Chapter Three

Lily

That girl’s following me. She thinks I don’t notice her trying to blend in with the crowd, but she’s wrong. Hunh. More like sticking out like a sore thumb. Stay alert…that’s the rule. She doesn’t know it, ’cause she’s not homeless. Stay alert…we have to live by that. If we don’t, we wind up dead; like the fella they just pulled out of the river. He’s the third one who didn’t remember the rule. Doesn’t matter if it’s New York City or Mayberry; rule stays the same. Me? I’m always alert. Even at night…especially at night. Sometimes you see things…bad things. He didn’t see me, though…I hope.

Why is she following me? What does she want? Doesn’t look like one of the mean ones who hurt Big Jim. All that blood…mmm. They beat him up so badly, he landed in the hospital…in a coma. Finally got out of there, but he’s not the same.

Three men in the river. Media should be all over that. Not, though. Like to sweep that sort of thing under the rug. Been keeping an eye on the papers at the library. If it’s mentioned at all, it’s only a sentence, maybe two, buried in the back with tire sale and palm reading ads. Not surprised. The men were homeless. Homeless people were unimportant unless it involved a cop shooting; not like the moneyed crowd.

Pfft. I know how they think. Three homeless men in the river meant three less nasty derelicts hanging around the squares. A person isn’t important unless he has an address.

Hmph. Street person is just as much a person as someone who lives in one of those fine, fancy houses; they’re just desperate. Being desperate makes him a sitting duck, ready and willing for bad people to use. Flash a little money under their nose and they’ll do ’bout anything. They’re willing and expendable. That’s the scary truth of it.

Well, not me! I stay alert. Keep my eyes and ears open like I have for years.

I was walking past a large SUV parked beside an expired parking meter. Its mirror-like dark windows reflected an image of a wiry old woman wearing layered shabby clothes and a jester hat. Sunshine sparked off the little bells dangling at the pointy ends. The vision stopped me in my tracks.

Was that me? I looked so old. Made sense. I was old. Sixty-eight my last birthday. Forty-eight since the day my life changed…the day my sister, Rose, died.

Almost half a century and I can still remember it like it was yesterday. It had been Rose’s birthday. I’d planned a party for her at her favorite Mexican restaurant, Sol y Luna. Lots of friends. Lots of laughter. Lots of doting on her, which she loved. While she said her goodbyes, I’d loaded the car with her gifts. We had just left.

“I wish you could’ve seen yourself in that gigantic sombrero,” I said as I backed my car out of the parking space. “I didn’t know they made hats that big. A family of four could live under that thing!”

“I would’ve liked a tiara better,” she sniffed. “But it was a Mexican restaurant. Sombreros kind of go with the territory.” Then she grinned. “I probably made even that ratty thing look good. You got pictures, didn’t you? Let’s stop by the drug store. They have one-hour developing there. We could kill an hour shopping and swing back by to pick them up. What do you say?”

“You’re the birthday girl!”

An hour later we were back on the road with Rose flipping through the stack of photos.

“Oh, you’re right! The sombrero is huge! I look like a mushroom,” she giggled.

“You’re right!” I had to agree. “But a very beautiful mushroom,” I hurriedly added, not wanting to ruffle her feathers. She was touchy about things like that, even if she knew you were joking.

She shrugged as if her beauty was a given, and kept right on flipping through the stack. “Oh, here’s a good one!” she held it out for me to see.

The traffic light had just turned green for us, and I was moving forward into the intersection, but I allowed myself a quick glance.

Something made me look past Rose, through the passenger side window where I had a perfect view of the big, black pick-up truck rocketing past the other stopped cars, sun glinting off the heavy chrome grille, the iconic head of a ram zooming toward us.

I stomped the gas. One thought screeched through my brain: Move! Get out of its way!

BLAM! It hit with the ferocity of a freight train. The world tilted. My head crashed against the side glass. A kaleidoscope of flashing lights exploded in my brain. Sensory overload. The squeal and crunch of metal folding in on metal. The scent of gasoline mixed with the smell of blood. Rose’s sightless, staring eyes, her head hanging at an angle that it shouldn’t be. Screaming…endless screaming which I finally realized was coming from me.

