The Night Tourist (12 page)

Euri was unusually quiet as they flew downtown. She didn’t zoom over buildings, fly through pedestrians, or point out interesting sights below. She flew at an even altitude over Eighth Avenue. Jack held tight to her hand and reviewed his calculations. If all the dates were right, his father must have brought his mother back to life, which meant there was a way for him to bring back Euri. He imagined lounging with her after school on the Cross Campus courtyard as though they were college students—Euri finally getting to sunbathe while Jack worked on a translation. But Euri, he decided, would probably want to stay in New York. Maybe he and his father would move there, and if Euri didn’t want to go back to her parents, they could adopt her. He imagined starting a new school with Euri, how it wouldn’t be scary because he would already have a friend. And with Euri around, it would be easier to be himself, and everyone would like him.

Below him, Jack recognized the low buildings and narrow streets of the Village. As they descended, he spotted a wood-frame storefront with white horse heads on the front. A blue sign hung above it with the words
WHITE HORSE TAVERN
embossed in pink letters.

Euri wasted no time. As soon as they touched ground, she pulled Jack through the tavern door. Inside, the air was warm and close, with damp, shucked jackets slung over chairs, and wet boot prints on the floor. The tavern was a series of small, crowded rooms that in some spots brought the living and dead elbow to elbow. They looked much the same except that the dead had dull, translucent eyes, wore dated clothes, and when they bumped into the living, simply vanished through them.

Suddenly a shout rose up from the bar. “Here he goes!”

Jack and Euri turned to a motley group of ghosts who were floating around a pudgy, wild-eyed spirit perched precariously on a bar stool. There was a small ghost with an expressive wrinkled forehead and protuberant eyes, and a bald, bearded one wearing an oversize pair of glasses. The pudgy ghost held up a shot glass as if saluting his companions and then tossed it back.

“Sixteen!” the ghosts cried.

The pudgy ghost slammed the glass back on the counter. “And death shall have no dominion!” he shouted, before succumbing to an attack of the hiccups.

Again, he lifted up his shot glass.

“Seventeen!” the ghosts shouted.

“Dead men naked they shall be one!” roared the ghost. Up the glass went, down it slammed, as full as before.

“Though lovers be lost love shall not!” he sputtered. Again, he seized the glass and threw its contents in the direction of his mouth.

“Eighteen!” shouted the ghosts, making a living patron suddenly stare quizzically at the empty seats next to her.

The pudgy ghost staggered off his bar stool and lurched around the tavern clutching his heart and nearly stumbling into Jack. “And death shall have no dominion!” he wailed. Then he collapsed onto the floor as the other ghosts applauded.

“Jack!”

A man’s voice was calling his name. Who knew him here? Jack swung around.

“It’s me, Ruthven Todd. You came!”

The Scottish brogue and jutting pipe jogged his memory. It was the poet and children’s-book writer from his first night underground. Now Jack remembered why the White Horse Tavern had sounded familiar—the Scottish ghost had invited him there.

“You made it just in time to see Dylan Thomas.” Todd cocked his head in the direction of the pudgy ghost who was still lying on the floor with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open. “Every night he reenacts drinking the eighteen whiskey shots that led to his death. In between them, he recites his poetry.”

Jack stared at the poet. When his mother had been alive, she used to read him a story that Thomas had written about Christmastime that started with a line Jack had always loved—“. . .
I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six
.” He had also studied several of Thomas’s poems for a report he had written for English class. “Is that really him?”

The poet suddenly opened one eye like a clamshell and stared back at him. With surprising agility, he sprang to his feet and bowed. “It is I. Welcome to the Dead Poets’ Society,” he said.

Then he roared with laughter, grabbed a pretty black-haired ghost from a bar stool, and began whirling her around in a jig.

“Death hasn’t slowed him down any, I’m afraid,” commented Todd as they watched the poet romp around the room. “He still likes the ladies. Have you met James Baldwin and Allen Ginsberg?” he asked, pointing to the two ghosts laughing at Thomas. “They’re writers, too, who haunt the Horse.”

Jack eagerly stuck out his hand. “I know. I’ve read you both.”

“Imagine that, Jimmy!” said Ginsberg, beaming with delight. “Adorations!”

Baldwin shook Jack’s hand. “So, like myself, you must have been a great reader at an early age?”

Jack nodded.

Baldwin smiled. “To the lonely child is given the spoils of solitude.”

Jack noticed Euri leaning distractedly over the bar. He felt comfortable with the writers, but there was no time to talk. “That’s Euri,” Jack explained to the group. “We’re looking for the death records from thirty-three years ago. It’s pretty important. Someone said I’d find them here.”

Todd’s thick gray eyebrows arched. “You’d be looking for the record keeper, then.”

Jack pointed at Thomas, who was still twirling the black-haired ghost. “Mr. Thomas?”

Todd laughed.

“Mr. Baldwin or Ginsberg?”

The two ghosts waved their hands in protest. “Business! Bah!” Ginsberg said as they floated over to join Thomas.

