6

 

Sandra Roberts was not what I expected: old, craggily, and conniving. Instead, she was my exact image of a southern lady: soft wavy hair more brown than gray that she kept tucking behind her ear, and a gentle Southern drawl effective in soothing my nervousness. Trina was right. I had to be the one to tell her about Jimmy.

As I talked, she listened, occasionally glancing at Trina or Ted for acknowledgement.

In the end, she cried. Even after raising a daughter, tears still make me uncomfortable. Trina stayed behind when Ted and I returned home to wait for the police. The experience had drained me, and I eagerly agreed to give the ladies some space.

Ted and I were standing in the kitchen when we heard the crunch of gravel. He hurried to the front door while I lingered behind. This was his house, I knew my place, but I still had a clear view of the front door.

“Mr. Hancock, I’m Inspector Simpson. This is Officer Hopkins.” Both men shook Ted’s hand. “You filed a report last night about Jimmy Roberts.”

Ted shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts.

“Do you mind showing us the way to the attic?” Inspector Simpson asked.

Ted led the men down hall to the stairs. “This is my father-in-law, Bill Iver. He’s the one that saw the ghosts--”

The two officers looked my way, a slight wobble marring their tight lips. No doubt, I had been the brunt of more than one joke at the station. “Mr. Iver.” Inspector Simpson extended his hand. “We probably won’t need you; Officer Studler’s report seems to be thorough. But stick around, won’t you, just in case.”

I knew a blow-off when I heard one. In this instance, I didn’t mind. Twice in the attic was enough. A third visit could wait a long time, as far as I was concerned. I knew the day would come. I had promised to take Sandra to the attic when she was ready.

Ted led the men toward the stairs. The black case gripped in Officer Hopkins’ right hand hit the side of the wall as he gripped the railing with his left. I wanted to file another report, one for negligence of client property. Once I heard them going up the attic stairs I ran my hand along the wall. The small dent could be repaired with a round of spackling, but still, it shouldn’t have happened.

I put on a new pot of coffee, got out the fixings for a sandwich, and settled at the kitchen table, wondering what was happening upstairs. Would the officers seriously look at the bolt and fibers, given their reaction to the ghost story? I took a chunk out of the sandwich, and it fell like a lump into my stomach. I pushed away the plate.

“Hey.” Ted wandered into the kitchen and slumped into the chair across from me.

“Want a sandwich?” I pushed my plate toward him.

“Maybe later.”

“What’s going on up there?” I hoped they would find another explanation for the fiber and bolt. Even though I would have to eat crow, it would be preferred to thinking ghosts or demons resided in this house. But in my heart, I knew what I had seen. There would be no other explanation. The apparitions had not been my mind playing tricks on me, resurrected from a glimpse of a poster while driving through town. What it all meant I didn’t know.

Ted shrugged his shoulders. “I showed them the bolt and threads, repeated how I had found them. They told me they might be awhile, and I might as well find something else to do.”

Two cups of coffee later, Ted jumped from his chair. “I’m going upstairs to paint.”

So much for the calm and always in control son-in-law. Truth be told, my muscles were as jumpy as the rocks in a landslide.

After washing our coffee cups and putting away the remnants of lunch which neither of us ate, I wandered around the house feeling useless. Pain gnawed just under my ribcage. I pushed a hand into my stomach, pressed against the burn. This same painful nausea used to keep me awake at night when Nancy was sick. If tension were an indicator of effort, I should be able to rearrange the laws of gravity about now. I needed something to do; work was my stress reliever. I headed to the upstairs gallery.

Once on the second floor muffled scuffling and footsteps sounded from above. Memories flooded back from last night: me, laying in the dark, listening for sounds. Would the ghosts appear to the officers? Probably not. So far no one had seen them except me —my own special gift. Some gift. Everyone thought I was crazy, including me at times. I glanced down the hall, then at the open attic door. I pushed it closed.

