Steinbeck’s Ghost (19 page)

He wore white jeans and a white shirt, over which he wore a black serape. On his feet he wore leather huar-aches, and on his head a conical straw hat. He was a Day of the Dead Gitano.

In one hand he carried his plastic pumpkin, in the other an odd- looking garden tool.

“It’s a short hoe,” Hil said. “They’re illegal now, but for years they broke the backs of farmworkers all over this valley. And now I have risen from the dead to wreak vengeance for my people.”

Hil cackled and slashed at the air. He was actually pretty scary.

“I shall wreak the vengeance,” Hil said. “And you, Señor Ghostwriter, you will create my legend.”

Together they cackled and set out. Travis turned off all the lights, inside and out. He hoped this would prevent angry trick- or- treaters from too much tricking.

Dusk had already settled, purple- blue, but it was still warm out. The strong afternoon wind had died. The orange streetlights hummed. Travis stopped when they reached the sidewalk. Bella Linda Terrace had been transformed.

Across the street, Mrs. Juarez was putting up a string of orange lights around her front windows. Glowing purple bats hung from the empty branches of her little trees. A smoldering cauldron invited children to her porch.

Up and down the blocks, the houses were illuminated and decorated. Green and orange and purple lights shone on skeletons and headstones and giant spiders, on roofs and in front yards. In open garages, black lights and strobe lights hinted at spookier goings- on. It was a carnival, a carnival of the dead. Bands of costumed kids, mostly little kids at this hour, roamed from house to house. Bella Linda Terrace was almost beautiful.

“You know,” Hil said. “It’s like the Camazotz game out here. Except all the creatures from the hidden worlds have broken out of their prisons. Cool.”

“That’s what Halloween’s about, right?” Travis said. “The mysterious world and the real world meeting. It’s way cool.”

They fell into the stream of the night, following trick-or- treaters from house to house, careful to not miss a single one.

They traipsed behind ninjas and princesses, vampires, Harry Potters, a few Hermiones, frogs and cats, mummies, ghosts, robots.

When they got to the second block, Hil started working the other side of the street. They’d never give out all the fl yers working together.

That plan worked better, but as the blocks went by and the candy piled up in their pumpkins, it got harder to make their spiels about the library. More and more kids were out now, and they kept pushing past Travis to get to their candy. On one block they saw two other kids from school, duded up in serious Star Wars swag and toting their library pumpkins.

Travis pulled Hil to a streetlight on a busy corner.

“We’re just going to the houses,” he said. “But look aTheverybody else here. We’re missing most of them, and there’s a lot more trick- or- treaters than houses. If we stay here, they all have to walk past us. We’ll get all the parents.”

Without blinking, Hil began to shout, in a movie-newsboy voice. “Save our library, save our library right here.”

In one hour they got rid of all the fl yers, talked to hundreds of parents, even some kids, and collected a ton of money. And best of all, everyone dropped candy into their pumpkins. They each earned a mountain of tooth-melting sugar.

They went to Travis’s house, where they counted the candy and the money. They’d collected $212.37; Travis had 135 pieces of candy, Hil 177. An impressive haul all the way around. If each of the other pumpkins brought in close to the same amount of money, that would be over a thousand dollars. Better than the car wash. Maybe people were fi nally getting the message.

But they couldn’Theat any more candy, and it was still pretty early, just after nine. It was Halloween! They couldn’t stop now. So they went off in search of something spooky.

A smudged moon rose from behind the Gabilans. The streets were nearly empty, only a few knots of older kids here and there. Bella Linda Terrace was still lit up, though for the first time since he’d moved here, it looked tired to Travis, a bit worn. He couldn’Thexplain why this was a nice feeling.

Hil knew a secret passage he’d been dying to show Travis. He led him to the bottom of Green Town Court, where between the last two houses on the cul- de- sac, a narrow alley opened.

“I think it’s a maintenance thing,” Hil said. “You know, so the gardeners and stuff can get behind the houses. They’re all over the place, but this is the best one.”

Travis had not noticed these tight alleys before, and he’d lived here fi ve months. He needed to pay more attention.

The court was lit up buThempty. They looked around, rather conspicuously, Travis thought, then whooshed into the alley.

The path was a thick carpet of new grass, pale blue in the moonlight. Hil might have been here before, but no one else had. This was unknown territory.

