The Queen and I (13 page)

For Jeffrey David Rothstein, tomorrow would be the last day of the rest of his life.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Saul

The strange occurrences continued over the next couple of days, and Jeffrey was at a loss as to what to do next. He considered the card that the odd Abby Tisch had given him claiming that she was some kind of ghost hunter, but he decided she was a person who he would be best served to keep his distance from.

While she was a very intriguing woman and could possibly be the muse for a future project, for right in the here and now, he determined that her involvement in anything that was happening in his life would probably cause more problems than they would solve.

He spent much of his time around the cabin outdoors, as he became increasingly more uncomfortable with the strange events taking place inside. He even spent a couple of evenings sleeping on the back porch on one of the chaise lounges, so he would not have to be inside where he was vulnerable; his thinking had somewhat warped into convincing him that whatever entity it was that was plaguing him was not about to follow him outside.

The notes on his work continued, and some of them almost appeared to be trying to give him clues about who was leaving them. He was confident now that whatever it was, it was no longer human or of this world and that his best course of action was to not dismiss what was being left, but to listen and ride out the messages to their eventual fruition.

Not only did the notes appear on his pads and in his personal memo book, but they were appearing in the most uncomfortable of places. He was in the shower one morning and found, “I swear that I didn’t peek,” written in the steam on the mirror. He came downstairs for dinner and found a message left in cashews that said, “The second act needs work.” But what really bothered him the most was when he decided to go into town to do some shopping and found his outfit laid out on the bed with a note that said, “Just because it is the weekend doesn’t mean that you should look like a
shlumpa
.”

All of this behavior was an overreach and violated an unwritten agreement between normal people that you just did not cross; there was such a thing as privacy, and whatever this thing was that found Jeffrey so interesting, it was getting too familiar and it had to be made known that this behavior was unacceptable.

He considered all of the possible scenarios to determine what it was that he was actually dealing with and only kept returning to the same conclusion: no matter how much he did not want to accept it, there was the distinct possibility that he was, in fact, sharing his new home with someone from the afterlife.

Normally this kind of revelation would have sent him packing his bags and out of town immediately, but he found himself actually intrigued by the notion and even caught himself looking around the house every morning before he did anything else, looking for more notes or signs that he was not alone.

There was something oddly romantic about the mere notion that there was an actual ghost sharing these halls with him, that there was someone from another time and place who seemed to be friendly, if not a little on the brash side. Jeffrey thought this kind of situation could even help him with his current writing problems. After all, who else could say that they had at their disposal an honest-to-God ghost to speak to and pick the brain of, so to speak?

The biggest problem as far as he could tell was that, although the ghost seemed to be very interested in making itself known to Jeffrey, it did not seem to be all that anxious to show itself, and that was a definite problem. If there was one thing he had learned over the course of his life, it was that you never got involved in anything with another person unless you had the opportunity to look that person in the eyes and shake his hand.

The latter would have to be ruled out, of course, but Jeffrey was certain that whatever form this being took when it wanted to be seen was one that had something resembling eyes, eyes that could be looked into, eyes that could tell a story.

He woke early one morning and made coffee while shaking off the cobwebs from a fitful night’s sleep; the sun was not yet up. He wanted to get back to work, for whatever it was worth, but could not get his mind on the job at hand, not while there was the possibility of a ghost around who he could make contact with.

Thinking of ways to go about this unprecedented procedure gave him a headache. For all of the ghost’s subtle clues about his existence, for all of the notes and smug remarks at Jeffrey’s expense, it had never shown him the one thing that could solve all of this; it had never said that it
wanted
to meet him.

This was actually the first time Jeffrey had come to this realization, and it troubled him a bit. Could it be that this was just a simple haunting and that the ghost was actually trying to get him to leave? Could he have been so off on his assumptions about the nature of his relationship with this being that he thought it was here to help him and to make contact?

He felt his temples throbbing and took a couple of Advil to help numb the pain. He envied the alcoholics of the world who woke in the morning and immediately took to the bottle; at least they gave the appearance of being happy.

Jeffrey realized that his only option was to try to make it known to his houseguest that he was not a threat to him and that he wanted to meet face-to-face, or whatever it was that they would be doing. He checked through all of the notes that had been left for him over the last week or so, and determined that his best bet was to appeal to the ghost’s obvious love of theater. What was needed was a grand display, something the ghost could not resist, something that would make him want to break out of his self-imposed hiding place and reveal himself to Jeffrey for the first time.

It was music that was the key. The ghost had first made itself known by the singing in the night, the humming throughout the days, and the little notes left on Jeffrey’s work. Much of it had a lyrical quality to it. The notes were always written out as if to music, and only someone with a love of music would be able to do such a thing, that and …

Jeffrey stopped himself immediately before he could finish the thought. There was something more to what he was experiencing with this entity, and he had missed it up to this point. There was something happening that Jeffrey, of all people, should have picked up on immediately—the ghost was a performer.

He was positive of it before he had time to dispute it. It all made sense, the whimsical notes, the harsh critiques about script ideas and layouts, and the flamboyant way the ghost had laid out his clothes that morning.

“My God,” Jeffrey said aloud. “He’s an actor.”

It was an epiphany that he was not expecting and one that he did not argue. It made all the sense in the world and yet none at the same time. Of course the ghost was an actor; it was the only explanation for why it took so much interest in the work that he was doing. It explained the dramatic flair that it put into its messages, and it explained why all of the music that he had been hearing was show tunes.

This was huge beyond anything Jeffrey could have ever thought of, let alone write about. Here he was, alone in this cabin, and as luck would have it, it was haunted by the ghost of an actor, one that loved Broadway from all accounts, and one that took a particular interest in what Jeffrey was doing up here all alone.

