The Ghosts of Now (3 page)

“Kicker,” Jeremy says with authority. He looks at Boyd. “I think they got that name because of the boots.”

Boyd doesn’t respond. He’s still staring at me. He’s not much taller than I am and almost as thin as Jeremy. There shouldn’t be anything menacing about a person like that. But the intense look in his eyes makes me think of a snake hypnotizing a bird. I shudder.

“That air conditioning must be blowing right on
you,” Mom says. “Come in here and sit down. It’s pleasant in here.”

So I perch on the end of the chair closest to my mother and wonder why I’m the only one who feels that there’s something very wrong about Jeremy’s small, dark-eyed friend.

After a few minutes of very dull conversation Boyd mutters something about stuff he has to do. Jeremy, trailing Boyd like an adoring puppy, goes out with him to admire his car. “Boyd’s sixteen,” he says, with the same awe reserved for someone who’s just won the Indianapolis 500.

The door shuts, and Dad says, “His father’s an attorney. I’ve heard of him. Very influential in Fairlie.”

“Wow!” I say. “That makes him practically perfect, just like Mary Poppins.”

Mom, who has been busy plumping up the cushions on the satin-striped sofa, straightens and stares at me. “I don’t understand the sarcasm, Angie. Boyd seems like a nice boy to me.”

“I think he’s a creep,” I answer. “And I don’t think what his father does for a living makes any difference.”

Dad leans back in his chair, making a church steeple of his fingers and resting his chin on them. He does this a lot when he’s having what he calls “an important talk” with Jeremy or me, and I think it’s because there’s a dimple in his chin that quivers when he gets upset
about anything, and this way he can cover the dimple and not give his feelings away. I bet he does that in his office too.

“Many young people are idealists,” Dad says, “so I don’t fault you for that, Angie. But as you grow older and become more experienced with the ways of the world, you’ll find that a man’s position in life does make a difference.”

“A difference in what?”

His lips turn up in the barest of smiles. “Don’t you think that an attorney would command more respect than—let’s say—a cowboy?”

Sometimes I like to get into a good argument with my father, and we sharpen our wits against each other as though they were little knives, darting, pricking, slicing—but never very deeply. Tonight I’m not in the mood, so I say, “That’s a hard question. Perry Mason versus The Lone Ranger. I’ll have to give that one a lot of thought.”

I get up and stretch, yawning loudly with my mouth wide open, knowing that will irritate Dad too.

The door bangs and Jeremy’s in the room. “Angie, that’s some kicker you came up with. He’s a nice guy, though. I’d like a hat like his, except I couldn’t wear it, because people would think I was trying to be a kicker. Does he ride a horse?”

“Probably,” I answer. “We didn’t talk much about him. He just asked a lot of questions about me.”

“You just talked about yourself all that time? You sure are conceited!”

I throw a punch toward his shoulder, and he jumps
out of the way, grinning. “I didn’t just talk about myself. Del told me a lot of neat stuff about the people who built this town, and showed me things, like the house with ghosts in it.”

Jeremy perks up. “Real ghosts?”

“How can ghosts be real when they’re unreal? No one believes in ghosts.” I turn to Mom and Dad and add, “Del told me some of the history of this town.”

My mouth is open, ready to share some of the stories, but Jeremy interrupts. “Boyd was only here about twenty minutes, but I’m glad he came, so all of you could meet him. He’s real popular at school. We’re going to get in some extra practice at the courts at the country club. They’re better than the courts at school, Boyd says.”

I don’t want to hear another word about Boyd, so I blow kisses to my parents and say, “Good night. I’m going to read over my French assignment in bed.”

Mom comes to hug me and murmurs, “That cowboy
is
good-looking, dear. I’m sure he’ll be just the first of lots of good-looking boys you’ll meet here.”

Subtle as a cement truck. I dutifully kiss her cheek, then head for my room. Later, it’s hard to concentrate on French. I find myself smiling at memories of the evening, until I give up, slide under the covers, and turn out the light. And for the first time in weeks I’m able to fall asleep.

For the next few days I study during most of my spare time. I’ll be at USC in less than a year. Nothing’s going to stop me.