I strode into the large corner bedroom. I smelled the paint thinner before I entered the room. Strips of flowered wallpaper still clung to the plaster. The ceiling, once white, looked creamy ivory. Burn spots from the plaster underneath gave the appearance of whitewash with coffee splashed here and there. The hardwood floor had been mopped, but lacked the shine it was capable of having. More work for the summer.

“Ted, do you have a hoe?”

He glanced up. The easel, placed toward the windows, cut off my view of the current canvas. Ted held up a paintbrush, its bristles covered in gray.

“Um…there might be one in the garage. Do you want me to go look?”

“I can do it. I thought I’d take down some of those tall weeds out back, make the place look better. Maybe put in a flower bed when I come back.”

“Sounds good.” His attention had already refocused on the project in front of him.

I headed to the door.

“Bill.”

At the tone of his voice, I turned.

“Thank you.”

I stared.

“You were good with Mrs. Roberts.”

My face reddened. “It’s all right… I’ll go get that hoe now.”

I slipped downstairs and out the kitchen door that exited onto an old screened porch. The add-on flanked the back side of the house. Wide floor-boards slanted gradually away from the house. Light sliced through the crack where the porch attached to the house. A good wind and the whole thing would blow away. Another item to add to Mrs. Roberts’s construction budget.

I stood on the cement steps and let the sun warm my face. The back yard, a quarter of an acre at least, contained overgrown bushes and small trees that blocked the view of neighbors. A yellow cat wandered through the brush and sat peering at me. Eventually it began to groom its feet, pulling one long leg toward its mouth at a time.

The garage sat behind the house and off to the left. As I walked, I examined the wood framed building now weathered gray. Overgrown vines and small trees covered the windows. A pair of dormers, bordered with ornate scrollwork that still showed flecks of white paint from a past era, adorned the roof. Once I trimmed the scrollwork a different color from the garage, they would stand out, making the building look like the play house Trina had always begged for when she was a little girl.

I chuckled. The old place must be growing on me if I thought the outbuildings looked good.

After being in the bright sun, the darkness of the garage blinded me. I stumbled over cans, old engines, batteries, boxes and sacks, and more cans. Lots of cans. The place rivaled the county dump. Scratching sounds came from deep within the darkness. Good place for rats to hide.

Eager to leave rodents to their home, I found a hoe, shovel and bucket right inside the door. Clumps of dry, sandy soil clung to the shiny blade of the hoe. Someone had made an attempt at yard work, even though all signs of the effort were gone.

Leaving the garage, I headed toward the opposite side of the yard. Dense weeds three feet tall created a maze impenetrable to all but stalwart snakes. Remembering a story my grandfather had once told me, I pounded the base of the hoe on the ground three times; the vibrations guaranteed to scare away any lurking snake.

After stripping off my shirt, I hacked the blade of the hoe into the base of the weeds. My mind wandered to the past twenty-four hours. Grasping the magnitude of what had transpired was beyond me at this point. I had no idea what it all meant, except that I had seen something impossible. My biggest concern was Trina. Could she be in danger from the ghost boys…or something else? I still refused to call them demons.

I looked over my shoulder toward the house. Yellow rays from the sun wrapped the house in serenity. And yet, the tranquility was nothing more than a façade that distorted reality.

I plunged deeply with the hoe. One layer of weeds gone; more behind it. Muscles ached. Sweat ran down my face and stung my eyes. My back felt sunburned.

Behind the next layer of weeds was a small clearing. Leaning on the hoe, I looked at the unexpected garden. Who would plant anything and let weeds the size of Amazons grow around it?

I looked closer. This was where tools had been used, but it wasn’t to grow vegetables.

 



 

A crowd gathered out front. Two boys had stopped on the sidewalk when the first cruiser, carrying the investigators for the attic, had pulled into the drive. By the time the second cruiser arrived, the spectators had grown to eight. Lots of excitement for Cashua Street.

Ted and I waited on the front porch. I groaned when the officer unfolded his gangly frame from the cruiser.

