Ivory and the Horn (14 page)

While Jilly can be persuasive, I don’t think I can quite believe in ghosts. But I do believe in memories.

Jilly’s friend Christy Riddell—the writer—made the connection between ghosts and memories for me. He told me it’s not just people that have memories; places have them, too.

“If you think of ghosts as a kind of recording,” he says, “a memory that’s attached itself to a certain place or an object, then they don’t become quite so farfetched after all.”

“So why don’t we see them everywhere?” I ask. “Why doesn’t everyone see them?”

“People’s minds are like radio receivers,” he explains. “They’re not all capable of tuning into every station.”

I still don’t believe in ghosts and I tell him so.

“Look at the stars,” he says.

This is happening in the middle of a party at Wendy’s house. Christy and I are having a smoke in the backyard, thrown together because we’re the only ones with the habit in Wendy’s circle of friends.

“What about them?” I ask, my gaze roving from star to star in the darkness overhead.

“Did you ever think about how many of them are ghosts?”

“I don’t get it.”

“We’re not seeing the stars as they are right now,” he says. “We’re seeing them as they were thousands of years ago, maybe millions of years ago—however long it took their light to reach us. Some of them don’t exist anymore. What we see when we look at them right now aren’t the stars themselves, but the light that they gave off—images of themselves, of what they once were.”

“So… ?”

“So maybe that’s what ghosts are.”

I hate to admit it, but I can almost buy this.

“Then how come ghosts are so scary?” I ask.

“They’re not always,” he says. “But memories can be like wounds. They’re not easily forgotten because they leave a scar as a constant reminder. It’s the moments of strongest emotions that we remember the most: a love lost or won; anger, betrayal, vengeance. I think it’s the same for ghosts, the strength of their emotions at the time of their death is what allows them to linger, or go on.”

If strong emotions can linger on, I think, then so might desperate wishes.

8

“So I met this woman at the Carlisle,” Scotty said as he and Jim were having lunch on Monday, “and she’s stunning. She’s so hot I can’t believe she’s interested in me.”

“Really?” Jim asked, looking up from his soup with curiosity.

“Oh, yeah. Tight red leather miniskirt, legs like you wouldn’t believe, and she snuggles right up next to me at the bar, rubbing her calf against my leg. And let me tell you, the place is
not
crowded. I’m thinking, if we don’t get out of this place soon, she’s going to jump me right here on the bar stool.”

“So what happened?”

A sheepish look came over Scotty’s features. “Turns out she’s a hooker.”

Jim laughed.

“Hey, it’s not funny. I could’ve caught a
disease
or something, you know?”

“So you didn’t take her up on her… offer.”

“Get real. What about you?”

“No hookers for me, thanks all the same.”

“No, I mean with what’s-her-name, Brenda. Did you see her?”

Jim nodded. “She was different this time,” he said. “A little cooler, I guess.”

“What? Now she’s playing hard to get?”

“I don’t think that’s it. She just wasn’t all that up. I asked her if something was bothering her, but she just changed the subject. After the movie she perked up, though. We stopped for a drink at the Rusty Lion and she had me in stitches, talking about some of the weird people she met back when she was a reporter, but then when I took her home she was all withdrawn again.” Jim toyed with his spoon for a moment, slowly stirring his soup. “I’m not really sure what makes her tick. But I want to find out.”

“Well, good luck,” Scotty said. “But just before you get in too deep, I want you to think of two words: manic depressive.”

“Thanks a lot, pal.”

“Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”

Jim shrugged. “The only down side I see is that she smokes,” he said, and then returned to his soup.

9

Jim calls me on Tuesday night and he’s really sweet. Tells me he’s been thinking about me a lot and he wants to see me again. We talk for a while and I feel good—mostly because he can’t see me, I guess. After I get off the phone, I take a bath and then I look at myself in the mirror and wonder how he could possibly be interested in me.

I know what I see: a cow.

What’s he going to think when he sees me naked? What’s going to happen when he realizes what a fuck-up I am? He hasn’t said anything yet, but I don’t think he much cares for me smoking, and while he’s not stingy or anything, I get the feeling he’s careful with his money. What’s he going to think about
my
finances?

