A Certain Slant of Light (4 page)

  
I'm ashamed to tell the tale now, of how frightened I was at
being spoken to—seemingly pitied. I could hear Hamlet moan,
"Poor ghost." I stayed right by Mr. Brown's side the next day, ex
cept when he was in the bed or bath. But when he was teaching
that
class I stayed in the tiny school library, reading over the
shoulders of students, counting the minutes.

  
The next morning, when Mr. Brown had risen early to go run
ning, he returned to find his wife in the kitchen making coffee
and wearing nothing but one of his ragged T-shirts. He discov
ered that he had a little extra time to spend with her in one of
the armless kitchen chairs, so I chose to pass into the garden. On
any other day, I would have been annoyed that we might not have
a full hour's writing time before the first class of the day. But to
day, as I stood staring into the empty birdbath in their tiny back
yard, I wondered what the one who had spoken to me was doing at that moment. I didn't mean to, but I imagined him with a girl,
evoking the same sounds from her that came from the kitchen
window. I was immediately sorry I had, because a terrible, scald
ing jealousy flooded me.

  
I burned with frustration, and even a little anger, as Mr.
Brown drove us to school. We would have only half an hour for
writing. He was beaming and relaxed, still wet from a hasty
shower. His happiness was so vexing. That morning, I wished that
Mrs. Brown were far away, visiting her family, anything, just
away, at least for a while. I could still hear her sounds of pleasure,
or perhaps it was Mr. Brown's mind wandering as he drove, one
elbow out the window, the wind blowing his hair.

  
My mind turned a corner then. I needed to talk to the one
who'd seen me. Even if what I found out was dreadful or terrifying. What could be worse than hiding and not knowing? That afternoon, I stayed in the classroom, though I stood behind the flag stand. It felt safer. Mr. Brown wrote a series of page numbers on
the blackboard, and finally the young men and women began to
enter. I felt my being flutter. Each tousled head that came
through the door I wanted to be his, but on and on, a dozen boys
entered, yet not the one.

  
I was appalled. The bell rang, the students whispered and
laughed and tugged books out of their bags, Mr. Brown began to
speak, and still the one who had seen me wasn't there. I watched
that desk, near the back in the middle, imagining him, but he
would not materialize. I crossed in front of Mr. Brown and stood
in the open doorway, scanning the path in both directions. Only a squirrel and a gardener with a rake. I wouldn't accept it. I crossed
back in front of Mr. Brown again and went this time to the win
dows on the far side of the room. They looked out onto the play
ing fields. A group of boys in gray ran over the grass, but the one
who had spoken to me was not one of them. I looked beyond the field to the pavement just outside the fence, but he was not there
either. And he was not sitting on the benches or standing at the
water fountain. He's doing this on purpose, I thought. He is pun
ishing me because I stayed away.

  
I could not be still. I crossed again and looked out the open
door once more. A bird's shadow passed, nothing more. I was on the glass edge of panic, when I turned back toward the classroom
and saw him, the one, standing beside his empty desk. He was watching me and when our eyes met, I had no fan to cover my
face, no way to hide my feelings. I was desperate for him, and he
could see it, all the way in me.

  
"You're late enough, Mr. Blake," said Mr. Brown. "Hop to."

  
He must've entered the room when I had been at the window.
I think I would've been completely done in by my embarrass
ment except that he, too, looked taken aback. Perhaps it was
something in the sight of me searching for him. He sat down, his cheeks flushed, and put his book bag on the floor. I looked away
and moved slowly back to the flag stand and quieted myself. After
many moments, I saw that he was sitting with his open book be
fore him and a sheet of lined paper on top of it. He was eyeing
me, not unkindly, but most gently. And when I felt an anxiety at
the length of our gaze, he politely dropped his attention with a slight nod, almost a bow. This gave me the courage to move slowly along the windowed wall until I rested in a vacant desk
next to his.

  
With the stub of a pencil, he wrote something on the paper he had over his book and slid it a few inches closer to me. I looked
across the aisle and saw that he had written the words "Where
have you been?"

