August: A Ghost Story

Upon arriving, in the early morning, I was amazed to discover how much the town resembled Mayberry.

One nearly expected to see little Opie rounding a corner on his way to the fishing hole.

With covered bridges, steeped churches, an old-fashioned soda and ice cream parlor, a beauty salon/barber shop and storefronts with windows displaying all manner of things from antiques to television sets; I was amazed when the town sign informed me the population was "over 5,000 and growing strong."

Could have fooled me.

This place hadn't seen growth since Theodore Cleaver hit puberty and moved away.

I parked my car in front of the local real estate office and climbed out. In the window were displayed listings for various houses.

I closed my eyes and pointed my finger at random. When I opened my eyes I read the listing. "Spacious 8,000 sq. ft. plantation house, 15 minutes from town square; 5 BR. 3 bath, Full Kitchen with gas appliances, Solarium. This house is grand and elegant as well as historical. A slight fixer-upper, it has a good story. It's just charming for a do-it-yourself couple looking to start a large family. Marked down!!! MUST SELL!!!"

The money I had taken was burning a hole in the backpack on the front seat of my car. The house was well inside my price range. I dialed the number on the bottom of the listing and made an appointment for later in the day.

I looked at the picture above the listing in the window. It was indeed a big old-looking house; two stories with green shutters and a wide open yard. If one squinted and used a bit of imagination, one could almost see a family posed in front of it. A dad, a mom, three kids, and a golden retriever; all of them smiling for the camera, perhaps wearing the Santa caps as it was for the family's annual Christmas card. The dog, of course had fake antlers tied to its head and a miserable look on its face. I ripped the listing off the front window of the real estate office, already knowing the house would be mine as fate had led me to it.

Anything to keep them from abusing that poor golden retriever.

I dug in my jacket pocket for the scrap of paper on which I had written the address of Bradbury Central High School. I looked around, it was nine o'clock in the morning and the town square was already rather busy. Across the way was the hair salon. I walked briskly across the street and into the little salon, causing the women to look up from their magazines as the bell above the door jingled.

A young girl behind a little white desk stood up and smiled. "Hi, do you have an appointment?"

"No. I was just hoping to ask for directions to the high school. I'm running a bit late for a meeting there with the principal."

The rather over-tanned middle-aged man in the chair closest to the door perked up slightly at this. I noticed but kept my attention on the girl.

"Where is Ashe Street?"

"New in town?" The man in the chair let his hands come together, his fingers steepling slightly.

"Just arrived from the coast," I nodded politely, remembering that such interrogations were considered polite in small towns.

"You're a parent?" he asked.

I looked at him quizzically. Did I really look old enough to have a kid in high school?

"No, I'm the new Spanish teacher," I said. "Not that it's any of your business."

"That would make you Mrs. Hawkes, wouldn't it?"

I turned to him. "Yes."

"I'm Gene Peters, Principal of Bradbury High School and teacher of Social Studies. You were supposed to be in my office at eight, sharp."

"Oh, hi. Yes, I am sorry about that. I left Dodge City a bit later this morning than I'd anticipated. I would have called."

"I did call. The number you gave me said you'd turned off your cellular telephone. I'm afraid I'm a little mad at you for making me wait." Despite being only halfway through his coloring, Mr. Peters stood up and offered his hand to shake. "Though I'll overlook it, because I've been looking forward to meeting you. You've been quite a topic of conversation around town."

"Have I?"

"Well, the school board hired you without giving us a heads up. We didn't know a thing about you. All through the summer conferences someone raised you as a topic of conversation. I must say, I was expecting someone older. I'm pleasantly surprised."

He noticed the young girl behind the reception desk still standing. "Oh." He walked over, the foil in his hair bouncing comically, "This is Maggie Wilson," he said, patting the girl's shoulder. She could have been anywhere from 12 to 20. "She's one of our sophomores. Going to be one of your students this year. Isn't that right, Maggie?"

"Yes." The girl's hands clasped together nervously over the buckle of her white short shorts. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Hawkes. I'm looking forward to taking your class. The only other option we have is German and..." Maggie made the international sign for gagging. "Nine spriken ze," she giggled.