I’m such a mess. I can’t quit smoking, I can’t stick to a diet, I can’t stop spending money I don’t have. Where does it stop? I keep thinking, if I just lose some weight, everything’ll be okay. Except I never do, so I keep buying new clothes that I hope will make me look thinner, and makeup and whatever else I can spend money I haven’t got on to trick myself into thinking things’ll be different. I decide if I get out of debt, everything’ll be okay, but first I have to lose some weight. I think if I get a man in my life… it goes on and on in an endless downward spiral.

I’d give anything to be like Wendy or Jilly. Maybe if I had a wish…

But while I might be starting to believe in ghosts, I side with Wendy on the wish question. Hocus-pocus just doesn’t work. If I want to solve my problems, I’m going to have to do it by myself. And I can’t keep putting it off. I have to make some real changes—
now,
not when I feel like it, because if I wait until then, I’ll never do it.

First thing tomorrow I’m going to make an appointment with my bank manager. And I’ll start a serious diet.

10

“Frankly, Ms. Perry,” the manager of the Unity Trust said, “your finances are a mess.”

Brenda nodded. The nameplate on his desk read “Brent Cameron.” He’d given her That Look when she came into his office, the one that roved carelessly up her body before his gaze finally reached her face. Now he didn’t seem to be interested in her looks at all.

She’d been upset when he gave her the once-over; now she was upset because he’d obviously dismissed her. She knew just what he was thinking. Too fat.

“But I think we can help you,” he went on. “The first thing I want you to do is to destroy your credit cards—all of them.”

He gave her an expectant look.

“Um, did you want me to do that now?” Brenda asked.

“That might be best.”

He handed her a pair of scissors and one by one she clipped her credit cards in two—Visa, Mastercard, gas and department store cards. The only one she didn’t touch was her second Visa card.

“You can’t keep any of them, Ms. Perry.”

“This isn’t mine,” she explained. “It’s from work. I’ll hand it in to them when I get back.”

He nodded. “Fine. Now I know this isn’t going to be easy, but if we start with making a list of all your monthly requirements, then I think we can come up with a plan that will…”

The rest of the meeting went by in a blur. She got the loan. She also came out with a sheaf of paper which held her financial plan for the next three years. Every bit of her income was accounted for, down to the last penny. God, it was depressing. She was going to have to do all her shopping in thrift shops—if she could even afford to do that. To make things worse, she hadn’t even mentioned the six-hundred-dollar repair bill she owed her garage for work they’d done on her car last month.

What she could really use right now was a cigarette, she thought, but she hadn’t had one since last night and this time she was determined to quit, once and for all. She was starving, too. She’d skipped breakfast and all she’d had for lunch was a bag of popcorn that she’d eaten on the way to her interview with Mr. Cameron.

It hadn’t done much to quell the constant gnaw of hunger inside. All she could do was think of food—food and cigarettes and not necessarily in that order. She’d been feeling grumpy all morning. The interview hadn’t done much to improve her mood. Her nerves were all jangled, her stomach was rumbling, her body craved a nicotine fix, she was broke for at least the next three years____

How come doing the right thing felt so bad?

Her route back to the office took her by her favorite clothing store, Morning Glory, and naturally they were having a huge sale—
UP TO
40%
OFF EVERYTHING
! the banner read. She hesitated for a long moment before finally going in, just to have a look at what she could no longer afford. Then of course there were three dresses that she just had to have and the next thing she knew she was standing at the counter with them.

“Will that be cash or charge?” the sales clerk asked her.

It’d be her last splurge before the austerity program went into affect, she vowed.

But she didn’t have enough money with her to pay for them. Nor could she write a check that wouldn’t bounce— wouldn’t
that
impress Mr. Cameron with how well she was following the guidelines of his budget? Finally she used her
In the City
Visa card.

She’d make it up from her next pay. Her first loan payment wasn’t due for three weeks, and she had another paycheck due before that. Conveniently, she’d managed to forget the unpaid bill due her garage.