It’s good to see Del every morning. He talks to me
about his family, and he asks about mine. I find myself telling him things I haven’t thought about for years, like when I was six and learned how to swim, then tried to teach Jeremy in the bathtub. And the time I wanted to visit Grandma; so I packed my favorite doll and a jar of peanut butter, took Jeremy by the hand and set out on a journey that ended at the police station, where we got cherry lollipops. Maybe because Del’s got such an easy way about him, maybe because he never seems to be pretending like most people do, I feel comfortable with him. I think I’m beginning to trust him.

He asks me for a date for Saturday night. “You need to learn country-western dancing,” he says. “And I’m the one who can teach you.”

“How about disco?” I ask. “Can you dance disco?”

He shrugs. “Sure. But it’s nicer up close.”

I find out that Jeremy was right about Boyd being popular. He’s one of the class officers and a good student, and he keeps that charm going strong. Even the teachers like him.

“Hi, Angie,” he beams at me as we pass in the hallway.

I mumble something, a little embarrassed that I don’t like him. I seem to be the only one who distrusts that charm, and maybe I’m wrong.

A couple of the girls in my classes begin to talk to me. Both of them have fathers with oil companies, but they’ve moved here years ago and feel so comfortably settled that they can talk about Fairlie like smug mothers reciting the adorable faults of their children.

“Wait till you find yourself in a sandstorm,” one of them says. “It’s awful. It blows through the cracks in the windows and gets on everything.”

“Even in your teeth,” the other says, her braces flashing. “And it howls—the wind that is.”

“When are the sandstorms?”

“The wind will start soon. I know it always blows down our Christmas decorations every year.”

“But the sand blows in the spring. And it goes on and on until you want to scream.”

Later I ask Del about it.

“Just parts of Oklahoma wanting to come down to Texas,” he says. “It’s not as bad as it used to be before there was so much planted. The early farmers had it bad.”

It isn’t that great now, I think, and I wonder why anyone wanted to try to grow things in hard, dry, desert country like this. Not a lake or a river as far as the horizon. The town’s an oasis, with spreading gray-leafed oaks like giant straws, sucking up moisture from deep below the dusty surface of the earth.

I’m paired with Debbie Hughes for a few moments during basketball practice in P.E. We’ve passed each other dozens of times in the halls and going in and out of classes, but this is the first time she’s actually looked at me. It’s an appraisal. She’s sizing me up as though I were competition. Surely, not for Debbie Hughes. We’re not even in the same world.

She drives a pale blue foreign car, and I’ve never seen her alone in it. I’ve never seen her alone anywhere.
Even when she sweeps down the school hallways, she’s in the middle of giggles and gush.

A whistle blows, a ball comes fast, and that’s it. Not a word spoken. In a few minutes she’s back with her own group. I don’t care about Debbie. I don’t care about any of them. I only care about Meredith and USC and the life I’m going to have next year.

Mom joins a study club and signs up for season tickets to the community theater. She goes to a couple of luncheons at the country club and once can’t make it to dinner. “Tell your father I may have a virus,” she mumbles and skips the coffee to sleep it off.

I don’t think Dad’s dense. I think he has too much on his mind to notice things he ought to notice. He works long hours, brings home stacks of papers to read, and occasionally grumbles to Mom about problems with his job.

“There’s a lot of antagonism against the oil people in certain quarters here,” he says to Mom. “It occasionally adds unnecessary problems.”

Mom just shrugs and says, “Cash in hand is always the bottom line, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t want someone else to be getting the mineral profits from my land. I know how those people feel.”

“We’re just innocent bystanders,” Mom tells him. “Why should they get mad at us?”

I start to tell them about the way it is at school, with people divided into groups, with the ones like Debbie calling themselves “socialites,” and the kickers, and the
kids of the oil company people, but Dad sort of looks over my shoulder and murmurs “Um-hum” every once in a while, so I know he’s not listening. His body’s home, but his mind is off somewhere else.

Jeremy comes and goes, usually with a tennis racket under his arm. He’s out a lot in the evenings, and I’m surprised that’s okay with Mom and Dad, but if they don’t care, then why should I? Sometimes Jeremy’s quiet and keeps to himself, and sometimes he rattles on and on about a lot of stuff, but I don’t usually listen. It’s not important. And I’ve got to catch up in French. He’s stopped talking about Boyd Thacker so much, and that’s a relief.