His excitement was only muffled by the realization that he was still talking about an actual phantasm, and that was not something to be taken lightly. He had seen the movie about the friendly ghost that has ulterior motives and who is actually plotting against the unsuspecting homeowner. But this was different, and he knew it. He didn’t know how or why he knew it, he simply did. This ghost was not here to hurt him, it wanted to meet him, it wanted to speak to him, it wanted to be Jeffrey’s friend.

The problem now was how to get the evasive and reclusive ghost to show himself. It had obviously been a bit shy to actually make an appearance and that only intrigued Jeffrey even more. What was it hiding? Was it some kind of disfigurement from the way it had died that caused it trepidation at revealing itself?

Whatever the reasons were, Jeffrey was certain now that he had to convince his houseguest to show itself and to determine exactly what it was that it wanted.

But how?

He ultimately decided that the straightforward method was his best option, and he went about that. He poured himself a glass of wine in spite of the early hour, put on the original cast recording of
Cats
, and sat back in the sofa, hoping the ghost would make an appearance.

Halfway through “Memories,” there was still no sign of the ghost, and Jeffrey was beginning to think that it might be possible that he was imagining all of this, that he was experiencing a case of cabin fever, and that what was really happening was nothing more than a nervous breakdown.

He poured himself a second glass and quietly sang along to the chorus, his memory of the words failing him, so he made up his own lyrics. He laughed to himself as he sang about failed foreign affairs that he worked into song and the love of a dog for a cat that was never to be, when the chair across the room was flipped over, crashing into the coffee table.

Jeffrey spun around quickly and looked for anything that could explain what had just happened. His chest tightened and his heart rate sped up, but there was nothing to see. The commotion of the chair being flipped over caused his CD player to skip disks, and Barbra Streisand was now playing.

“Not today, Barbra,” Jeffrey said to the player. “I don’t think I can stomach your insufferable voice today.”

The light bulbs above Jeffrey exploded in the chandelier that hung high in the cathedral ceiling and sparks showered down on him. He covered his head and looked for the cause of the explosion, finding nothing.

He walked over to the CD player and shut it offwhile saying, “Okay, you little twat. I get the hint.”

A picture frame missed his head by only inches and shattered into hundreds of small pieces as Jeffrey hit the floor in a defensive posture. The next thing he knew the windows were opening and closing, the table was overturned, glasses were flung from their shelves, and all of his papers flew about the room like dead leaves in a strong wind. Jeffrey watched and was truly frightened for the first time. It was as if the spirit of Barbra Streisand had heard him and was not happy about his mocking her voice or the lyrics to a song that she had made famous. She was angry, and that was the only logical explanation in an illogical situation.

But that is where he caught himself. This was an illogical situation, and it must have an illogical answer. What was happening was that the ghost had been in the room with him the whole time, listening to the music and enjoying the quiet of the morning, when Jeffrey had disturbed it with his mocking rendition of “Memories
,
” followed by his harsh criticism of Ms. Streisand. The ghost was obviously irritated, even a little angry at the disrespect Jeffrey was showing to one of the greatest original scores ever written and to the queen of song.

The ghost was here in the room, and it was throwing a temper tantrum at what Jeffrey had said. If he was going to make actual contact with his guest, he was going to have to apologize, and quickly. There was very little else left to throw around the house other than Jeffrey himself.

He raised his hands in the air and slowly rose to his feet, his head lowered against any further projectiles. His breathing was heavy since he was about to do the absolutely preposterous, say “I’m sorry” to a ghost.

“Okay, I get it,” he began. “I offended you; it was wrong. I should not have called Barbra or you a little twat.” He waited for a moment to see if anything else was thrown in his direction and continued. “I’m sorry. It was a bad thing to do.”

He waited for a response, any response, and there was none. Had the ghost left? Had it been so offended by what Jeffrey had said and done that he had driven it off? He knew that he probably should have felt more grateful by that notion, but he found himself suddenly troubled by the idea that he was not going to meet this entity who had interacted with him over the last couple of weeks without his realizing what it was until only this morning.

“Hello?” he asked cautiously. “Are you there?”

He walked over to one of the windows that was left open and closed it slowly, trying not to make too much noise so as not to startle the ghost if it were still in the house. He knew almost immediately that he had done something very stupid by being so free with his tongue, and he was mad at himself for not seeing that since this ghost was obviously an actor with a deep love of Broadway that it would be sacrilegious to say anything derogatory about Barbra Streisand or the great musical
Cats
. How could he have been so stupid?

He looked at the mess that was left behind in his home and shook his head, “You could have at least helped clean up your mess,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t ask me to help.”

The voice was deep and raspy, it echoed slightly in the cavernous room, and Jeffrey almost lost control of his bodily functions for a brief moment due to the fear that it instilled in him.

Jeffrey slowly lifted a picture frame in his violently shaking hands and asked, “What did you say?”

After a moment of dead silence where it felt as if the air was being sucked from the room, the voice continued, “If you wanted me to help clean up the mess, you should have asked. Of course, if you hadn’t acted so disrespectfully to Ms. B in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to get rough with you.”

Ms. B? Oh, it must be talking about Barbra Streisand,
Jeffrey thought. He looked around the room to see if there was a form to match the voice that he now identified as that of a man, and asked, “Who are you?”

“Esther Feltcher,” the voice answered. It was not the answer Jeffrey was expecting due to the baritone nature of the voice he was hearing, but he did not want to scare it off again, so he merely went along with whatever game the ghost was playing.

“How long have you been here Ms. Feltcher?”