The stucco walls of the two- story houses—hard to know their color in this light—rose high above them, an impossible canyon. And higher still, the moon sat imperturbable in the sky, at its zenith, looking down on them, shining down on them. Hil crept along, bent low, as if he were a jewel thief on an escapade. All the white in his costume, his pants and skull and skeleton hands, was literally glowing. The black of his serape made him appear disjointed, fl oating. He really was a ghost.

Travis discovered that he was moving the same way, hunched over, stealthy.

“Hey,” Travis whispered. “Why are we walking like this? We’re not really doing anything wrong.”

“I know,” Hil whispered. “It’s just more fun this way.”

The alley continued between the high fences of the backyards, then opened up into a flat area between the backs of the fences and the stone wall that circled Bella Linda Terrace. This area was like a moat around Bella Linda Terrace, but instead of water, the moat was fi lled with plants and large river stones, a few spindly trees.

Travis realized for the first time that Bella Linda Terrace would be a much better place to live once the trees were fully grown. He could almost picture how the streets would look with big trees and their shade.

“No- man’s-land,” Hil whispered, spreading his arms. “And it’s all ours.”

“Yeah, great. I mean, it’s cool and all. But what now? What do you do with a no- man’s-land anyway?”

“You escape.” Hil trudged off through the thick carpet of ice plant.

“We can’t climb that wall. Look at the spikes.”

“Aha,” Hil said. “You are a wise man, ghostwriter. So, if you can’t go over it …”

“You go under it?”

“Exactamente.”

When Hil got to the wall, he pasted himself against it, like a convict during a prison break. Travis did the same. All Hil had to say was, “Well, Mugsy,” and the two of them were on the ground howling, trying their best to stifl e their laughter.

Hil led them, crouching, to a drainage grate below one of the wall’s big pillars. He pulled up the grate and invited Travis to jump in.

“Dude, we’ll get all dirty,” Travis said, only half serious.

“We are ghouls,” Hil said. “We do not concern ourselves with hygiene.”

Hil jumped into the hole, and it splashed a little when he landed. His head barely reached the top of the hole. He waved at Travis, then ducked down and was gone. Travis heard another grate being lifted, then Hil’s voice from the other side of the wall.

“Hurry up, ghoul-boy,” Hil shout-whispered. “The spirits won’t wait all night. Or will they?”

Travis jumped in the hole, ducked under the wall, and clambered out the other side.

“We made it, Mugsy,” Travis snarled. “Free at last.”

And they did the little dance of joy.

They moved to the side of Boronda Road, looked both ways—they were ghouls, not idiots—then zipped across the empty street. The whole way, Travis hummed the
Mission Impossible
theme. Hil joined in on the high-pitched doodle- oos.

Travis had stood here before, in front of the barbed wire fence looking up at the Gabilans. He’d always wanted to go beyond this fence.

He lifted his father’s clunky old shoe and pushed down on the sagging wire between two barbs. Hil delicately climbed over. Hil held down the wire for Travis. They were on the other side.

They swished through the dry grass up the gentle slope of the hill, not talking. The farther they went, the louder the silence that swallowed them. They came to a dead oak trunk lying on its side and sat on it, looking out across the valley. There was Bella Linda Terrace, all lit up in Halloween colors, and beyond it, Salinas. In the moonlight, Salinas seemed more a refl ection of the moon’s brilliance than a city of its own.

“Now what?” Hil asked.

“I guess we wait for the spirits to rouse. Or something.”

Because of the recent rain and the warmth that followed it, the earth beneath them breathed a sweet, soft smell into the night air. That smell was enough spirit for Trav i s.

They sat without talking. The y d i d n’t n e e d t o t a l k . E v e r y once in a while, a car would come down Boronda. One car honked all the way, fi lled with screaming passengers.

“High schoolers,” Hil said, and he spit in the dirt.

It was great just sitting there with Hil. Their friendship felt healed, back to where it should be. Maybe even further along.

Travis understood why he hadn’t invited Hil to come along to the Corral with Oster, why he hadn’t invited him to follow the mystery he was following. He was afraid. He was afraid Hil would think the whole thing was stupid, childish, insane. He was afraid Hil would turn away from him. Mostly, he was afraid that Hil wouldn’t be able to see the things Travis saw. Oster saw them, yes, but Hil? Oster had his reasons for seeing all this. If Travis asked Hil to see what he saw, it would be a test for Travis, not for Hil. If only he could fi nd the right moment to tell his friend everything.