I nodded politely and smiled at her joke. After shaking both their hands, I fingered the zipper on my jacket and tried to look as though I were at a loss for words. "So, I suppose I'll just have to reschedule my appointment?"

Mr. Peters's eyes swept quickly down to my neckline and back up again. "Oh, that won't be necessary, the janitor and one of the English teachers are still in the building. I'm sure if you knock and tell them it's alright with me, they'll let you into my office. You'll find your W-2 and employment contract on my desk," he said, resuming his seat so that the tall stylist could continue her work on his hair. "Only a few days before we begin the fall term, right? It's two blocks down, right on Elm and then half a block more on Ashe Street. Big building with a brand new sign. You can't miss it. Hope you and your husband like it here. If you need help finding a place to stay..."

"That won't be necessary. I've found a house. And I'm divorced, Mr. Peters." I smiled at him and waved good-bye to Maggie as she sat back down behind the reception desk.

As I walked through the door, back out into the sunshine, Mr. Peters stood and followed, the white barber's apron billowing slightly in his flurried movements. "I hope you don't mind my giving you a bit of friendly advice, do you?"

"Depends... How friendly is the advice?"

"I wouldn't let it drop too lightly that you're divorced. It's a rather touchy subject around here. Not that we burn people at the stake or anything like that. It's just, we have a rather heavy church-going contingent in the town. You know how it is. They like to blackball you if they can't convert you."

"Are you trying to convert me, Mr. Peters?"

"Me? Not at all. I'm the town homosexual, don't you know? I get my hair styled instead of cut and I take manicures." He smiled, complacently. "Don't let the fact that I've been happily married to a very beautiful woman for eighteen years fool you none. That's my wife across the street." He pointed to a small storefront with a sign reading Rise n' Shine Bakery and Café. "The macadamia nut cookies are the best, but you didn't hear that from me." He put a hand up and whispered. "She hates it when I advertise for her."

I let out a little laugh. "Well, thank you for the recommendation, and the warning. I'll keep my fallen angel status under wraps from now on."

"And, just one more thing. If the person who lets you in is Collins, the English teacher, don't take him too seriously. He's been in a bad mood for the last few years. If you find him the least bit insufferable, I'd ask that you be good enough not to take offense. He's usually very nice when he's working -- loves the town and the kids and..." Peters trailed off.

"Collins?" I cocked my head and then shook the thought away just as quickly as it had formed. "Consider my middle name sangfroid," I recovered, giving a little mock-salute before turning to walk across the street.

Halfway across the street I caught myself forming the question in my mind, I turned before I had crossed the street completely only to find Mr. Peters had already gone back inside the hair salon, the door drifting quickly shut behind him. I shook my head, moving my hands to my hips, taking a moment to breathe in the air. It smelled surprisingly clean, only a hint of car exhaust, extremely noticeable to someone who'd spent so long in L.A.

I wasn't paying too keen attention as, with a loud roar, a motorcyclist whizzed up and swerved abruptly to avoid me. I jumped backward and watched the bike falter slightly before the rider regained his control and braked to a stop in the middle of the street.

He wore a helmet with a visor, his face hidden behind the windscreen so that when he whipped around to look at me all I saw was myself reflected in yellow and orange. His broad shoulders and torso were clad in a bruised but flattering dark brown leather biker's jacket, a near clone to the one I had draped over my arm. There was an awkward pause in his movements as he almost lifted his visor to yell at me, but then, deliberately, he put his hand down, deciding against wasting his time. In a moment he popped the clutch and spewing only a tiny bit of exhaust he sped off and was gone around a corner.

I stared after him.

Curiously, a moment passed where I felt myself raising a hand, as if to reach out to him, to call out after him. I contemplated him only a second, recalling his shape, his build, the way he sat on the motorcycle and then I let my hand drop.

It just couldn't be. There was no possible way...

Crossing the street to my Mustang, I didn't really linger on him after that brief instant. Doing that was something I just didn't want to let myself do for some bizarre reason. Sure, it had been my fault for not looking both ways before stepping into the street, but the fact that he hadn't lifted his mask to berate me was, at that moment, just evidence to my mind that he had been in a great hurry.

