7

 

“Are you sure you didn’t imagine them?”

“The eye bolts and threads were real. I’m not one of your clients, Betsy; I didn’t make them up.”

Betsy was my only sister, two years older and light years ahead of me in brainpower. We were sharing our weekly dinner, at Betsy’s this time. She had never married, and neither of us dated much. Dinner together was something we looked forward to.

Since getting home from South Carolina three days ago, the ghost boys had constantly been on my mind. I was distracted at work, and other teachers were beginning to ask if I was ill; I didn’t offer an explanation. I wouldn’t confide in anyone other than Betsy. After all, she was a clinical psychologist. If anyone could help me, she could. But I was unsure how she would react to her baby brother seeing ghosts.

Betsy’s face lost its expression, the forgotten forkful of lasagna gripped in her hand. I knew the look; she was processing. I wondered if she morphed into blankness during sessions with her clients. People didn’t understand Betsy’s odd empty-eye expressions.

When she was in third grade, the principal called Mom to the school because Betsy was daydreaming during class. However, Betsy had been able to repeat everything the teacher had covered that day. Her grades were excellent, and eventually the teacher gave up trying to change her. Now, staring at the familiar blankness on my sister’s face, I knew she was thinking about what I had told her.

I kept eating. No sense in the food getting cold. Maybe she would come up with an answer I had overlooked.

Betsy lowered the untouched lasagna to her plate. “So what do you think they were, the ghost boys?”

Shrugging my shoulders, I took a bite of garlic bread and wiped the crumbs from my face. “You know I don’t believe that people die and become ghosts; their souls are taken to heaven. But that’s the problem; I know whatever was in the attic wasn’t evil. Wouldn’t I have felt negative vibes?” I took a gulp of coffee. “Did you study this kind of thing in school?”

“Maybe it was exactly what the policeman said. You saw the bolt and your subconscious created the vision of the child chained to the wall.”

“I know I didn’t see a picture of Jimmy. How much attention do you pay to tiny little posters stapled to telephone poles when you drive?”

Betsy chuckled. She had been given more than her share of speeding tickets.

“So what do you think? Am I crazy?” I set down my fork. “Maybe I should forget it ever happened.”

“I have never known Bill Iver to imagine anything. You saw something in that attic.”

“But what?”

“Have you prayed about it?”

I had prayed, but it felt hypocritical. I was praying for an explanation to something I had been taught not to believe in. “It’s not something you pray about.”

“Why not?”

“Come on Bets. You think God wants to hear about me seeing ghosts? ‘Tell me God, did I really see the ghost of a human?’”

“Sarcasm aside, God’s the only one who can give you the answers.”

“Ted said something like that, too—that God had a plan. Seems strange to me that God would have a plan involving ghosts.”

“You should listen to your son-in-law once in a while. He’s a good man.”

“If he’s such a good man, why didn’t he see the ghosts instead of me? I don’t understand why you like him. He’ll never be able to support Trina. You should see that house, Bets—”

“To me, it sounds like it was more Trina’s idea than Ted’s, but that’s not the issue.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m getting to it. You are driving to South Carolina stressing over all this—having to be in the same house with Ted, seeing a historic home which to you say needs a wrecking ball—and your imagination takes over.”

I didn’t like the way this conversation was going, but held my tongue.

“Once in Darlington, as you go through the house, you get more and more upset. By the time you get to the attic, you have exceeded your ability to suppress your emotions. So subconsciously, in an attempt to release tension, you create a vision of two ghosts, one dominating, and the other a victim.”

“It wasn’t like that, Betsy. They were real.”

“They couldn’t be. You know that.”

I stared across the table. My own sister didn’t believe me.

“It’s not unusual for people to play out their anger in fantasy. In a way, it’s healthy.”

“So am I crazy?”

“No. But you do need to deal with your anger over Trina marrying a man you don’t like.”

“It’s not that I don’t like him.” I groped for words. “He doesn’t have a job. What kind of a man marries a woman without being able to support her?”

“He has a job. He’s a self-employed artist.”

“He swishes brushes across a canvas and calls them paintings. Trina painted better than that when she was in first grade.”

Betsy got up from her chair. “Follow me. There’s something I want you to see.”