Hil was talking about the Day of the Dead. He and his parents would go to the cemetery and offer sweets to one of his grandmothers—the other was still alive—and both his grandfathers. They would picnic in the cemetery, say some prayers, and talk to their ancestors as if they were still alive.

Travis felt something behind him. When he turned around, what he saw was more confusing than frightening. Orange lights bobbed in front of his eyes. Firefl ies? No, there were no fi refl ies in California. And fi refl ies were green; he’d read about them in books. Then he realized the orange lights weren’t in front of his face, they were farther up the hill. There was a ragged line of bobbing orange lanterns, twelve of them. No one held the lanterns.

“Hil,” Travis whispered. “Do you see what I see?”

Hil turned, already starting to talk, but when he saw the lanterns, his mouth fell shut.

After a long time, he said, “I see them, Big T. But only if you see them. Do you see them?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Lanterns?”

“Looks like it.”

“But.”

“I know.”

They stood at the same time, moved quietly up the hill after the orange lanterns. No matter how fast they moved, or in which direction, the lanterns stayed far away.

The lanterns moved to the top of the first ridge, spread ouThevenly along it, then disappeared over the other side.

“Whoa,” Travis said.

“That about covers it,” Hil said. “But let me repeat: Whoa.”

They just stood there.

And then Travis did it. He told Hil all the rest— Gitano and the Watchers, and finally, Steinbeck’s ghost. While Travis spoke, Hil stared up at the ridge where the lanterns had been.

Travis stopped talking; Hil was silent.

“Well, what do you think, Hil? Am I crazy, or what?”

“No, no, man, you aren’t crazy. I don’t know that I believe in ghosts, like out of books. But I know what I saw just now, and I know you saw it. And what ever is happening to you, with all this Steinbeck stuff , well, it can’t be unreal.”

“So, you believe me?”

“I have to,” Hil said. “You’re my best friend. And besides, I saw those lanterns, too. If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy. And that’s okay. At least we have each other to talk to.”

“Really?”

“Really, man. No lie. But I swear, you have got to take me to the Corral with you.”

Travis sighed. Finally, he’d finally told Hil. Travis’s shoulders seemed to unscrunch; he seemed to be taller than just a moment before. Finally.

The world below them, the great and long Salinas Valley, seemed infinite.

The moon had moved past its zenith, west toward the ocean. Without a word between them, the two friends turned and headed back down to Bella Linda Terrace. Every few steps, one of them would say, “Whoa.”

Halfway down the hill, a thought flew into Travis’s head: The moonlight was so bright he could read in it, write in it.

“Hold up,” Travis said.

He opened his ghostwriter composition book, took out his father’s pen, and scribbled these words: “The night so bright, even Bella Linda Terrace is beautiful. Halfway to home with a good friend.”

He shut the book before the ink had time to dry. The words would be smeared, but that didn’t matter. They were written.

F
ALLING ASLEEP ON HALLOWEEN, TRAVIS KNEW WHAT HE HAD TO DO THE NEXT DAY.
And when he woke up on the Day of the Dead, that thought hadn’t changed. He had to call Oster and see if they were still going to the Corral on Saturday and if he could bring Hil along. Not only did he want to make it up to Hil for lying to him and not taking him to the Corral, but he sensed, deep down, that having Hil there would be a help. Hil saw what Travis saw, believed as he did. The lanterns last night had convinced him of this. If Hil also saw the statue, or what ever they might find in the Corral, then Travis would have another witness, and that would be a relief.

As soon as he got home from school that day, he called Oster. It was the Day of the Dead, the day after Halloween, the crux of autumn, Ray Bradbury season. Bradbury always seemed to be writing about this time in autumn, when the world shifted from light to dark, and the two mixed in spooky and beautiful ways. Just by thinking this, Travis could smell the sweet decay of fallen leaves.

“Yes, yes, I’ll see you Saturday, of course,” Oster said.

“Did you find out anything this week?” Travis asked.

Oster had been reading Steinbeck all week, he told Travis, and everywhere he turned, he found a reference to the Corral, and each of these passages was beyond mysterious. Then there was the letter, Steinbeck’s letter to Oster: What had Steinbeck seen in the Corral that he would not talk about? Oster’s letter wasn’t the only one. In some of his other letters, he talked around the Corral, and was very vague about what he knew about it. Being vague was something Steinbeck rarely was, and Oster could only guess that he was covering up what he knew. Something strange had happened in the Corral. Maybe there
was
a curse.