“Hey Paul,” shouted one of the bystanders, a boy about fifteen, dressed in a long shirt and pants that belted a foot below his waist. “What’s going on? Need any help?”

Officer Studler lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “Hey Travis. Usual stuff. No problem.”

“You might as well tell me. I’ll read about it in the paper anyway.”

“Probably right. Where is Mary Frances?” Studler’s gaze roamed the small crowd. “Not like her to miss an announcement on the police scanner. She’s got to fill up that newspaper of hers.”

“There’s a brush fire on Pocket Road. I can take her place.” The boy walked toward the porch.

“Just stay put, Travis. You know what happened last time you tried to tag along.”

“Yah, Travis,” one of the other teens said, “put your nose where it don’t belong, and your cousin might shoot it off.”

Ted and I accompanied Officer Studler to the far right hand side of the back yard.

I pointed out the newly exposed six-foot clearing with its ten healthy plants.

“Didn’t expect to find marijuana growing in the middle of town,” Officer Studler said. “Especially not at the old Barnett place.”

“How’d they get here?” Ted asked.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing. You live here.”

“You don’t think I did it?” Ted’s face turned red.

I turned my head, trying to hide the grin that forced its way onto my face. Ted wasn’t guilty, but I enjoyed his discomfort.

“Marijuana doesn’t grow on its own.” Studler kicked a clump of soil with the toe of his shiny black shoe. “Expect a team to come by to remove the plants. And Mr. Hancock, they better still be here.”

“I didn’t…”

“Someone did.”

Ted and I watched as Officer Studler sauntered toward his cruiser.

“It had to be that boy,” I said. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted.”

“Mitch?”

“Like the man said, it has to be somebody. Mitch lived here. The hoe and shovel were in the garage. It makes sense.”

Ted stared at the plants, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“What do you know about the kid anyway?” I asked, unwilling to let the subject of Mitch drop like it had the night before. “Where did he come from before he started to work here?”

Ted’s face pinched in misery. “I don’t know.”

 



 

The next morning I packed to go home. The day was starting to be another sunny, warm one.

Trina cried and clung to me as I headed out to the car. “I’ll be back in two weeks.” I shoved a small travel case into the back seat. “We knew this would just be a long weekend.” I wiped tears off Trina’s cheeks. “When I come back, I’ll be able to stay for the whole summer.”

“Everything’s all wrong.” Her hazel eyes lacked focus, like a deer in the headlights on a dark wooded road. “Jimmy’s dead, and now drugs on the property. Dad, what’s going on?”

“You don’t need to worry about either one, honey. The police will handle them. In the meantime, get some rest. You look tired.”

She leaned against my chest. “I am tired.”

“You don’t have to do all the work at once. Give yourself a break until I get back.”

“Dad, what about the other ghost?” she asked, her face buried in my shirt, “What if he’s hurting Jimmy?”

“Jimmy’s safe now.”

“I kept praying he would be found.”

“He has been found, honey.”

“No, not this way.” She pushed me away. “I wanted him to come home, to grow up and live in this house. I don’t understand. You always said ghosts don’t exist. How can you have seen Jimmy?”

I didn’t have an answer. My mind struggled with the same question.

 



 

Internal thoughts distracted me as I headed home. A horn behind me sounded. I moved through the green light. I didn’t bother looking for a radio station. Cars zoomed by. I pushed on the accelerator, rolled down the window, and reached for my first swallow from the thermos.

If Ted or Trina had seen the ghosts, would I have believed them?

I stopped for gas. My shoulders itched from the sunburn. Back in the car, I wiggled against the seat, but that made the irritation worse. More coffee.

Officer Studler said street value in Darlington for the small crop of marijuana would be around $5,000. Not a lot of money for a drug lord, but a good stash for a self-user. Someone was having fun, and potentially had been for a long time.

I missed the Interstate 77 turn off. Car horns.

Is there a connection between Jimmy’s death and the drugs? How did he die? What about the first ghost boy?

What force brought me to the attic?