Spirit (15 page)

Softly, I asked, “Do you really think Paul is dead?”

Sam straightened and trailed his eyes to mine. He pushed his hair away from his face with both hands and held it there while the air cooled his forehead.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe it in my heart, Jason.”

I blinked at the sadness on his face. “Then I’m sorry,” I said.

He nodded, freeing his hair, gazing deep into my eyes. “I know you are.”

Our moment was interrupted when Timmy squealed with delight in the sunroom. By the weird-ass music playing in the background on
Killer Jeeps,
which Timmy had cranked up as high as it would go apparently for the benefit of all our neighbors and maybe some of the ships at sea, I knew he was fighting the Sewer Demon. And good luck with that. Even I had trouble killing that fucker, and I designed the game.

“Sally should be calling,” I said. It was my turn to throw my hands up in front of my face as if warding off a blow when Sam quickly glanced my way. “And don’t worry, I still won’t tell her you’re here.”

“Not yet anyway,” Sam said.

“Fine. Not yet.”

This brought another subject to mind. A subject I didn’t like at all, but one I couldn’t stop picking at like a scab. “And when do
you
plan on leaving?” I tried to be nonchalant about the asking, but I could still hear my heart nervously hammering away inside me.

Sam reached out and touched my arm. “Not yet,” he said gently. And all I could do was nod.

Not yet.
It was going to be lonely around the place when both Timmy and Sam left, what with just me, Thumper, and my ghost rattling about the property trying not to run into each other.

Sam squinted up at the sun from beneath the shade of his hand. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took one last whiff of the tree roses. He turned to me as I wound up the garden hose and hung it on the metal rack at the side of the house.

“You have to stop trying to ignore what’s going on, Jason.”

For one brief moment, I thought he meant… “Us? Are you talking about us?”

Sam smiled kindly at the worried expression on my face. “No, babe. But that conversation’s coming up too.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. So I tried to ignore it. “You mean Timmy.”

“Yes. It’s time we talked to Timmy about what happened the other night. I think he might be willing to discuss it now. He doesn’t seem to be upset anymore. He’s had a whole week with no ghostly apparitions playing head games with him. Or us. I’d like to hear why he said some of the things he said that night. About his dad and all.”

I had to keep reminding myself that Sam had more at stake in all of this than I did. It was his brother who was missing. It was Sam’s brother that Timmy was convinced had visited him that night. While I didn’t believe it for a minute, I thought it only fair to allow Sam to follow his half-ass investigation into Paul’s disappearance wherever it might lead. It was important to him. And it was important to me too. But for Sam it was personal.

“Fine,” I said, folding Sam into my arms beside the tree roses, not caring if the neighbors or Timmy could see us. Not caring about anything but the feel of Sam in my arms. And the feel of Sam’s arms embracing me back.

“After dinner, then?” he asked, his voice already getting that husky timbre that signified sexual awakening. God, Sam was mesmerizing when he talked like that.

I nodded, trying to swallow my desire. “Sure. After dinner.”

In thanks, Sam brushed his lips over mine. My heart did a syncopated stutter inside my chest. I gently grasped a fistful of Sam’s hair and held him in place while I kissed him back. While still connected, our kiss became a smile. For both of us.

“You,” I said, drawing back, gazing deep into Sam’s eyes. Even I didn’t know what I wanted to say next. Or maybe I did.

But the moment was interrupted by the rattle of a windowpane. Still standing there in each other’s arms, we turned toward the house.

Timmy was making kissy faces and smooching and licking and slurping at the window glass like a bottom feeder in a glass aquarium. He dragged his pucker from one side of the window to the other, depositing smears of spit and leaving kissy lip prints everywhere he touched. He was laughing while he did it. Laughing at us as we stood there like saps, wrapped in each other’s arms.

The little brat. I had just washed those windows.

S
AM
MADE
swedish meatballs for dinner, and suddenly, I had another reason to be nuts about the guy. He could cook.

Timmy was less impressed.

“What’s that?” He was pointing at his dinner plate like a skunk had crawled up on it and died.

“Monkey snot and rhino boogers,” Sam bragged, batting his eyes modestly. “My own recipe.”

Timmy still didn’t seem particularly intrigued. “Really?” With thumb and forefinger, he dragged out a noodle and held it up for inspection. “And what’s this?”

