Goodlow's Ghosts (19 page)

"You'll have to find me," he called, hoping that, by calling out, he hadn't given away where he was hiding. If he had, it was okay. When she found him, they would either play more of this kid's game. Or they would play at something else. Something more interesting. And more adult.

"Show yourself,
goddammit
!" But that wasn't her, Sam realized. It was a man's voice.

He looked at his hands. They were huge. He didn't recognize them. They were the hands of a man.

The tall grasses vanished.

He felt suddenly heavy, and old.

In the house where Violet
McCartle
once lived, there were three attics. One of these attics, the largest, was used as a storage area for collectibles from nearly two centuries—couches, lamps, clocks, tables, armoires, benches, vases, paintings, photographs, a circa 1930 telephone connected to nothing but the air.

The north section of roof in this huge attic needed repair. Under a good, soaking rain, the roof leaked badly; as a result, many of the collectibles stored here were water damaged. A red velvet Queen Anne chair had been ruined. The veneer on a cherry highboy had begun to rise. The works inside a fine old grandfather clock had rusted and the clock was unusable.

And despite the conscientious efforts of an army of exterminators, there were rats in the attic, too, and they danced on everything, adding their droppings to the mess that the water made.

Some things in the attic, however, were beyond ruination by foraging rats and leaking rainwater.

~ * ~

The woman who called herself Violet
McCartle
said, "The fact that you found nothing makes no difference. Mr.
Biergarten
will come back here—he has no choice, does he?—and when he does, then you can do what you so devoutly want to do to him." She hesitated. "Now tell me about our upstairs visitor."

"He's no longer a problem," the big man said.

She shook her head. "Wrong. He'll always be a problem. If he had remained in this house, he would have been a much larger problem than he now constitutes."

"I understand."

"Of course you do. It's not a terribly difficult concept. There are some things anyone, no matter how limited, can understand."

The big man took this as an insult, but said nothing. Someday, she would simply go too far. As was true with everyone, her ego would be her undoing.

~ * ~

Sam
Goodlow
said, "It moves."

Ryerson said, "What moves?"

"The way in."

"The way in to what?"

"And out. It's a moveable place. People go in and out all the time. They go into their kitchen, they're out. They leave their kitchen, they're in. They stand on the bathroom scale and then step off the bathroom scale, they're in and out. Who knows when or where? And then they disappear sometimes. Hell, hell, they disappear in droves sometimes, like lemmings off the cliffs of Dover, into the great sea.

"Do you know, do you know, it is only for convenience sake that death facilitates such things, Ryerson. Who needs death to do it? Not a soul.
I
didn't, because here I am, whole and fleshy.

"But there it is. That convenience. Lifeless body, whoosh, off you go. It's easier, I think it's easier that way than going off whole and fleshy.

"And now, here you go, this place, this person Fredrick and his cat."

Silence.

"And?" Ryerson coaxed.

"I am struck, struck. Ryerson, who can do it but you? This woman married to the asshole is one of you. I am not one of her, I think. It's becoming clear, sometimes it's clear, sometimes not. I want it to be clear. But who can touch her, grasp her, reach in and take her out of there?"

Silence.

"You're going to have to be more specific, Sam."

"Rain, rain go away. These are the times to dry men's souls."

"Sam, you're speaking in riddles again. You're going to have to be more specific."

Nothing.

"Sam, please."

"Mr.
Goodlow
," Ryerson heard. It was a woman's voice, and he thought that he recognized it. It was the voice of the woman who called herself Violet
McCartle
.

"Yes?" Ryerson heard. It was Sam's voice.

"I'm concerned about this woman, Mr.
Goodlow
. And you should be, too. I can't trust her. I'm sure I can't trust her. Come here tomorrow, Mr.
Goodlow
, and bring someone who
knows
."

"Knows what?"

"People. Things. Situations. Someone who will look at her and
know
it is not me. And when he does…" The voice drifted quickly into incoherence, and then was gone.

Ryerson read the article titled MAN TELLS BIZARRE STORY a day after it appeared, and after he read it, he called Hanna Beckford.

"Yes," she said, "I've heard of you, Mr.
Biergarten
. And I can understand your interest in my father's experience. As a matter of fact, our minister suggested we call you. As luck would have it, you called us first."

"Have you been down into your father's cellar since his return?" Ryerson asked.

"No," answered Hanna Beckford. "And neither has my father. I take it you would like to come here and look into this matter firsthand?"

"I would, yes."

~ * ~

The big man said, "You may be smarter than me, but I'm stronger."

"Smarter
equals
stronger. Throughout history, smart people have gotten stupid people to do their bidding—whether in war, or in business, even in love—"

"You're saying I'm stupid?"

"Only by comparison with me."

"Yeah, well your brains work only when they're inside your skull. Remember that."

She smiled. "That was a very nice choice of words. Congratulations. Now go and fetch my suitcases."

~ * ~

Ryerson approached to within a couple of feet of the cellar wall, stopped, looked back. Hanna Beckford was on the bottom cellar stair, watching, clearly anxious.

Ryerson said, "And he . . . walked right into it, you say?" She nodded stiffly.

"Then he was gone?"

Another nod. "Yes," she whispered.