11

Thursday after work I drive up Highway 14 and pull into the parking lot of The Wishing Well. By the time I’ve walked around back and made my way through the rose bushes, the evening’s starting to fall. I’ve never been here so late in the day before. I sit on the crumbly stone wall and lean against one of the roof supports. It’s even more peaceful than on a Sunday afternoon, and I just drink in the tranquillity for a long time.

I need something good in my life right now. I’ve already lost a couple of pounds, and I still haven’t had a cigarette since Tuesday night, but I feel terrible. My jaw aches from being clenched so much and all I can think of is cigarettes and food, food and cigarettes. Whenever I turned around at work, someone was stuffing a Danish into their mouth, chewing a sandwich, eating cookies or donuts or a bag of chips. The smoke from Keith’s cigarettes—one desk over .from mine—is a constant reminder of what I can’t do anymore.

Sitting here, just letting the quiet soak into me, is the first real down time I feel I’ve had in the last two days. It’s dark when I finally reach into the pocket of my dress and take out the penny I found in front of the trust company the other day.

Splash.

“So there’s this guy,” I say finally. My voice sounds loud, so I speak more softly. “I think I like him a lot, but I’m afraid I’m just going to get hurt again….”

It’s the same old litany, and even I’m getting tired of it. If the well had a wish for itself, it’d probably be for me just to go away and leave it alone.

Wishes. I don’t believe in them, but I’d like to. I think of what Jilly said about them.

It just depends on how badly you want them.

To come true.

For all the times I’ve visited the well, I’ve never actually made a wish myself. I don’t know why. It’s not just because I don’t believe in them. Because there’s
something
here, isn’t there? Why else would I be able to hear all those old wishes? Why else would the ghosts come walking through my sleep every night? Truth is, I’ve been thinking about wishes more and more lately, it’s just that…

I don’t know. Two days into my new healthy Brenda regime, yes, I’m still hanging in with the diet and not smoking, but it’s like I’m conspiring against myself at the same time, trying to undermine what I am accomplishing with other messes. Can’t eat, can’t smoke? Then, why not blow some money you don’t have?

I made the mistake of stopping at one of the sidewalk jewelry vendors on Lee Street and I used my
In the City
Visa card to buy fifty dollars’ worth of earrings. I didn’t even
know
those vendors took credit cards. Then, when I got back to work, there was a guy from a collection agency waiting for me. The garage got tired of waiting for the money I owed them. The collection agency guy had a talk with Rob—my boss, the paper’s editor—and I had to agree to letting them garnishee my wages until the collection agency’s paid off.

Which is going to leave me desperately short.
Where
am I going to get the money to pay off the bank loan I took out earlier this week, not to mention the money I borrowed on the paper’s Visa card? This diet and no-smoking business is saving me money, but not
that
much money.

Whatever good I’m supposed to get out of doing the right thing still seems impossibly out of reach. Even though I haven’t smoked in two days, my lungs seem more filled with phlegm than ever and my mouth still tastes terrible. All I had was popcorn again today, and a quarter of a head of lettuce. I’m losing weight, according to my bathroom scale, but I can feel the fat cells biding their time in my body, ready to multiply as soon as I stick a muffin or a piece of chocolate in my mouth. I’m worse than broke.

I guess the reason I haven’t ever made a wish is that this is the only place I know where I don’t feel so bad. If I make a wish it’ll be like losing the genie in the bottle. You know, you’ve always got him in reserve—for company, if nothing else—until you make your final wish.

What would I wish for? To be happy? I’d have to become a completely different person for that to work. Maybe to be rich? But how long before I’d blow it all?

The only thing I’d really want to wish for is to see my dad again, but I know that’s something that’ll never happen.

Monday morning found Jilly sitting on the wooden bench in front of Amos & Cook’s Arts Supplies, impatiently waiting for the store to open. She amused herself as she usually did in this sort of a situation by making up stories about the passersby, but it wasn’t as much fun without somebody to share the stories with. She liked telling them to Geordie best, because she could invariably get the biggest rise out of him.