“That bunch?” Todd declared after they left. “They have their immortality among the living. What would they care about the rest of the dead? It’s me, a minor poet, you’d be wanting.”

Jack wondered at the coincidence. This man who he had met his first night in the underworld had the answer to the most important mystery of his life. Todd floated up and over the bar and pulled a worn leather-bound book from underneath the register. “Who are you looking for, lad?”

“My mom,” Jack said. “Anastasia.”

“Off you go, then,” Todd said, placing the book on the bar in front of them.

Jack stared at it for a moment, suddenly afraid to find out if he was right. “Open it,” Euri whispered.

He took a breath and began paging through the records—thousands of names of people who died thirty-three years ago—Allen, Dwyer, Hong, Michaelbaum, Milosh. Finally he was at the P’s. Paltov, Park, Paz. He turned the page, looking through the PE’s. Peckinpaw, Pedanko, Pettit. Where was Perdu? Jack skimmed the page again. He couldn’t believe he was wrong. The Euri he had imagined lounging with him in the sunshine disappeared. “She’s not here,” he said dully.

A living woman shrieked with laughter beside them. Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, Jack gave the woman an angry stare. How could he come all this way and not find his mother? And he couldn’t even bear to look at Euri. What he’d done to her—making her believe that it was possible to live again—now seemed cruel. “I’m sorry . . .” he started to say.

But when he looked up, Euri was shaking her head. “Wait. You’re looking wrong! If she died thirty-three ago, her name wasn’t Perdu. She hadn’t married your father yet.”

Jack started. “Of course! Her name was Morton.”

Euri snatched up the book from the bar and flipped back to the M page. “‘Ma—, Me—, Morton, Anastasia,’” she read aloud. “Look!”

Jack bent over the page. Morton, Anastasia was written on the third line. His theory was actually right. His mother was the bride.

The lightest bit of pink shot through Euri’s cheeks. “How did she do it, Jack? How did she live again?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He stared at her name. Next to it was her favorite haunt: the City Hall Station (IRT line). “Come on, we’ll ask her,” he said, pointing to it.

They ran outside, and Euri shot them up into the sky, flying faster than Jack had ever flown before. His heart raced with excitement. In just a few minutes he would meet his mom. He had been destined to find her, after all. But as the city passed beneath him like a time-lapse blur of buildings and lights, a more troubling question formed in his head. If his mother had figured out how to escape death, why had she returned to the underworld instead of staying with him?

At Centre Street they sailed down a pair of stairs and over the turnstile into the City Hall subway station. Jack anxiously scanned the station, but except for the stationmaster reading in the ticket booth and a homeless man sleeping on the floor, there was no one, either living or dead, around. A digital clock blinked 4:19 a.m. “It’s okay.” Euri said. “We still have a few hours. Maybe your mom haunts the platform?”

They floated down the stairs and onto the long white-tiled platform. A living man with dyed blue hair and a living young woman with a ring through her nose sat side by side on a wooden bench, waiting for the train. Hovering next to them was a ghost in a gray pinstripe suit who was studying them through his monocle. “Fascinating!” he murmured out loud.

Jack approached him. “Excuse me.”

The man dropped his monocle and coughed slightly. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for a spirit named Anastasia Morton or Anastasia Perdu. She haunts this station. She has dark hair ...”

The man shook his head. “I haunt this station myself, and I know of no ghost fitting that description.”

“Are you sure?” asked Euri.

“Positive! I’ve been haunting this station since it was built.”

Jack frowned, but Euri pulled him away and whispered in his ear. “He sounds territorial. Let’s keep looking.”

“Thanks,” Jack told the man, who brought up his monocle to peer at Jack.

They floated a few yards down the platform and stopped. “This is a pretty long platform,” said Euri. “Perhaps she’s at one of the ends.”

Jack craned his neck. The platform seemed empty. “But what if she’s not here like that man said? It seems like a weird place for her to haunt. What if the record is wrong?”

“Of course she’s here. The record can’t be wrong. The dead don’t change their haunts.” She pointed to the south end of the station. “Look, we don’t have much time, so you go that way and I’ll go down to the other end. We’re bound to find her. If you do, give a shout.”

She let go of his hand. Jack stretched his fingers a few times. They were cold and a little stiff from holding on to hers. “Are you sure we should split up?”

“Getting attached to me now that it’s time to leave?”

Jack turned away so Euri wouldn’t see that it was true. The living world he had left wouldn’t be the same without her. She had to come back with him. He walked down the platform, the soles of his shoes slapping against the concrete. After all the time he had spent in the air, walking felt clumsy.

“Mom?” he called out, in case she was floating up near the ceiling or out of sight. “Anastasia?”

Even though he was no longer holding Euri’s hand, his fingers felt clammy. He hadn’t really thought about what he would say to his mom once he found her. She probably wouldn’t even recognize him. Perhaps she didn’t want to be found. If she did, she would have come back to him. A white tile wall appeared in front him. He realized he was at the platform’s end.

“Jack!”