Fredrick, explaining that his experience was "not one I wish to repeat," had elected to stay upstairs. He was at the kitchen table; the cellar door was open.

Ryerson looked back at Hanna Beckford, then turned to face the wall again, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He could reach out and touch the wall if he wanted, now. He frowned. Hanna had told him he would smell salt air, fish, wet earth, but he smelled nothing.

All at once, he felt like a fool. He could see himself seizing the moment and stepping forward,
into
the wall, smashing his face on the concrete.

"Move!" he heard. It was a woman's voice. He didn't recognize it.
Hanna Beckford's?
he wondered. He turned his head and looked at her. "Did you speak?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Move!" he heard once more. It was the same voice. He sighed, turned his head toward the wall again, and stepped forward.

He hit the wall hard. Almost at once, there was laughter all around him.

He turned his head and looked at Hanna Beckford, who was looking openmouthed at him, as if in awe.

He put his hand to his nose, then looked at his fingers; his nose was bleeding. "Dammit!" he whispered. Someone was having a good time at his expense.

He smelled salt air.
Only the blood
, he thought.

"Are you all right, Mr.
Biergarten
?" Hanna asked.

He nodded once, stone faced, embarrassed, then faced the wall again.

"Smell that?" Hanna asked.

"I smell it," Ryerson answered.

"Salt air," Hanna said. "The ocean." A short pause. "Please be careful, Mr.
Biergarten
."

"Yes," he whispered.

"Move!" he heard. It was Sam
Goodlow's
voice. Ryerson looked right, left. Only the cellar. "Move, dammit!" he heard.

He stepped forward.

A strong wind slapped at him.

He heard the rushing noise of waves, and he saw a furious, blue-gray sky above.

She's there," he heard. "Look, dammit!"

He looked. He saw only the blue-gray sky. He felt suspended in it, and this made him light-headed and afraid.

"Plant your feet!" he heard. It was the same voice—the voice of a woman.

He shook his head. His fear was magnifying his light-headedness. He closed his eyes tightly, as if to shut out what was happening to him.

"Plant your feet,
goddammit
!" he heard.

"In
what?
" he screamed.

"Idiot! In the earth, in the earth!"

"But where?" He opened his eyes. He saw only a blue-gray sky all around, and he felt a stiff wind slapping at him. He smelled salt air. Wet earth.

"Beneath you, for Christ's sake! You'll drift forever if you don't!" The voice was almost taunting him.

"But how do I
do
that?" he pleaded.

"Pretend you're a bird. Make like a sea gull and
land!
How do I know? Who am
I
?

"Do what you have to do and do it now, or this place will be where you will spend eternity!"

He was not aware of his body, so he supposed, with awe, that he had no control of it. He could see his legs and his arms, and they were in a position that suggested he was walking.

"Am I walking?" he shouted.

"How can you be walking? On what?"

"On the earth!"

"But you aren't
on
the earth."

"How can I ... Dammit, how can I plant my feet in the earth if I'm not on the earth?"

"It's just an expression. Get your feet on the ground. Get your priorities straight. Get hold of yourself. Know who you are and where you are and what in the hell you're doing!" The voice had changed. It was no longer the voice of a woman. It was a voice he recognized, but could not place.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he screamed. And now, caught up in his fear and light-headedness, and in the midst of nothing but sky, in the constant wind slapping at him, he knew that he was falling, that he was plummeting at some awful speed toward ... what? Only God knew, he told himself.

"Wrong," the voice said, “
you
know!"

And at last he recognized the voice. It was his voice. Himself. It was the creature inside him that knew so much more than he knew, the creature that saw the world around it without the limiting effects of the senses feeding impulses to the brain, which changed those impulses into something plausible and recognizable.

This
all around him—the furious, blue-gray sky and wind and salt air—were only the products of his brain and senses trying in vain to cope with what was
real
, what that creature inside him could see and feel without sight, or touch.

"Not so smart, after all, huh?" the voice taunted.

"You're right," Ryerson admitted.

And the voice finished, "It's really pretty much of a Zen thing, Rye."

Ryerson cracked a nervous grin, closed his eyes, opened them.

He saw what looked for all the world like clay all around him—red clay, green clay, black clay, orange, pink, mauve, gray. There were endless mounds of it, like multicolored hills, and they stretched beyond his sight.

"What in the hell is
this?
" he whispered.

"Only what it looks like," he heard. "More or less. The stuff of dreams and memories. They have to be rebuilt from
something
. This is that something."

"I don't believe it."

"So noted."

"But it's impossible--"

"It is the stuff of the universe."

He bent over, fingered some of it. It was much like the dirt floor in Jack Lutz's cabin, where Stevie had disappeared. It was moist, almost fluid. But it was also incredibly malleable. With quick, deft movements of his fingers--much quicker and more deft than they had ever been before—he fashioned first a perfect cube with the stuff, then a sphere, then the miniature likeness of Creosote.

The likeness cocked its head at him, wheezed, gurgled. Ryerson stood up quickly, surprised; the likeness fell from his hand and instantly became again a part of the stuff it had sprung from.

Ryerson heard, "It's full of protein, you know. It needs to be. But don't eat it." Laughter.