Not one detail had faded in all these years. I could still see the way my car was wrapped around the front of his like half of a metal inner tube. The front passenger seat, where Rose had been sitting was gone. There are some things wearing a seatbelt can’t help.

Both the other driver and my sister had died instantly; he, from being thrown through his windshield and slamming against the side of my vehicle; Rose…well, if her neck hadn’t broken, the massive body trauma would’ve killed her. In a way, I was glad it had been quick. At least she hadn’t suffered. Why had I made it, though? I could still feel the rage and anguish and guilt that came with the knowledge that I was only one who had made it out of that crash alive.

I fisted the blur from my eyes, not really surprised at the dampness on my hand. Even after all this time, remembering brought tears.

Sniffing, I reached for my bag of glitter, grabbed a handful, and sprinkled it around the base of the expired meter before continuing down the street. Knew it made me look crazy. Part of the reason I did it. Helped with the image. Main reason, though, was because Rose told me the ghosts of Savannah liked the way it sparkled.

She should know. She was one of them.

The day after Rose’s funeral, I was still reeling from survivor’s guilt. That was its official name, what the doctors called it. My world had already been rocked by my recent breakup with my ex-fiancé, Michael, something I wouldn’t let myself think about. Then the accident. It was too much. That was the day I gave up on God. I’d always believed that He was a God of love, and that since I was His child, He would keep bad things from happening in my life. That theory, bent by the Michael-heartbreak, got damaged beyond repair by my sister’s violent death; my heart right along with it. How could God say He loved me, and let something like that happen? If that was how He showed His love, then I wanted no part of it.

Then, without any warning, Rose was standing right in front of me.

I gasped so hard, I choked, and spent the next several seconds coughing, while I scrambled crab-like across my mattress in wide-eyed terror from the very real-looking figment of my imagination. My back was soon pressed against my bedroom wall.

“Surprised to see me?” the vision laughed. “You should see your face. No, you’re not crazy. You’re not having a mental breakdown, either. It’s me.”

“Rose?” There was no way this was real “How? I saw you. You were dead. Your neck was very obviously broken.”

“I’m still dead.” She said the impossible words matter-of-factly. She could have been discussing the weather. “I’m a ghost…one of the thousands who wander around Savannah.”

“That’s just a tourism ploy. Ghosts aren’t real.”

She whooshed forward and pinched me.

“Ow!” I rubbed my arm and glared at her. “What was that for?”

“Did that feel real enough for you?”

****

Over the next few days, Rose helped me make the change. I no longer wanted to live the life that I’d always lived. I chose a path that would allow me to shut myself off from interaction with people, and at the same time, blend in. In a city full of eccentrics, I chose a way that my peers just couldn’t accept.

I glanced at my squeaky metal cart. Rescued it from a pile of garbage sitting at the curb. It had been in multiple pieces, then. Nothing duct tape couldn’t fix, though. Stuff could fix anything. Titanic would probably still be floating if they’d had it on board.

My sister had helped me find my “costume.”

“No, no!” Rose exclaimed. “It’s not just a matter of you pushing a cart around with your belongings in it. You have to look the part. Nobody will believe you, otherwise.”

I eyed the ragged outfit she’d displayed across the bed like an ad for a clothing magazine, complete with accessories. “Where did you find these?”

“In the dumpster behind Goodwill,” she answered happily. Too happily, in my opinion. “It’s called dumpster diving.”

“You went in a dumpster?”

“Well,” she shrugged. “It’s easier when you’re a ghost. You can hover…not actually get in. This…” she waved a flash of color in the air like a banner. “…is your pièce de résistance; the best part of the ensemble.”

“What is it?”

“Your hat.” She hurried forward, and pulled it down on my head. “One of those jester hats, complete with bells.” She flicked one with her perfectly manicured fingernail before turning me around to face the mirror. “See? Isn’t it perfect?”

