Vintage: A Ghost Story (4 page)

Trace stood by the roadside. The wind sifted through her long black hair and lifted the edges of her dark trench coat. She seemed ready to take flight at any moment.

I huddled in my worn duster sitting on the hood of the car, holding a flashlight she brought from home. With batteries near death, the beam had shrunk to a weak glow, barely more effective than the sliver of moon above.

So far, everything had been quiet and I wondered when she would lose her patience. Twice she had me shine the beam on her watch so she could see the time. I considered asking if the books ever mentioned ghosts being late but she looked so serious I didn’t dare.

A yawn, sounding loud in the middle of nowhere, escaped my mouth. The caffeine from the coffee we’d drank hours ago had left my blood and I felt the first tinges of lassitude.

“Worried he might not show?” she asked, still looking out along the road.
I shook my head, unsure if she was really asking herself the question. “No; more worried I might have imagined the whole thing.” I tried to sup press my growing doubt and the new guilt at bringing Trace out here for nothing.
Then I caught a glimpse of someone walking down the highway and I pointed. “There.”
Trace turned so fast she bumped her knee on the grill of the car.
As the figure came nearer, my eyes began tearing from the growing wind and cold. We both remained quiet. I had never before felt so on edge. This was different from last night. Then, I had spoken to what I believed was just some other boy. Now I knew better. Trace must have been a storm inside, eager to prove her dreams right. One of her hands reached out and gripped my shoulder tightly. I’m not sure which of us needed steadying more.
Like a video replayed, the guy had the same stride, the same movements as last night. I think he might have walked right past us without realizing we even existed, if I hadn’t slipped in front of him, blocking his way. He stopped and lifted his gaze from the road to me as if suddenly awake.
Hey,” I said, shivering all of a sudden. Maybe from the cold.
His face brightened and then he smiled. He remembered me! A sense of relief filled me and, for a brief moment, I relaxed, basking in a boy’s attention. No vapor escaped his mouth when he breathed and I suddenly remem bered that this boy had been dead for decades. I struggled to keep calm.
“I had to see you again,” I said. Something moved on my left. Both of us turned and I saw Trace drawing closer, staring at the ghost. I had actually forgotten she was there. “It’s okay, she’s a friend of mine.”
Where are you walking to?” she asked him. Her voice trembled.
He never answered her. The weight of his stare left me weak. “I didn’t see you at the party.”
“Why isn’t he talking?” Trace tugged at my arm. I turned to her. “You can’t hear him?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s just standing there.”
I didn’t understand what was wrong, why I could talk with him and she couldn’t. I became her ventriloquist dummy, repeating his simple answers to Trace, who trembled against me.
“Ask him if he remembers reaching home.”
I thought that a cruel thing to ask but listened to her anyway.
All he said was, “Yes,” but that managed to quicken my heartbeat. Why me? Why after all these years, had he noticed me? I suppose I should have been worried but all I felt was the sudden sense of worth he gave me.
“Were you walking back from the party last night?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
I repeated his simple answers to Trace, who trembled against me.
“Ask him if he remembers reaching home.”
She shook her head. “No. He’s just standing there.”
I thought that a cruel thing to ask but listened to her anyway.
“Ask him if he remembers meeting you last night.”
He never answered me. Instead, he took a step back. Those beautiful eyes, a gentle blue, widened. He looked around the desolate road as if finally noticing his surroundings. He looked lost.
I took my gaze off of him for only a moment, just to chide Trace for upsetting him. When I looked back, he was gone, disappeared once more. I moaned in disgust. “We chased him away.”
“I’m sorry.” She walked over to where he had been standing. “They never realize they’re dead. That’s what the books say.” She spoke fast, almost breathless with excitement. “We saw a real ghost.”
“What happens when they do?
She turned toward me. “Hmm?”
“What happens when they discover they’re dead?”
“Oh.” Trace put a hand to her mouth a moment. “They usually fade away then.”
“So you’re saying we just killed him?” I looked around for any sign of him.
She frowned. “Hon, I didn’t mean to ruin this for you. But, honestly, did you think something could have happened between you two?”
“Maybe not thought.” My voice dropped low. “More like hoped.”
“I didn’t think he was your sort. Too… all American.”
I closed my eyes and imagined him still standing in front of me. Josh. That had been the name on the jacket. “He was different—”
“He was a ghost. An apparition.” She rubbed my back.
I turned my face so the wind would strike it. “Don’t you wonder what would it have been like to kiss him?”
“Cold, probably.”
I rubbed the wet corners of my eyes. How could I have let myself fall for a phantom? “I’m just sick and tired of having something so great happen to me and then it all falls apart.”
Our drive back was quiet. She probably thought I was upset with her for chasing him off. Maybe I really was, I don’t know. The last thing I wanted to do was talk.
“Awww...”She gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry. It’s autumn. Everything happens in the autumn. You’ll see.”

I didn’t bother with turning on the light switch in my room; there wasn’t enough stuff to trip over. I stripped off my shirt, hearing some seam tear in protest. I angrily tossed it across the room as punishment.

As I stepped out of my jeans I noticed the open window had let in a draft. My aunt must have decided to let some fresh air into the room. Perhaps she thought it would be healthy for me. Though it was only a few feet away, I felt too bothered to close it. Instead, I collapsed on the bed, feeling sorry for myself and imagining that while I slept tonight pneumonia might slowly creep into my lungs. Then I could wake with a choking cough and live only a few short days, a bitter fantasy to discover how cold death really was.

