Page 11 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
Without slowing down the pace, he said, “And I haven’t forgotten what you said about a surprise if I write three more pages. I’m going to hold you to it.”
I smiled at the back of his head, feeling an odd mixture of relief and guilt grab me in a choke hold. I started to take a step toward him, to tell him everything, to be the Melanie I’d promised myself I was capable of. But each click on his keyboard was like a tap on the nails in the coffin of my resolve, convincing me that the best choice at that moment was to let him work.
I stood in the doorway for a long moment, battling with my conscience, but then JJ began to squirm and Sarah rubbed her eyes. Looking at Jack’s head bowed over his keyboard, I said, “I love you.”
He continued typing without looking up, already lost in his own world. I put the children down, then gently closed the study door.
•••
General Lee walked docilely on his leash beside me while Porgy and Bess, on a separate double leash, both seemed determined to head in opposite directions. If they weren’t so innocent-looking, I would have suspected them of trying to kill me. Behind us, Jayne pushed the double running stroller with JJ and Sarah buckled inside and bundled up againstthe sudden drop in temperature, unperturbed by the bumps and jars of the uneven sidewalk as we headed down Tradd Street toward East Bay and my meeting with Anthony Longo.
“Remind me again why you need an entourage for this meeting?” Jayne asked.
I kept my gaze focused ahead of us. “For moral support.”
“And it has nothing to do with the reflection of that guy in the doughnut shop window.”
I jerked my head around to stare at her and immediately tripped over one of the dogs. When I’d righted myself, I said, “You saw him?”
“Of course, Melanie. I see dead people, too, remember?”
“Right,” I said, a surprising jab of jealousy invading my psyche. Although I’d always hated my “gift,” it had always belonged to me and me alone. It had separated me from the proverbial crowd. And now, suddenly and unexpectedly, I was supposed to share it. It was as if I’d been downgraded to less than special. Which wasn’t how I really felt at all. Really.
“I mean,” Jayne continued, “it would seem that whoever or whatever that was in the window is somehow connected to Anthony, right? Except I’ve seen the same spirit at the cistern in your backyard.” Our eyes met as we both stopped.
I shivered, and I wasn’t sure it was due to the cold wind. “Anthony said that bricks from a mausoleum at the Vanderhorst plantation cemetery were used in the cistern.”
“It could be a coincidence,” she said.
Our eyes met again. “Except there’s no such thing as coincidence,” we said in unison, echoing Jack’s favorite saying. And he’d yet to be proved wrong.
A wild barking came from a pretty Victorian behind a Philip Simmons gate, making General Lee pull at his leash, nearly separating my shoulder from its socket. I had no choice but to follow him to the gate, where a small white terrier mix with teddy bear ears and a sweet face was jumping up to greet General Lee.
“This is Cindy Lou Who,” Jayne explained, bending down to offera scratch behind a small furry ear through the fence railing. She straightened to allow General Lee to take her place in ecstatically greeting his canine friend. “I always walk the children past this house, and Cindy Lou Who always rushes over to the gate to say hello. I think she has a thing for General Lee.”
“I think the feeling’s mutual,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve seen her before. Should I tell her that he’s already fathered puppies from another relationship?”
“Her family just moved here from California. I’ve met the mom—Robin. Very nice lady. I let her know that General Lee wasn’t fixed yet but that you’d take care of it very soon so the two of them could play on the same side of the fence.”
I pulled on General Lee’s leash, feeling terrible at the looks of anguish he and Cindy Lou Who gave each other as they were separated. “I know—you’re right. I’ll get it taken care of. That would be a terrible way to welcome new neighbors to the street.”
We continued walking down Tradd, each block a nod to a different architectural period, the houses ranging from brick-fronted Colonials to Greek Revivals and double-piazza single houses. Growing up in Charleston, I’d never noticed the veritable treasure trove of historic houses that made up the landscape of my childhood. I’d been too preoccupied with ignoring the spirits who beckoned me from each doorway and window, in every alley, and behind every tree. It had taken years to learn how to block them out so I could traverse the brick streets of my hometown. But now, with Jayne and me together, our light shone too brightly, a lighthouse beacon to the restless dead in a sea of perpetual night.
Since my sister and I had found each other, there were several things I’d learned about her. Like me, she loved all things with sugar, small children and dogs, and the sound of St. Michael’s bells. Her favorite color was blue, always worn when she felt she needed confidence; she was very shy around men, especially good-looking ones, disliked onions, and preferred wearing flats to heels. We both could see dead people, but whereas I could pretend not to see them, Jayne, eight years younger than I, and not as jaded, sometimes found it difficult to ignore them.Growing up, she’d found ways to mentally block them, but now that we were together, she was finding it more difficult.
I watched as Jayne stopped in front of a Neoclassical Revival (according to Sophie) where two young boys, about eight and ten, sat on the porch steps. The children looked real except for the sickly yellow pallor of their skin and the fact that the steps they were sitting on no longer existed.
“Come on, Jayne. There’s nothing we can do without a full intervention, and that’s just not going to happen.”
“But they’re children.”
“I know,” I said firmly, my resolve as much for her as it was for me. “But if you start paying attention to every spirit you see, more will follow, and they’ll never leave you alone. In your waking or sleeping hours. So let them be.”
She began backing away from them, turning away only after they vanished, a plaintive wailing disappearing with them. We were silent as we walked past the house whose new owners had sold the Philip Simmons gate for scrap metal, prompting Sophie to cross the street to the other side whenever she walked past it. I’d thought I’d seen her spit on the ground in front of the modern gate a few times.
When we reached East Bay, we turned right toward Battery Park and the gazebo. The day had turned blustery, whipping the Cooper River into white-frothed tips like a mad chef with too much meringue. I spotted a pirate ship with a hole blasted in its side slowly sinking beneath the waves, and when I glanced at Jayne, I knew she’d seen it, too.
We needed to come up with a way to block the proverbial target with the arrow pointing at us for all restless spirits to follow. Maybe I could buy her another ABBA CD so she’d learn all the lyrics and we could shout them together in a mutual effort to discourage hangers-on. I’d already gifted her with several CDs, but Jayne had a way of accidentally stepping on them or misplacing them. I made a mental note to ask Nola for help in downloading a playlist for Jayne to listen to on her phone so there would be nothing to step on and break. Or lose. It was the least I could do.