My reflection’s eyes widened. “Did you get this out of the dumpster too?”

“No. This I found in the alley behind Kittens.”

“The strip club?”

She nodded with a delighted smile.

I wrinkled my nose as I stared at the hat. “What kind of acts do they do in there?”

“Don’t know, but their loss is your gain. Want to try on the rest of the outfit?”

****

Beep-beeeep!

The sound forced me back to the present. I’d walked right out in front of a car. My eyes met those of the angry driver who was mouthing words that were easy to understand. Hmpf. Probably a Yankee. I glanced down at his front bumper, which was only inches away from my metal cart. Yep. New York tag. Plain as day. I shook my head, which sent the little silver bells a jingling, and kept right on walking.

People thought I was crazy. I talked to Rose, and because they couldn’t see her, it looked like I was talking to myself. Something a crazy person would do. Randomly blurting out quotes and sayings I’d memorized over the years—another of Rose’s ideas—reinforced that opinion. Mental illness wasn’t uncommon among the homeless, so I fit the mold of public opinion. I’d done reading on the subject. If a person lived on the streets long enough, he usually ends up with some kind of chemical dependency. And if he uses long enough, he develops some type of mental illness. I’d been lucky. When I talked to Rose, I just looked crazy. The hat just reinforced that. No sane person would wear it.

My new persona was complete. The “homeless” version of Lily Telfair-Gordon was born. People who hadn’t known me before, had no problem accepting this colorful new addition in town. People who had…well, they just pretended they didn’t know me. Like I was contagious. It wasn’t the first time in the city’s history that one of their own had fallen from the top to the bottom, and they didn’t want to get close enough to catch it.

I stopped again to sprinkle glitter around a meter. I considered it doing my part to keep the ghosts happy. According to Rose, ghosts had mood swings. Don’t ever provoke one, she said. They have good memories and they can be mean. Hold a grudge a long time. Bad thing to get them mad at you. If glitter made them happy, I’d give them glitter. Small price to pay. Had an agreement with a nearby craft store owner. Buy it in bulk at the wholesale price. Sprinkling glitter helped my “crazy” image, too. I patted the sequined bag that hung from my waist, reassured by the bulge that I still had a ready supply.

Savannah had more than its fair share of spirits. No one really knew why, but it was a proven fact. Ghost hunters and scientists—people who specialized in that sort of thing—were always around. Visited spots frequented by “haunts;” did tests and studies funded by various grants, then published their findings. Pictures and video footage, included. Didn’t need all that proof, though. Had all the proof I needed. Rose had introduced me to several of her friends. The ones I could see. According to my sister, only the ghosts with strong personalities before their deaths could make themselves visible afterwards. Had the ability to control whether or not they were seen. Only a few of them could do that, which meant there were many, many more out there that you couldn’t see. More than people realized. Ghosts everywhere. Moving among them in the streets, crowding into businesses, homes, churches, and schools throughout the historic part of the city. Freaked me out.

Good thing I had Rose to protect me.

Having a sister who was a ghost made me privy to some juicy gossip—some of it centuries old. Made me nervous at first. What might someone do to keep some of this stuff quiet? Didn’t take long to realize regular folk think the homeless are invisible. Deaf and dumb, too. Why else would they say and do some of the things I’d heard and seen? Maybe it’s because no one would believe a homeless person anyway. No credibility. If we tried to report a crime, the police wouldn’t believe us, like there was an unwritten rule. Had to have a roof over your head to be believable. Had I acted like that before my transformation? Probably, and it made me ashamed.

Most people like me sleep beneath underpasses, or in abandoned cars, or in the woods, but I have a little place of my own. Wasn’t technically “homeless,” even though that’s how I saw myself. My tiny, airless, fifth-floor room on Oglethorpe Street was home, at least during the short winter. Rest of the year, it was cooler sleeping outside.

I was in my room that night last week. The moon was full. Bright enough to read by. That’s when the shouting started.