“Ganglia.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Those rhino boogers are hard to get too. Rhinos don’t like to give ’em up. Of course, monkey snot and ganglia are everywhere.”

Timmy poked it with his fork. “Hmm. Mommy never fixes this.”

“Mommy’s lazy. Plus she’s probably a crappy cook.”

Timmy snorted. “Omm. You said crappy. That sounds nicer than what Mommy says.”

“What does Mommy say?”

“Shitty.”

“Lovely. So eat already,” Sam said. He was talking to me too.

So I did. Eventually, so did Timmy. Not another word was spoken about Sam’s unusual list of ingredients.

Pretty soon the kitchen was filled with the industrious clatter of silverware on china, and I have to say, the rhino boogers were delicious. As usual, the three of us were sitting at the kitchen table. It was easier than dragging everything into the dining room. Plus I thought I’d give the dining room table a couple more days to air out. You never know what sort of sexual pathogens might still be lingering there in the wood from the other night.

We eventually finished eating. Our dirty plates still sat in front of us. Timmy was sipping at what was left of his chocolate milk, and Sam and I had wine. Our bellies were full, and we were all too lazy to even think about moving just yet.

Still needing to be close to Timmy, Thumper was sound asleep on a dishtowel in the middle of the table, like a holiday centerpiece.

Sam didn’t waste any time. His foot was resting on my instep under the table, but his warm brown eyes were centered on Timmy. Finally, Timmy realized that fact, and he stared right back at his Uncle Sam.

“Full?” Sam asked.

Timmy grinned. “I ate a lot.”

“I know you did. So did Uncle Jason. Will you still love your Uncle Jason when he’s all fat and gooshy?”

Timmy giggled. “Yep. Will you?”

Sam had the good grace to blush. “We’ll see.”

“Thanks,” I groaned for both their sakes, although I’m pretty sure I was blushing too.

Sam stroked my instep with his bare toes by way of apology for the fat comment. Once again he focused his attention on Timmy, and Timmy, as fearless as always, focused right back.

Sam cleared his throat. Time to get to it, he seemed to be saying. And so he did.

“Do you remember the wind the other night?”

“Yeah.” Timmy perked right up. “Can we do it again?”

“Not right now. Do you remember who you said brought the wind?”

“Yeah. Do we have any more Popsicles?”

“Maybe. I’ll check in a minute. Who was it you told us made the wind. Do you remember?”

“Yes. It was Daddy.”

“Do you remember your daddy?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know that’s who it was?”

“Because he told me.”

“He talked to you?”

“Yeah. I think I want a cherry one this time.”

“Cherry Popsicle. You got it. When Daddy talks to you, can you see him?”

“Kinda.

“What do you mean ‘kinda’?

“He kinda comes and goes.” Timmy paused as if thinking about the best way to express what he wanted to say. “He looks kinda wavy. Like he’s under water. You’d like him, though. He’s pretty. He looks like you.”

Sam leaned in closer. “Thank you. You say he looks like me?”

Timmy nodded. “’Cept he’s taller.”

Sam’s eyes darted to me. “He was. Paul was taller.”

I decided to ask some questions of my own. “Timmy, when Daddy talked to you, what did he say? What did he talk about?”

Timmy considered that. “He talked about how big I was. He called me a little man.”

“You are a little man. What else did he say?”

“He said he wanted me to stay here with you and Sam.”

“He talked about me and Sam?”

Timmy nodded.

“What about your mommy? Didn’t your daddy ever talk about her? Doesn’t he want you to live with her? Be her boy?”

Timmy shrugged. His face darkened. He appeared uncomfortable. I wondered if he was about to clam up on us.

Apparently, so did Sam. He scraped his chair back and headed for the door. “I’m gonna get that Popsicle.”

“Yay!” Timmy cried, clapping his hands. Thumper wagged her tail at Timmy’s show of enthusiasm, but she didn’t bother waking up. Thumper was a multitasker.

While Sam was gone to get the Popsicle from the big freezer on the service porch, I quickly lowered my voice and asked, “Was Daddy alive when you saw him?”

Again, Timmy shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess.”

“Does he live here in the house with me? With us? Is he always here?”

Timmy nodded again, but it was a sad nod. Hesitant, as if something about the question, or his answer to it, confused him. “He said he can’t go outside. He really wants to go outside and play, but he can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The doors won’t work.”