My eyes opened and I trembled at the whisper in my ear. There was more than a draft in the room with me. Or else the long hours, anticipation, and disappointment had left me exhausted and I couldn’t trust my senses or my desire to see him again. I crawled to the foot of the bed. I was afraid to speak out, worried that I might be answered.

At first my eyes saw only the gloom. But a faint glow grew in a corner until I could see a pale figure standing there. The ghost of the boy from the highway took a tentative step closer. My heart beat faster though I wasn’t sure if it was with fear or desire.

“I’m here. With you.”
“Thank you.” I could not believe I said that, even though I knew the reason he was there was because of me. For the first time in my life, I had been pursued, wanted.
I watched as he made his way to my bed. Even without much light, I could see him in detail: The sheen of Brylcreem left his hair looking wet. The way his chest filled the sweater with such promise. A slight scuff at the tips of his penny loafers. I could not stop looking at him. Knowing the risk he might suddenly disappear forced me to etch every little feature of his into my brain.
When his hand fell upon my bare arm, the feather-weight touch felt cool and set off a chain reaction of wondrous shivers through me. I fairly moaned as his fingers traced back and forth, from my elbow to my wrist.
As he touched me his voice became stronger. “I need to talk to you.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll listen, Josh.”
He took so long to speak again, I grew worried.
“Everything’s different.” He looked around my room. “This is your home?”
I nodded. It would have been too confusing to tell the truth.
“I think… I think I haven’t been home in a long time.” He nodded once. “I remember leaving the party. Not much else. But I never seem to come home. I’m always walking. I’m always alone.” He looked straight at me, and I could see deep into his eyes, see my reflection in those ice-blue mirrors.
“I understand.” I knew loneliness, the fear of being pushed away, of being left behind, of having no one.
“I hope you do.” He stepped nearer. I moved back and he came even closer. “I want to stay with you.”
That short-circuited my mind for a few moments. All I could think of was my aunt’s reaction if I told her a ghost followed me home. And, oh yeah, we’re both hot for each other, so don’t mind any sounds you might hear behind closed doors.
I never answered, because he took one more step toward me and then vanished. A quick fade away to nothing, leaving me trembling and cold.

The air-conditioning on the dimly lit bus was broken. Sweat rolled lazily down my forehead, my back, under my arms. I tried to shift about in the seat in the hopes of finally finding the secret of being comfortable, but with the duffel bag on my lap and the person next to me leaning over more and more into my personal space, the task seemed impossible. I breathed through my mouth, disgusted at the stink of so many bodies packed tightly.

But the worst was the girl crying. I might have drifted off except for her.
She sat diagonally across from me, thin knees bent up to her chest. Her floral print dress rode up slightly and I could see scuff marks on her knees, bruises on her shins. Her face was almost always turned toward the windows—weird because the night had made the glass into reflective mirrors—so I only caught part of her profile: thin, angular face peeking out behind limp hair. She held a tissue in a clenched fist, bringing it up to her face and down to her lap steadily.

She never stopped crying. Deep, heaving sobs that pinnacled with her shaking. High-pitched huffs and heavy groans.
I looked around the bus amazed that everyone else was fast asleep. How could they? Didn’t they hear her?
I stared hard at her, wishing many evil thoughts upon her while silently begging her to just shut up so I could sleep. I’d be in New Jersey in only a couple hours.
Her hand smacked the armrest suddenly making me jump. She turned around to look at me. All I could see were her eyes. They bled dark mascara. Empty eyes.

I woke from the nightmare with a gasp. While the bus ride to my aunt’s town had been awful, and the one girl’s constant crying very real, she had never looked at me once the entire trip. I was just thankful she didn’t leave at the same stop. Why dream about her and not Josh?

As I stumbled out of bed, I caught a whiff of something burning. My aunt was cooking. Wearing crumpled boxers and a worn T-shirt, I made my way out into the hall, trying not to inhale the stink of something sickly sweet and charred that hung thick in the air.

In the kitchen my aunt stood by the toaster, staring at it with rapt attention. I shuffled toward her but stopped when the cool tile floor brought back the memory of Josh’s touch. Twin browned remains popping up from the toaster startled us. My aunt gingerly removed whatever she had been “cooking” and dropped it onto an already full plate.

She gave me a smile. “Good morning.” She held up the plate overloaded with different squares. Some looked too toasted, a uniform blackish brown, others multicolored and more festive than anything I wanted to see before noon.

Needless to say my aunt was not a chef. Convenience was her favorite ingredient. The microwave received more attention than the stove. Takeout was preferred. The fact she had bothered to take the time—even two min utes per Pop-Tart, which I figured amounted to almost a half hour’s work— to make me breakfast struck me as wrong. Very wrong.

I slowly sank into one of the chairs surrounding the small kitchen table. She set the plate down right before me and the smell, a mix from some cata strophic bakery, hit me full in the face. She began rooting in the refrigerator and missed my whimper.

She brought over a carton and two glasses. I ached for coffee but a glance at the counter showed the machine sitting idle. She poured orange juice into each glass and pushed one forward. I cautiously tipped it toward me. The stuff looked too bright to be served at breakfast.