“Where’s the bag?”

Bag? My heartbeat quickened and I hurried to the window. The moon’s silver highlights and deep shadows made the alley behind my building look like an x-ray. I could see exactly what was happening through my red curtains.

“I’m tellin’ you…this is where I put it. Right here in this can!”

“Then that’s where it should be, but it’s not.”

“Someone must’ve took it.”

“Who’d you tell?”

“No one! I’m not an idiot.”

The bigger man grabbed the front of the other’s shirt, jerked him forward until they were nose to nose. “Who’d. You. Tell?”

They grappled around until I heard a muffled “pop.” The smaller man fell.

I froze. Couldn’t look away. The big man looked every direction, finally turned his face up to peer at the building’s windows. The moon was a spotlight on his face. I gasped in recognition and instinctively stepped back, trembling behind my thin, red shield. Had he seen me? No. My room was too dark, and the moon too bright. That didn’t make the fear go away, though. My heart pounded. I pressed a hand to my chest trying to calm it.

I understood part of the argument. That’s what had me gnawing my bottom lip. The bag…they’d been shouting about the bag. I’d been out there the night before, digging through the neighborhood trashcans. The best time for treasure hunting is at night. I’d found a garbage bag—the heavy lawn-and-leaf kind—only a third full and knotted at the top. Heavy for its size. Made me curious. I wished I hadn’t looked. Now that bag was buried in the bottom of my metal cart. A secret I couldn’t tell anyone. Tried not to think about it, but couldn’t help it. I was sure it was the bag they’d argued about. Afraid it was a link to the body of the homeless man they found in the river the next day. And the one they’d found last month, and the one before that. Was someone targeting the homeless? People no one would miss?

No! I shook my head. Stop thinking that way. It wasn’t linked. It couldn’t be. Rose was right. I worried too much. Wish Rose were here. She’d help me out of this mood, but she was out helping sad, little Alice Riley find her baby. That’s right. Think about Alice. That’ll help.

Alice was one of the strong personality ghosts. She could control whether people saw her or not. She and her husband had come to America back in the 1700’s as indentured servants. They’d been sent to work for a horrible man who mistreated them badly, making their lives a hell-on-earth. After a year of the abuse, life became intolerable, and they searched for a chance to escape. It came in the form of a bucket of water. While grooming their master, the husband held the man’s head down in the water bucket until he drowned. Alice and her husband fled for their lives, but were caught and sentenced to death. They hanged her husband first, but when it was her turn, they discovered she was pregnant. They had to wait eight months until “justice could be served.” In spite of her continual claims that she hadn’t committed the crime, they carried out her sentence in Wright Square right after the baby was born. Some folks claim that she’s the reason no Spanish moss grows around the spot of her death. Legend has it that moss won’t grow where innocent blood has been shed. Whether that was the case or not, I had no way of knowing, but there was definitely no moss dangling from a single tree in that square, and it was always eerily quiet…except, of course, when Alice showed up—screaming and crying—looking for her baby.

Today, Rose was busy helping her, so I would have to get myself out of this mood. The bag, the men arguing, and the homeless man in the river didn’t have anything to do with each other, and if they did, I couldn’t do anything about it. The identity of the man I’d seen in the moonlight made sure of that. If he was involved, then no one could be trusted. No one would believe me anyway.

“Lily Telfair-Gordon,” I whispered desperately to myself. “You just keep your head down and your mouth shut.”

****

Chippewa Square…where they filmed the bench scene from “Forrest Gump.” Right over there Tom Hanks said his famous line about life being “like a box of chocolates.” Well, not on that bench. Had to move the real one. Just like with the Bird Girl statue from that other movie—“Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.” Bench and statue were nice and safe in the Savannah History Museum. Jerks couldn’t steal them in there.

Raymond was on the bench now. He was homeless too. My only true friend. He sat there everyday, turning palm fronds into roses. Sold them to tourists. That’s where I was headed. Good place to rest. Good place to wait and see what that girl would do, too. She was still back there, pretending to read a bronze plaque.