Anyway, I didn't care. I wanted to just get the paperwork at the high school wrapped up, receive my course requirements from the office, and get to some place where I could rest after an early morning on the road.

My butt was raw from resting so long in the red leather driver's seat of my 2+2. I needed a long hot bath complete with self-serving tension abating therapy.

Bradbury Central High School was an old fashioned two-story building in the style of a 1950's municipal building; lots of windows with aluminum hand-rails leading up the front steps to the main doors. I half-expected Olivia Newton John and John Travolta to come hand-jiving out the front entrance, but much to my dismay the only person I saw was a squat little janitor washing the exterior windows.

"Hello. I'm looking for the central office. I need to fill out some paperwork."

The little fireplug of a man looked over his shoulder at me, his dark complexion sticking out in stark contrast to the matching khaki of his shirt and trousers. He turned his attention back to his work, talking to the window instead of to me. "Principal left half an hour ago. Got tired of waiting." He let the rag plop into the bucket on his ladder and picked up a thin squeegee. "You were supposed to be here at eight. He's got more stuff to do than wait around for some Spanish teacher."

I grimaced at the back of the old man's head and turned to walk back to my car.

"He left a packet of papers for me to give you if you showed up though. It's in the office. I'll take you in." He plopped his shammy-cloth down in the bucket of soapy water along with his squeegee and started walking briskly toward the building's front doors.

I followed him as he unlocked the front door and then held it for me. "Name's Bruno." He looked me up and down, like a man who could care less. "Nice jacket," as I passed by him into the dark corridor of the deserted school.

"Thanks," I said. "I stole it."

"What?"

"Old boyfriend. Long story."

The main office was right next to the front door.

He unlocked the door and went inside, I waited in the hall for only a moment before he returned with a manila envelope and handed it to me. I opened it and leafed through the papers inside; W-2, staff directory, copy of the summer newsletter, course requirements.

As I skimmed over the course requirements for my class, Bruno kept talking. "The boss said to just bring them by tomorrow morning and give them to the receptionist. Her name's Connie. If anything breaks or a kid pukes in your class don't hesitate to call." He brushed past me and strode quickly to the main door. "Come on, I got to lock up."

"Yeah, sorry." I rushed to catch up and scurried through as he held the door for me. "Thanks, Mr. Bruno."

"Just Bruno, Miss. I never really got around to qualifying as Mr. Anything." He grunted his farewell and waved me off, returning to washing his windows.

I stopped at the town gas station and showed the attendant the picture of the house I had taken from the real estate agent's office window. He gave me directions and within ten minutes I was turning off the paved road and onto a long gravel driveway lined with tall oak trees. I'd probably need an Indian scout to find my way to the mailbox every day, but that was neither here nor there.

As the house grew in the distance, surrounded by what must have been the greatest collection of trees in the county, I saw that it was quite secluded and charming. The oaks shielded it from wind and provided an intense and crowded greenery of space that made the white wood and green shutters pop in an ever so charming way.

On either side of the driveway, beyond the trees, wide-open meadows of tall prairie grass spread off for about a mile in either direction, with footpaths cut here and there. The house was obviously a remnant of a large working farm that had been divided up over time, sold off bit by bit.

I came out of the tunnel of foliage and into the turnaround courtyard. The lawn was manicured, giving the place a very nice lived-in look. To the right at the side of a circle drive was a little red barn with a stone foundation. A small Honda Accord was parked directly in front of the barn and, as I braked to a halt, a willowy woman, of about 28 or so, dressed in a saggy sarong, climbed out of it.

I pulled my Mustang up beside her car in the drive and shut off the engine.

The woman waved as I climbed out of the car. "Hello," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Emma Collins. I guess I'm your real estate agent."

"Lillian Hawkes," I said, shaking her hand. I looked up at the big old house and nodded my head. "I'll take it."

The woman, Emma, smirked and cocked her head. "Did it hurt?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Did it hurt? You know, falling from heaven?" She let out a small breathy laugh. "It's just, I put the listing up on this house only yesterday. It's never supposed to be this easy to sell a house."

