nate suspects something’s up.

“So, Lisa,” he says. “You must be the friend that works with the elderly.” Is this the same guy who said, “Who gives a shit? They’re just dead old people”?

“Yeah,” replies Lisa cautiously. “I’ve been working at Crosslands for a few years now.”

Where’s he going with this?

“I really admire that,” says Nate. “You know, my grandmother was there before she passed away last year.” He seems to choke up on this last bit.

“Really. What was your grandmother’s name?”

“Beatrice, Beatrice Cheney,” says Nate. “It was cancer. Cancer left a hole in the heart of our family.” He presses a meaty paw across his eyes, as if there might be tears.

Lisa’s brows furrow. With concern? Is she actually falling for this crap?

“Beatrice? I don’t remember a Beatrice—”

“Probably before you started there.”

“I thought your grandmother lived in Florida,” I say pointedly, twisting the cap back on my thermos. “Near Orlando.”

“She did… before… she died.”

Such
an evil, unfair play—now I must look like an insensitive jerk. I’m in a bad,
bad
mental place until Lisa catches my eye and gives me a questioning eyebrow.

Hallelujah. There is a God.

Nate sniffs. “Do you have a tissue?”

“Right, tissue,” says Lisa dryly. “You have an arsenal in your backpack but not a single paper product.”

“I just didn’t think I’d get so emotional. But this place reminds me of her. It’s so old-timey.” He sighs heavily and snuffles.

“
Okay
,” says Lisa, getting to her feet and brushing the residual dust off her jeans. “I wanted to stretch my legs anyways. I can look around, see if anyone’s left some TP or something.” She grabs her bag and gracefully slides it over her shoulder.

“Want some company?” I ask hopefully. Last thing I need is quality time with Nate.

“I’m good,” she says with a half smile. “Plus I could use a little break from the whole competing-over-the-girl caveman vibe.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. She’s onto us.

Of course, as soon as she’s out of the room, Nate snaps open a beer. He is suddenly dry-eyed.

“She totally digs me. Don’t worry, Shakespeare, I’ll be gentle with her.” He pops a chip into his mouth, crunching loudly. “You know, I bet she’s got great tits somewhere under that jacket.”

I wince. But to be honest, I’m thinking the same thing myself—I’m a guy; our brains go there. Plus, I haven’t
been
with anyone recently. For one thing, the dating pool in New Goshen is dismally limited, unless I want to consider a retiree as a prospective love interest. And I’ve told myself that a relationship would distract me from finishing the Great American Novel I started in college, which is now nearing the one-thousand-page mark, with no end in sight.

It began simply enough—write your thesis on a historical person of interest. I chose Grigori Rasputin, partly because I’d recently watched a magician hypnotize a frat brother into squawking like a chicken (an obviously useful skill), and partly because I thought that it would finally give my father and me something to talk about—them both being from Russia and all. After buying a few thick, dusty books from eBay on Rasputin, I quickly discovered that actual research is mind-numbingly dull, so I opted to make my book fictional, which allowed me to incorporate unsubstantiated rumors from the blogosphere. Much easier. Maybe the opening chapter with Rasputin’s resurrection while his corpse was burning, having just been poisoned, stabbed, beaten, and drowned,
was
a bit much, but after the syphilitic prostitute disemboweled him, I began to think I was on my way to making my first million (gore never having hurt Stephen King’s career). Then I thought—what the hell?—let’s make him a zombie (a vampire would be so… cliché), which would logically explain his
pale skin, creepy stare, and inability to be properly killed. “Rasputin: Secret Tsar of Immortal Zombies”. Shit, this could be a
franchise
. My professor quickly dismissed the book as trash, which only added to the appeal, but now at page 985 I realize that it’s become what we in literary circles call a hot mess. Every night I spend two or three hours feverishly typing, hoping that some Kafkaesque logic will eventually manifest. All I need is another ten pages. Or maybe another ten. I’m like the guy who has lost his life savings at the roulette wheel and is going to the pawn shop to unload his wedding ring—one more roll will make it right.

I look over, and Maddy pauses her chant long enough to take a drag on her cigarette. If she were really psychic, she’d quit smoking, because even I can figure out what her obituary headline will be:
PSYCHIC HAIRDRESSER DIES OF LUNG CANCER
.

Nate shoves another handful of chips in his already-full mouth. “You getting this all down, Shakespeare?”

“Getting what down? Nothing’s happening.” A cockroach scuttles along the baseboard, as if it’s waiting for us to be distracted long enough so it can make a run for the potato chip crumbs—thrilling stuff. I hear creaking footsteps overhead, which for a few tantalizing seconds gives me hope that there might actually be a ghost and, more importantly, a story to write about, until I realize it’s probably just Lisa on her quest for bathroom tissue. I hope she’s up to date on the rotting floorboards situation. Given the piles of termite dust in the corners, I’m surprised the place hasn’t collapsed entirely.