We went to the spare bedroom. On the bed was a square, flat package about 12 by 20 inches, wrapped in brown paper. She loosened the paper and held the object up for me to see.

My eyes widened in surprise. I looked at Betsy, then back to the painting. “Where did you get this?” I reached my hand out and gently touched the frame, hardly daring to believe what I was seeing. In front of me was the one item I had always wanted—a picture of Great Grandpa’s old house.

This was not a photograph, but a skillfully done painting. Memories of my youth flashed through my mind, the hours I had spent on the front porch: the swing, the breeze, the feeling that all was right with the world. Amazingly, the artist had captured all of that. I annoyingly rubbed at my misty eyes.

“This was supposed to be your birthday present, but you need it now.”

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“I had it painted from an old picture. Did you notice the child on the swing? That’s you.”

Even though the figure was tiny, I recognized the resemblance, and marveled at the skill it took to recreate a memory.

Betsy looked me straight in the face. “Ted painted this.”

I stared at her, my surprise palpable. The painting not only depicted a scene, it shared an emotion. Few paintings I had seen did this. I looked back at Betsy. “Then why doesn’t he paint like this all the time?”

“He does, Bill.”

“No he doesn’t. I’ve seen his paintings. They aren’t anything like this. No one’s going to buy the junk I just saw in Darlington.”

“Trina told me he already has a contract for those pieces.”

I look again at the picture in my hands. No doubt, it was a masterpiece, at least to me.

“Ted feels God directing his art in another direction, Bill.”

“I don’t get it.” There seemed to be a lot of God’s direction going on that I didn’t understand.

“Churches are changing from what they were in our childhood.” Betsy’s eyes softened. “Our society has become more relaxed. Ted feels that if our churches don’t follow, we won’t be able to attract our young people, and he believes God is directing him to create art for our modern churches.”

Betsy’s thoughts about God made Him sound like He actually intervened in small things in our lives. I was living proof that she was wrong. Anger bubbled in my belly. I didn’t want to argue with my sister. “God does not care what pictures we put on our church walls, or if we don’t put up any at all. God has better things to do with His time, like keep the world from blowing up. Things like that.”

“Sounds like an impersonal god to me.”

“When has God helped me?” The words jerked at my heart as soon as I said them. I knew God cared, but somehow my ability to see and feel it went missing a long time ago.

Betsy re-wrapped the picture. “One of these days, Bill, you are going to confront God. And then you will have to decide what you believe.”

I glared at her. “I know what I believe. I’ve gone to church almost every Sunday of my life.”

“Knowing and believing are two different things.” Her eyes looked deeply into mine.

We moved on to safer subjects, but the comfortable atmosphere had faded, replaced by a tension I didn’t know how to change.

 



 

Later, I went to the couch where I had tossed my jacket. “Bets, where’s my coat?”

“I hung it in the hall closet,” she yelled from the kitchen.

“Why’d you hang it—”

My heart shoved its way into my throat. Hanging on Betsy’s wall was a grouping of family photos, both present and past generations. One picture…I must have walked by it a hundred times and never really noticed it…chilled the blood in my veins.

“Betsy!” Her name escaped my throat like a strangled moan.

She rushed into the hall, a dishtowel clutched in her hands.

“Who’s in this picture?” I asked.

“That’s all you want? I thought you were dying or something.” Color tinted her ashen face as she leaned against the wall.

“Betsy!”

“You remember; Grandpa gave it to you years ago when he moved into the apartment. You didn’t want it, so you said I could have it.”

“OK, OK. But who is it?”

“I don’t know.” She pushed herself off the wall, and twisted the towel into a knot.

“You have to know. You have the picture hanging on your wall!”

“Don’t yell at me.”

I clenched my teeth, knowing if I got into a fight with Betsy, I would lose. Age does bring wisdom of a sort, and she would always be older. Besides, I was clutching my most valuable possession under my arm, a gift from her. I owed her something.

Her finger stroked the frame as her face softened. “Grandpa said it was one of the oldest family pictures he had. Great-Grandpa gave it to him. He told me some story about where it came from, but I don’t remember. It was special to Grandpa, so I kept it.”

“And you don’t know who it is, or how Great-Grandpa came to have it?”

“Why all the questions?”

I stared at the picture, still not believing. “He’s my second ghost boy.”