A shout echoed down from the opposite end of the platform. It was Euri. She had found his mother! He began to run down the platform. Halfway there, he noticed the ghost with the monocle flying around in distressed circles. “What is it?” Jack asked him.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” the ghost with the monocle repeated.

Jack began to run even faster.

“No!” Euri shouted. “Go back!”

Jack skidded to a halt. In the shadows at the end of the platform, Cerberus paced and growled around Euri. She cowered and then screamed as he tackled her, and the jaws of his middle head sunk around her throat. Cerberus shook her limp body like a toy as two hulking guards laughed at the spectacle.

Jack began to race toward her. But before he could reach her, a hand shot through the wall and grabbed one of his balled-up fists. “Help!” Jack started to shout; but just as quickly, another hand clapped across his mouth. He tried to squirm away, but an arm emerged from the wall and grabbed him around the waist. “Mmmm, mmmm!” he cried, struggling to escape as he was pulled through the station wall.

“Stop struggling, lad!” a voice whispered in his ear. “It’s just us.”

“Yes, and stop slobbering into my hand,” said another familiar voice.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Jack realized he was in some sort of utility closet, in between Thomas and Todd. “Don’t say anything yet,” Todd whispered. “The guards might hear you.”

Jack nodded, but as soon as Thomas released his hand, he frantically whispered, “Euri!”

“She’s already dead, laddie,” Todd whispered back. “It’s you who’s in danger. Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

Jack shrugged, still upset over what was happening to Euri. He knew she was dead, but he wasn’t sure that she couldn’t feel pain.

“Come on,” said Todd. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“But Eu—” Jack whispered.

“Shush!” Todd whispered sternly.

The two poets grabbed Jack’s hands and escorted him through the ceiling of the closet and up through the station. As they floated up the stairs and onto the street, Todd pulled a poster out of his pocket. “As soon as you left, Clubber and his gang burst into the Horse with this,” he said, handing it to Jack.

Jack took the poster from Todd and began to read. Printed in big letters on the top was
WANTED—DEAD OR ALIVE!!!
Underneath these words was an artist’s sketch of Jack—his hair and nose were badly drawn, but the artist had captured something recognizable about his eyes. In smaller print beneath the sketch was a description:

Boy, about 14; brown, unkempt hair; lifelike eyes. Answers to name “Jack.” Last seen traveling with adolescent female ghost. Suspect is considered warmed and dangerous. If you spot him do not attempt to apprehend him yourself. Call the guards immediately.


“Of course, Dylan said he knew you were alive from the first,” Todd said. “He has the spirit of life!” the poet declared with a flourish of his hand. “How did you know where to find me?” Jack asked. “You left the record you were looking at lying open,” said Todd. “I remembered your mother’s name was Anastasia. So I just looked at the haunt by her name. We’ve come to save you.”

“Look,” Jack said. “I don’t need to be saved. It’s Euri who—”

“Did you find her?” Todd interrupted.

“Find who?”

“Your mum.”

“No. No, I didn’t find her,” Jack said impatiently. “What time is it?”

Thomas pulled a scratched pocket watch from his tweed jacket. “Four thirty-three a.m.”

Jack looked around at the courthouses and municipal buildings—he didn’t know where he was, and he was running out of time.

“Maybe you were at the wrong City Hall station?” Todd continued.

“The record said the City Hall station on the IRT line,” Jack said absently. “Euri said there’s only one.”

Todd smiled. “There’s only one now.”

Jack stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“When I arrived in New York in 1947, people were always talking about the original, beautiful City Hall station on the IRT line. It was closed just after the war. If I remember correctly, it was just south of the Brooklyn Bridge stop.”

“So now all you need to do is find it.” Looking pleased with himself, Todd stuck out his hand. “Come on. We’ll escort you there.”

Jack reached out to take Todd’s hand, but then pulled back. “I can’t go.”

“What do you mean?” asked Todd. “I thought you wanted to find her.”

“I do.”

“Well, then . . .”

“I have to find Euri first.”

“You don’t have long till dawn, lad. You won’t be able to do everything tonight. Let’s find your mum, and you can find Euri tomorrow.”

“I don’t have another night,” Jack said. “I have to leave by dawn.”

“So it’s your third night here, is it? It’s a wonder you’ve been able to evade Cerberus and Clubber for this long. You’re a lucky lad. But time is running out. If it’s your mother you’re destined to visit, I’d find her now. You may not have another chance.”

Todd gave him a searching look.

Jack swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to find Euri.”

Thomas laughed and turned to Todd. “Let the boy do as he likes. Here.” He pulled what looked to be a train schedule from his breast pocket and traced a column of numbers with his finger. “Lucky for you, sunrise is late this time of year,” he said. “It’s at 7:19. Just make sure you’ve left by then.” He tossed something at Jack, who reflexively caught it. It was the pocket watch.

Jack closed his hand around it. “Where did they take her? To prison?”

“Prison?!” said Todd. “This is the New York underworld. We’re a lot more progressive than that. She’s probably at 247 East Eighty-second Street.”

He held out his hand, and this time Jack took it.