  
However improper, I was amused. And, I admit, a little flat
tered. It made me nervous, though, that there was now some
thing tangible that referred to me. I thought of retreating tc
the flag stand. He pulled the paper back and wrote again, this
time letting the page hang over the desk edge like a banner so I could see it easily. It read: "Please don't be afraid. I would be a
friend to you."

  
I can't tell a lie; the fact that he didn't speak or write like the
other students in the room intrigued me. I surveyed him, but he kept his eyes on the blackboard. The brown paper cover of his
English book was filled with little drawings of what appeared to
be mythological beasts.

  
"I was hiding from you," I said finally.

  
He wrote on the paper again. My whole self was quivering as
I waited for the page to be slipped my way. It read, "Follow me
after class. I long to speak with you again."

  
Someone longed to speak with me.

  
I was startled when the girl who usually sat in the desk I was
occupying walked in late, handed a note to Mr. Brown, and made
her way toward us. I rushed to stand against the wall. I watched the boy slip the paper on which he'd been writing into the pages of his book. I couldn't take my eyes off him. Like a desert wan
derer afraid of mirages, I gazed at my oasis, but he was real. It
pleased me that he seemed to take no notice of the young lady
who now sat across the aisle from him. He shifted in his chair,
pretended to listen to Mr. Brown, and then my cherished
preserver glanced over at me, without turning his head, and
winked.

  
When the bell rang, he slowly closed his book. The other students had already slung their bags onto their backs and were migrating toward the door. The young man gathered his belongings
and turned halfway back toward me. With a flick of his head, he
beckoned. I followed him closely up the aisle, out the door, down
the pathway. He kept his eyes straight ahead of him. When he came to the recycling bins where we had stopped before, there
were a boy and a girl there, holding hands and talking. He paused
for only half a moment and then kept walking. He came around
the side of the library and stopped suddenly, stepping into the
phone booth beside the caged vending machine. The booth was
the older style that stood like an upright glass coffin. He dropped
his bag at his feet and looked me in the eyes as he picked up the
receiver.

  
"What's your name?" he said. I was breathless. "What should
I call you?" he asked.

  
It wasn't that I had forgotten; it was just that no one had
asked me in a long time.

  
"Helen," I said.

  
He glanced around to see whether anyone was eavesdropping.
Then he pushed himself back into the corner of the cramped
space and gestured with one hand, inviting me into the glass
booth. I was shocked, but I moved toward him, and he closed the
sliding door behind me. It wasn't until then that I realized he
could talk now without others hearing.

  
"Helen," he said.

  
"Mr. Blake," I said.

  
He smiled, a brilliant moment. "Not really," he said. "My
name is James."

  
There was such an odd silence, he staring into my eyes, and
me, well, I was so lost; I could scarcely speak. "How is it you see me?" But I wanted to cry,
Thank God you do.

  
"I'm like you," he said. When I only blinked at him, he added,
"In spirit."

  
"You're Light?" I couldn't believe it.

  
"Light." He adopted my term instantly. "Yes."

  
"That's not possible."

  
"I only borrowed this flesh," he said. "I couldn't see you be
fore I was in a body." As someone passed by the booth, he jerked
the phone back to his ear, having let it slip absently down to his
chest. "Are you still there?" he said into the phone, but he was smiling. "Miss Helen, if you'll pardon me asking, why did you
hide from me yesterday?"

  
"I'm not sure why. I was afraid."

  
"Please don't be."

  
He seemed so clever, the way he moved among the Quick as if
he were one of them. "How long have you been dead?" I asked.

  
"Eighty-five years."

  
"How old were you when you died?" I asked. I wanted to
know everything about him.

  
"Twenty-nine."

  
I had forgotten that even if he'd died at a hundred and nine,
he'd look seventeen in Billy's body. Perhaps I blushed, if that's
possible, for now he watched my face with great interest.

  
"Are there others like me, then?" I asked. The idea that I
might be ordinary to him hurt me inexplicably.

  
"No," he said. "Now that I'm in a human body, I can see other
spirits, but none like you."

  
There was something about him that continually disarmed
me. "Mr. Blake
..."
I hesitated. "That's not your name, is it?"