So the days crumble into another Friday, and that’s when it’s bad. On Fridays Meredith and I were usually together. Sometimes we’d double date, or make popcorn and watch the late late movie.

This Friday evening I’m alone.

Mom and Dad are going out to dinner with some company brass who’ve flown in from the Houston office. She stoops to kiss me good-bye. “I’ve left the number of the club by the phone in the den, if you need us,” she says. She’s wearing red silk and looks terrific.

“Perrier and lime for you tonight,” Dad says to her.

She makes a little face and blinks her long lashes at him. “Not even a little white wine?”

“Perrier.” He’s smiling, but his tone is firm. “This dinner is very important for us. I don’t want anything to spoil it.”

“You know I only drink when I’m bored.” She takes his arm, cuddling up to his shoulder, and they leave. I
settle down in front of the television set in my old jeans and a faded blue T-shirt and flip from channel to channel. Everything is boring. Everything is dumb.

“What are you watching?” The voice is behind me, and I jump and let out a yelp.

“You came in like a ghost! Scared me to death!”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Jeremy says.

“I don’t.” He’s got a strange look on his face, and one corner of his mouth twitches as though he’s trying not to smile. “Don’t tell me you do.”

“Maybe I do,” he says. “Some kinds of ghosts, that is.”

“I see. You’re being selective in your ghosts. How about the ones in the Andrews place? You were ready to believe in those when I told you about them.”

“Forget the Andrews place.”

His tone is suddenly sharp and serious. Curiosity makes me needle him just a bit. “Why? Del and I just might do some ghost hunting there some dark night.”

“Stay away from there,” he says. “It’s just a dumb old house.”

I can’t read the expression in his eyes. “What are you getting at, Jeremy?”

“Nothing,” he says. He turns and moves toward the door. “I’m going out.”

“Who with? Got a girl friend?”

“None of your business.”

“Where are you going? Did you tell Mom and Dad?”

“Don’t try to be my mother, Angie,” he says. “I only have to tell
them
where I’m going, not you.”

“I don’t care where you’re going.”

“Good, because it’s none of your business.”

I turn the sound up louder after he leaves and try to get interested in an old movie. It bombed when it came out, and I can see why. I wish the phone would ring. I wish Del would call. Maybe he will if I concentrate on the telephone. I send all my energies toward that phone, screwing up my face in the effort.
Ring
, I tell it.
Ring!

But it doesn’t.

There are noises in the back of the house, and I go to investigate. I’m not really scared. It’s just something to do. It sounds like a tree branch scraping the window. That’s just what it is—a tree branch moving slightly in a breeze, its dry, curling leaves like withered fingers against the glass.

A breeze isn’t bad. It might break the smothering, dry heat that each day sizzles up from the sidewalk and presses down from a flat sky. But as I watch those quivering leaves at the edge of darkness a feeling of dread begins to creep through my shoulders and up my neck. I step back from the window, gasping for breath.
What’s the matter?

“Hey!” I tell myself. “Don’t let your imagination get out of control.” But the suddenness of my voice in the silent room adds to my fright, and I scramble toward the puddles of bright light under the reading lamps in the den.

Maybe it’s premonition. I don’t know. I’m staring at the telephone when it rings so loudly that I jump. It takes all the courage I’ve got to move toward it a step
at a time. It rings again as I put my hand on the receiver, and the vibration trembles through my body.

“Hello?” I clear my throat and try again, speaking more loudly. “Hello?”

The voice that comes over the phone is a whisper. “Angie?”

In the pause that follows I shout, “Who is this?”

There’s a strange sound, like a sob or even a smothered laugh, and the whisper continues. “Your brother is dead.”

“Who are you?” I scream, but I hear the click of someone hanging up. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

I slowly put down the telephone and look at it as though it will have more to tell me. Was that some kind of a sick prank? It had to be. People aren’t notified of terrible things by voices like that. Are they?

There’s a scrap of paper by the phone. It’s the telephone number Mom left. I scoop it up and begin to dial, but my fingers are trembling so violently that I drop it, and my mind hasn’t registered the number. Never mind. Dad said this was an important dinner, and what can I tell him? What if he and Mom race home in a panic, and Jeremy walks in the door like nothing had happened?