Oster believed Gitano was the key. In
The Red Pony
Gitano spoke of having been in the Corral as a child, but after that he pointedly refused to go back. But Oster and Travis had heard him there last weekend. Or was it him?

What most disturbed Oster was the silence around the Corral, not just Steinbeck’s but the world’s. He’d spent hours that week at the library and in the hall of records at City Hall, just as he had over thirty years ago. Nothing. Not one single mention of the town, as if it had never existed. Or had been erased.

Saturday, then, but would Oster mind if Hil came along? And could they wait until three? Hil had a soccer game. Oster didn’t hesitate at all.

“The more eyes,” Oster said, “the more we see. I already like the sound of this Hilario. Oh, by the way, how was Halloween? Miss Babb told me all about it.”

“Have I got a story for you.”

Travis told him about the orange lanterns he and Hil had seen bobbing bodiless through the hills.

“Oh, my,” Oster said . “ I know that story. I came across it yesterday. In one of the letters, Steinbeck writes about all these stories his mother used to tell about the Corral— she was a teacher there for several years, in the town we’re looking for. He talked about those lanterns, just like you described. That’s a hard one to get around. And Hil saw them, too?”

“Right, and I didn’t say a thing to him, just said look, and he described them to me.”

“Perfect,” Oster said. “See you Saturday.”

If he’d been reading the book of his own adventures, Travis thought, he’d be able to feel the end of story coming on, feel it with his fingers; there’d only be a quarter- inch of pages left to go.

Then Travis called Hil. He had loaned Hil his library copy of
Corral de Tierra
last night after trick- or- treating, and he had just started the first chapter.

“Dude,” Hil said. “I’m only like this many pages into it, and I can’t believe how good it is. You’ve been holding out on me. I’m sure I’ll get it done by Saturday. I want to be ready for this.”

“Oster says it’s totally cool for you to come. I knew he’d say yes. Three o’clock?”

“Excellent.”

Travis picked up the check his mom had made out to the Save Our Library committee, which made it easier than lugging all those coins. She’d also left a note. “We promise to be home for dinner. See you at six.”

Travis scribbled a note for his parents. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Williams, don’t hold dinner on my account. I’ve got a prior engagement. I’ll see you when I get home. Love, your son.”

It was kind of a funny note, Travis knew, but a little bit mean, too.

The library was practically empty. It was as if Halloween had taken the life out of everybody. Maybe they were communing with the dead. The cemeteries had to be packed.

Miss Babb was shelving in the kids’ section.

“Mr. Williams,” she said. “You have outdone yourself again. I heard from several of the other volunteers. You’re well on the way to a thousand dollars. And all that money will go straight to the library. No more flyers.”

“But we still need—”

“I know, calm down.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s better than that. We’ve got plenty of money for flyers. It’s great news. I met with several of the other committee heads this morning. Get this: Altogether we’ve raised almost one million dollars. From corporations to piggy-banks.”

“Wow.”

“That’ll keep the library open for at least another month.”

“A month? That’s all?”

“Do the math, Travis. It’s money. There’s no mystery to money. But see: That means we’re being heard. The word is out. I can feel it; we’re gonna win. Our hours may get cut, but we’ll be open.”

“I didn’t really believe you. I didn’t think a lot of littles could add up to a whole bunch.”

“Do the math, Travis.”

And he reached over and hugged her.

“Gotta go.”

Miss Babb was yelling after him as he ran out of the library.

“Don’t forget next Tuesday,” she called after him. “The reading committee. It was your idea. Where are you going? You never leave the .library this fast.”

Clouds had come back in, though the day was still warm; the world was soft and gray. The dead leaves of summer rattled in the autumn breeze.

Gitano was nowhere to be found. The alley next to the library was deserted, and the lawns to the south of the library were oddly vacant of anybody, homeless or otherwise. Gitano was the answer, Travis was sure, and he had to find him.

He hopped on his bike and orbited the streets near the library, but no Gitano, no nobody.

He kept expanding the circle of his search until finally he was cruising down Main Street. Silent cars sailed by; here and there people stood alone and quiet under the broad eaves of the local shops.