I wheeled my cart behind the bench and plopped down next to my friend with a sigh. “H’lo, Raymond.”

He didn’t answer. He had good days and bad days. On his bad days, he just sat and scribbled in a notebook. He was working and not scribbling, so this wasn’t a bad day, but maybe he just didn’t feel like talking. Or maybe he sensed the girl easing toward the bench and figured he had a potential customer. Saw him reach for a new length of palm leaf and knew he was about to begin his spiel. Soft voice kept time with nimble fingers as they performed their magic.

“Come on closer. You can’t see back there. That’s right. You know, many folks has tried all sorts of substitutes over the years to make these fine roses, but my granny say you can only use palmetto leaves to make it a work of art. Oh, yeah, folks has tried to use other leaves, but nothing beats palmetto fer makin’ a perfect rose. That’s what my granny always tole me.”

I’d close my eyes and just listen, except I wanted to keep an eye on the girl. I loved the way his voice emphasized certain syllables. Made his sentences ebb and flow like the tide. He rolled the long, folded section, tightly at first, then looser as he reached the outer portion of the rose. Saw him do it a million times. Still mesmerized me.

Selecting another thin strand, he wrapped it around and around the base of the flower, knotting it and pulling it tight after every couple of wraps. “Some folks ’round here—I ain’t namin’ no names, now—but some folks do shoddy work…real shoddy. Not like this here. This here be art. My granny say, Raymond—that be my name—she say, Raymond, “You gots to wrap and tie, son; wrap and tie.” If you don’t, when it dry, it all come undone on you. If you wrap and tie it enough, it’ll stay nice and tight. And then…” he leaned forward and whispered confidentially. “…this be my secret—you tell your customer to dip it in polyurethane to pertect it. It’ll stay perfect…just like this!” He presented his completed rose with a flourish, grinning from ear to ear, exposing several places he should’ve had teeth.

“How much?” the girl asked.

He squinted and pretended to think hard about it. “Mmmm…most folks give ol’ Raymond five dollars ’cause they be “art,” and they last.”

“Five dollars it is, then. I’ll trade you.” They exchanged money for rose, then she turned slightly toward me, acting as if she’d just noticed me. “Oh, hello there.” Her voice sounded nervous.

I just nodded, making the bells on my hat jingle. She was a cute little thing, friendly smile, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and the most unusual eyes I’d ever seen. About the same color as a turquoise brooch I used to have. “A girl without freckles is like a night without stars.”

She jumped like I’d stuck her with a pin and her eyes went wide. She looked to Raymond for help.

He chuckled. “Don’t mind Miz Lily, none. She always talk like that.”

“Oh.”

The girl struggled for something else to say, opening and closing her mouth several times. Looked like a fish. Finally, she sort of squared her shoulders, and with a determined look on her face, said, “Lily? Oh, I love flower names.”

“Birth name is Calla Lily. Go by Lily,” I blurted. “Mother liked flowers.” Now, why’d I tell her that? I never told anyone before. Not even Raymond.

She held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Lily.”

Why was she so nervous? Her hand was actually trembling. She was forcing herself to maintain eye contact, too. I could tell. Her nervousness was rubbing off on me. No time for that.

I slowly got to my feet and stepped forward until my nose was almost touching hers. Had to give her credit. She didn’t step back. Looked like she wanted to, but she didn’t. I grabbed her hand, clamping it tightly, and asked, “What’s your name, girl?”

“C-c-cleo,” she stammered.

Over her shoulder, I could see I’d surprised Raymond. His eyes were so wide, I could see the whites all the way around his brown irises, and his mouth was gaped open. He’d never seen me interact with anybody, other than spout one of my quotes. That had always been my safety net. He knew my motto: “If they can’t get close, they can’t hurt you.”

I dropped her hand like it was a hot coal and spun around so I could grab my cart, then barked, “C’mon.”

When she hurried to catch up with me, it felt like someone poured warm honey over my head. That scared me.

What was I doing?