"It looks like a nice house."

"Yes, well... It's only a ten-minute drive into town. So, twelve to the school, I guess."

"How did you figure I wanted to be near the school?"

"You're the new teacher, aren't you?" She shrugged and turned to stare with me up at the house's white stone front. "News travels fast around here," she said. "Can't blame us all for gossiping. You're the first person to move into town in a long time. My husband..." She stopped and shook her head. "Anyway, when would you like to move in?"

"Immediately." I dug in my purse and took out two large stacks of bills. I passed them over to her. "The listing said $80,000. Cash okay?"

The agent's eyes had widened considerably at the sight of the money. She took it reverently and then, as an afterthought said simply, "Done. Here are the keys."

She handed over a large key ring with at least a dozen keys on it and slipped the money into the little leather holdall and pulled out a receipt book. As she filled out my receipt she saw me studying the old key-ring and she smiled. "There's one for every door in the house plus a master pass key." She reached out and indicated a key with a fleck of blue paint on it. "The place has its own well so you already have running water. The electricity has been turned on, as well. The previous tenant paid up through the end of this month."

"Left in a hurry did he?"

She smiled an odd sort of smile and then turned back to the house, sweeping a hand over the vista in a way that reminded one of Vanna White. "Built in 1872 by Captain George Collins..."

I held up a hand, politely. "I don't care."

"It's a very historical house with a great story, love, madness, betrayal, murder..."

"Murder?"

"But, like you say," she smiled. "You don't care."

"So if it's so historical why is it for sale? Why isn't it the town's western heritage museum or something?"

"The property has been handled in a primogenitary manner for the past century. You know, from father to first-born son and so on. My husband..." She stopped again and smiling shrugged. "My ex-husband is the Captain's great-great-grandson."

I nodded. "So it's his house then?"

She smiled. "It was," she pointed to the keys. "Now it's yours."

"Something happen to your ex-husband?"

Her smile shifted a bit. "I wish." And with that she pointed to the key ring. "So, care for a tour?"

"No thanks. I need to unpack and shower. I'll figure out where everything is on my own."

She handed me the receipt and said, "Well, at least let me give you this." She walked back to her car and opened the rear passenger side door. "You're lucky I keep one with me at all times. I didn't have time to run over to the market and order one special." From her back seat she produced a gift basket wrapped in cellophane and a very thick packet of papers. "There's coffee beans, a little bottle of champagne, some chocolates, bath beads. Those will come in handy considering the house is without showers."

I could feel my eyes widen in shock. "No showers?"

"The two bathrooms were converted for running water in the early part of the 1910s, showers hadn't really caught on back then. If you want a shower there are a couple good contractors in town. It'll be expensive but they do good work for the money."

I sighed and waved a hand dismissively. One can't have everything. "I'll make do," I said, taking the gift basket. "And the coffee will come in handy, too."

"I figured as much. There are a few scented candles as well. I'd keep them close if I were you; the power has a tendency to go out from time to time. Old wiring among other things." Emma tossed the holdall into the passenger seat of her Honda. In the back there were a few boxes. She walked slowly around her car, talking over her shoulder as she fiddled with her keys. "I'll come back tomorrow with the notary public to pick up all the forms and see how you're getting on. Until then I'll keep your deposit and payment in my safe at the office." There was a gentle rumble of distant thunder; she looked up at the gray sky. "I'd put that pretty red car of yours in the barn, if I were you. Storms around her tend to be unpredictable."

I nodded as she climbed into her car. Something about her suddenly seemed hurried. I figured it was a want to beat the storm back to wherever she'd come from. She rolled down the passenger side window and waved. "You take care now."

"See you tomorrow, then?" I said, bending to look at her in the car.

She started the car and nodded. "You bet. Congratulations on the purchase of your new home, and all that business."

"Before you go... which way to the master bathroom?"

"There are two master bedrooms and two master bathrooms; one on either side of the top floor. The captain built the house after importing a young wife from San Francisco. Story goes that they couldn't stand one another and that he was an abusive and violent tempered man," She lowered her voice to add as if afraid of being overheard, "She was always seen in town with bruises on her face."