“You mean he’s trapped in the house?”

“I guess. When’s Mommy coming home?”

“Why? You miss her?”

Timmy rolled his eyes, sarcastic as hell. “No.”

Sam laughed. He was back from the fridge. “Kid’s all heart,” he muttered, handing Timmy his cherry Popsicle.

Timmy didn’t take it. “Take the paper off first.”

“Oh, sorry.” Sam did as he was told.

Still Timmy wouldn’t take it. “There’s a piece of ice on it. I don’t like ice.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Kid, the whole thing is ice. Take it or I’ll give it to the dog, if I can snap her out of her geriatric coma.”

Timmy took the Popsicle, eyeballing it askance until he had scraped off that one tiny piece of frost with his thumbnail. Then he popped it in his mouth. In ten seconds flat, his chin was red, his shirt was dribbled over, and he had a stream of melted cherry Popsicle running up his arm. There was so much red on the kid, he looked like he had been strafed with artillery fire.

Between slurps, Timmy said, “Daddy likes playing with me. He told me he could blow me right up the chimley if he wanted to.”

“Chimney,” I said. “It’s pronounced
chimney.”

Then I realized what Timmy had said. So did Sam. We locked eyes with each other.

Without even thinking about what I was doing, I glowered up at the ceiling and shouted, “Don’t even
think
about blowing him up the chimney!”

Sam muttered around a grin. “Don’t believe in ghosts, huh? Then who you talking to?”

Timmy laughed. “Daddy was kidding. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Did he tell you that?” It was Sam asking the question. He beat me to the punch.

“No,” Timmy said, squeezing one eye shut because he was having another brain freeze moment. “I just know it. Daddy loves me.”

“Did he tell you
that
?”

“Uh-huh. Where do the rhinos live?”

That question was so far out of left field, Sam and I had to blink back our confusion for a moment. Then I said, “Oh. Two streets over.”

“That’s what I thought,” Timmy said, sucking anew at his cherry Popsicle, or what was left of it. He was almost down to the stick now.

Timmy suddenly cocked his head to the side and gazed off blankly into space as if listening to a sound only he could hear. Which was apparently the truth, for a second later, he said, “It’s Mommy!”

Sam and I jumped. “Say what? Where?”

Timmy pointed a sticky red finger at my new cell phone, sitting beside me on the kitchen counter.

“There.”

And the moment we looked at the phone—it rang!

Sam and I jumped
again.
Who wouldn’t?

Sam stared at Timmy like he had never seen anyone as fascinating in his life. “How did you—”

But before Sam could finish his question, Timmy plucked the Popsicle stick out of his mouth and a grin split his face. “Look! There’s Daddy too! See him?”

I stumbled to my feet and spun 360 degrees. I didn’t see anyone but the three of us. Sam even made the supremely ridiculous motion of bending down and peeking under the kitchen table. I almost laughed. And the overriding word in
that
sentence is
almost.

When the cell phone rang again, we ignored it.

“Where is he?” Sam and I asked together. “Where’s Daddy?”

Timmy pointed to the stove. “There.” Then he added, “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh? Uh-oh what?” Sam asked. His eyes were as big as golf balls. He obviously didn’t like the sound of that “uh-oh.” I didn’t like it either. We had experienced “uh-ohs” before.

We turned to the boy, and just as we did, Timmy’s grin dropped off his face like the last leaf of winter. “Daddy’s mad,” he said, scrunching down in his chair and pulling his dinner napkin over his head. Thumper seemed to finally realize something was going on. She struggled to her feet with a clatter of toenails and looked around. Baring her teeth, she growled in the direction of the stove, and then Timmy grabbed her back leg like a drumstick and dragged her close so he could pull the napkin over her head too. Together the two of them lay hunkered under the napkin, not moving a muscle. I wondered if I should crawl under there with them.

The cell phone rang a third time.

“I don’t see a thing,” Sam said to me, perplexed as hell. Like I wasn’t.

“Neither do I.”

We both giggled with relief, thinking we had just been fooled by a four-year-old. I was about to reach out and answer the phone when, with a
boom
, flames suddenly gushed out of each of the four burners on the stove. The flames roared and crackled and shot all the way up to the ceiling. I clutched my heart just as Sam grabbed my arm.