There he was, Gitano, turning down the alley between Sheila’s and The Swim thrift store.

By the time Travis turned into the alley, Gitano had assumed his usual stance. He squatted on his heels, his back against the alley wall. Gitano was rolling up tortillas and slowly chewing on them. They were fresh and warm, Travis could tell; he could almost smell them.

For a second he imagined flying up to Gitano on his bicycle and skidding to a halt, gravel flying. Like cops on TV. But that thought fled instantly; it would be cruel. Gitano had done nothing wrong. Travis got down from his bike, walked up the alley with soft steps.

“Hello,” Travis said.

“Buenos días,” Gitano said. He did not look up, although his voice was friendly.

“I’m sorry to bother you. But is your name Gitano? ”

“I am Gitano,” he said. He looked up at Travis, smiling. “And I have come back.”

“Would it be okay if I talked to you for a little bit?”

He assumed he should be nervous right now, but strange to say, he wasn’t. Gitano’s dark eyes were not frightening at all. They were calm, inviting.

Gitano held out a rolled tortilla for Travis. He shook his head, but Gitano urged the tortilla on him, pushed it at him. Travis reached out for it, hesitated one short moment, then took the tortilla—it
was
warm. Gitano patted the ground next to him.

Travis lowered his bike and sat Indian- style next to Gitano. The tortilla was sweet. He couldn’t remember ever tasting anything better. He gobbled it down.

“Gracias,” Travis said.

“De nada.” He rolled another tortilla and gave it to Travis.

“Gitano,” he said. “Why have you come back?”

“I am from here. I have come back because I am very old and I am ready to die. I must die here.”

When he spoke, Gitano looked across the alley at the wall of Sheila’s bar, but Travis knew his eyes did not see the white cinder block.

“Where is here?”

“Salinas. I was born here, and now I have come back.”

“Where have you been?” Travis stared at Gitano, his brown and weathered face, the hatched lines around his dark, shining eyes.

“Down the valley. I have been working there. Nuestra Señora, King City, Soledad, Gonzales, Jolon. I have worked in the valley my whole life. And now I have come back. To die.”

“ To die? Really? Are you sick?”

“No, I am old, that’s all. It is not bad. I am ready.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Can I help you?” Travis reached into his pocket. He’d brought along his saved- up allowance.

“Gracias, no. I am fine.”

The sound of Gitano’s voice reassured Travis.

“For you,” Travis said. He laid the handful of bills at the old man’s feet. “ To thank you for all your work.”

“Mi amigo,” Gitano said, and he gave Travis another tortilla. Travis felt he could eat these tortillas forever.

Gitano scooped up the bills and stuffed them in the pocket of his denim jacket.

“Have you ever been to the Corral de Tierra?” Travis asked.

“¿Mande ? ”

“Corral de Tierra, Las Pasturas del Cielo. The Great Mountains.”

“Ah, the Great Mountains. Yes, I went there once with my father, when I was only a child.”

“What did you see there?”

“It was very beautiful there. Yes, Las Pasturas del Cielo.”

“Anything else? ”

“It was very beautiful. I remember.”

Gitano spoke without looking at anything. It was as if he were still standing in the Corral, watching himself as a child.

“Did you ever go back?”

“To the Great Mountains? Never. Never.”

“Didn’t you ever want to go back?”

“No.” Gitano’s voice was suddenly hard. He said this with such authority that Travis stopped asking questions. The look on Gitano’s face told him that his questions would not be answered. Gitano would not talk about it anymore.

Gitano packed up his tortillas, stood, and swung his bindle over his shoulder.

“Mi amigo,” he said to Travis. “You must see these things for yourself. That is all I can tell you. And now, I must go.”

Gitano whistled sharply, once, from between his teeth. From the other end of the alley, an old white horse clopped toward them. It wore no saddle. Gitano went up to meet it, and using a milk crate for a stool, climbed onto the old swayback. Gitano clicked once, pulled the reins to one side, and horse and rider turned away, headed west, toward the ocean.

Travis couldn’t move for the longest time. When he finally did, he raced to the end of the alley, but both horse and rider were gone.

A horse? In Oldtown? Travis was ready to accept what he’d seen, if only because a bigger question was haunting him.

If Gitano was telling the truth, and he had never gone back to the Corral, then who had he and Oster heard last week?