“Night’s still early,” says Nate. He opens his pack and pulls out a high-end video camera. “It’s got night vision, so I can catch all the action. Figured I’d need to make sure you get the story right.”

“You’re worried
I’m
not going to get the story right? This from someone who just lied his ass off about his grandmother dying.”

“Shakespeare’s jealous,” he says, wiping a greasy hand on his jeans. “When’s the last time you got laid anyways?”

“I really don’t think I need to tell
you
—”

“So not recently. This year? Ever?”

I cup my hand to my ear. “Hear that, Nate? That’s the sound of my lawyer calling your dad and filing a hostile work environment lawsuit.”

“If this is a workplace, then get to work,” says Nate. “You’re supposed to be a reporter; what are you going to report
with
?”

“Fine,” I mutter. I open my messenger bag to dig for my notepad, but my hand comes across something else instead, small, round, and hard. I open my bag wider and see a rip in the lining. There is something silver glinting within. My heart skips a beat. I widen the tear, and yes, there it is—my father’s ring. Fuck, I
didn’t
lose it. The ring’s been in my bag all this time. It somehow feels right to slip it on my finger. It’s heavy and strange but solid too—reassuring.

“You going to put a necklace on next?” asks Nate.

But before I can respond there’s more creaking, closer this time, which announces Lisa’s return. She holds a slightly yellowed roll of toilet paper, and Nate quickly resumes his traumatized expression.

“Best I could find,” she says, tossing the roll to Nate.

“Thanks,” whispers Nate. He tears off some tissue and pretends to blow his nose, loudly. “I just get a little emotional talking about Granny.”

“I
so
believe you,” she says, taking off her jacket and making a cushion of it before sitting back down. “Did I miss anything good?” she adds casually. But for some reason she seems a little shaken, and I notice that her mittens are now stuffed in her jacket pockets. Her hands are also covered with dust, and a raw, mean-looking scratch crosses the back of her wrist.

“Wanna check out my video camera? It’s got
night vision
,” Nate says proudly.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask quietly.

“Sure, I’m fine,” she says. “Why?”

“Well that scratch looks like it could use a Band-Aid or something.”

“It’s nothing,” she says tersely. “I was opening a cabinet and a rusty nail got me.”

“It doesn’t
look
like nothing.”

“Is that thing on?” shouts Maddy from her corner.

“It’s rolling,” says Nate, pointing it at Lisa. I see he’s working the zoom around her chest.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” says Maddy. She slowly heaves herself to her feet and then raises her flabby arms up like she’s about to catch something—a chunk of plaster from the ceiling perhaps—and her voice takes on a strange staccato cadence, like she’s a bad actor in an equally bad community theater production.

“
Spirits
. We come as
friends
. We come in
peace
. If you can hear my
voice
, then give us a
sign
. Show us your
presence
. Show us what happened
here
.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and we’re treated to a view of her upturned nostrils.

But of course nothing happens, except for a few dust motes drifting tepidly in the wake of a slight draft.

“That could get infected,” I whisper to Lisa. “Or you could get tetanus. I can drive you to the doctor.”

“What part of ‘I’m fine’ don’t you understand?” she hisses back.

“The spirits require
silence
!” says Maddy loudly, glaring at us. But just as she finishes the word “silence,” she’s struck with a deep smoker’s cough and has to hit her chest a couple of times, like something is firmly lodged there—a lung tumor perhaps. All that chest thumping causes her beehive to lean slightly to the left, so it’s hard to keep a straight face as she raises her hands again and intones, “
Spirits
. What do you have to
say
?”

The ghosts here must be a shy bunch.

“I just don’t see why you want to stay here,” I whisper, “and risk lockjaw when I can easily take you to the doctor. We could grab something to eat afterward.”

Oh God oh God, I think I just asked Lisa out. But just as she opens her mouth to respond, my dear friend Nate chimes in.

“That
is
a nasty scratch you got there. I have Band-Aids. And Neosporin.”

Lisa gives him a look. “You have Band-Aids, Neosporin, a six-pack, chips, and an inflatable chair with an air pump but no
toilet paper
.”

Nate smirks and pulls his bag onto his lap. “You can thank me later.”

Lisa’s mouth just hangs open in disbelief, but I want to get back to the dinner part. Was she going to say yes?

“Let’s see,” says Nate. He pulls out a road flare, bungee cord, a set of jumper cables, a pair of handcuffs (handcuffs?), small silver packages of wrapped emergency food, a cigarette lighter, a well-worn paperback—
The Complete Survival Handbook: Protect Yourself Against Revolution, Earthquakes, Hurricanes, Riots, Famines, and Other Disasters
—and finally a small first-aid kit.

“You’re not one of those creepy package bomber survivalists, are you?” Lisa finally manages to say.

“Nah. They wouldn’t take me after my buddy blew off a couple fingers. Give me your hand.”

Lisa pulls it back defensively.

“I’m
just
going to put a Band-Aid on it. Shakespeare’s right about getting an infection. All these rats around here, you could probably get that flesh-eating bacteria or something.”