Ghosts
Leo claims there’s a ghost in the RV he just bought from his cousin’s widow, Susie. It’s a man, he says, and although he can’t make him out clearly, the guy’s lying shirtless on the sofa and there’s a tattoo on his shoulder. “I’ll have to ask Susie,” Leo says, Windex bottle in one hand and a wad of paper towels in the other. “See if she knew anyone with a tattoo who’s passed on.”
"Maybe they bought it used," I tell him. "Or maybe it's some random ghost they picked up driving around."
I knew this would happen. Leo sees ghosts everywhere, anywhere: on the train, at the bank, in the supermarket. He'll stop dead in the aisle, peering at nothing, while irritated shoppers wheel their carts around him. If they had horns, they'd honk. If they had guns, he'd be a ghost himself. It's been going on for a while, and I'm used to it, sort of. As long as he doesn't mention it too often to other people, I figure it's okay. It's better than other things he could be doing.
Still, when he mentioned that Susie was trying to unload the RV, I could see what was coming. I balked. "Buy a new one," I told him, "if you really want one." It's not like he can't afford it. But no, Leo wants to help Susie. She's taking it hard, Mike's death, and Leo's a nice guy.
Anyway, he would have found a ghost in a new one, too—maybe a factory worker in Japan who'd had a heart attack after polishing the upholstery. Or someone on the ship that brought it over—a sailor, a pirate—who decided to hitch a ride. That's what I tell myself. It's a pirate. It's just a fucking pirate. I don't even know if they make RVs in Japan.
Do the ghosts ever talk to you? I asked Leo once, and he said no. Or if they did, he couldn't hear them. He could only see. They don't seem to want anything from him, these ghosts; they ignore him. Maybe he can see them but they can't see him. It's possible: Leo's sweet, but not the world's most vibrant guy. If I wasn't married to him already, I wouldn't notice him, either. Unless his grocery cart was blocking the broccoli.
"Can you see it now?" I say. "Right now?" There's a red plastic rosary hanging from the rearview mirror. It looks cheap, more like a child's toy than a religious article. Susie put it there, I bet; I know Mike wasn't religious. I wonder if the plastic ones work as well as the nicer ones. They should, sure, and I bet the priests claim they do, but probably they don't.
"Yes," Leo says.
Susie should have hung the rosary around Mike's neck, if she was so concerned with protecting him. But no, she hung it here, and no one can deny the RV's still in fine shape. It's Mike who's dead, heart attack at thirty-nine, right in his own front yard. You bastard, I think, hard enough for the ghost to hear, if it's really there.
"Is it . . ." I pause. My throat is dry, and I swallow. Maybe I shouldn't say it; maybe, if I say nothing, it will fade away and leave us alone. "Could it be Mike?" I whisper.
"No," Leo says, "it's definitely not Mike. Don't you think I know my own cousin?" He snorts. "Besides, Mike didn't have a tattoo."
Oh yes, he did, I could tell him. Left shoulder. A little rose, in full bloom. There's a tiny "S" in one of its thorns, more recent than the rest of the tattoo. It doesn't stand for Susie.
"He's doing something with his hands." Leo inches forward, eyes narrowed. "Is that sign language?"
"Leo, be careful."
"I just want to see." He stops, staring at something I can't see. That's Leo: he sees things other people can't, but not what's right in front of his face. How many times have I counted on that blindness? If I were religious, I'd have thanked God for it, every time, right here in this sanctified RV. But if I were religious, I guess I wouldn't have been here in the first place, doing something I knew was wrong. I don't need Leo's blindness anymore, not with Mike dead. Something twists in my chest, and the crucifix pricks my clenching hand, bringing tears to my eyes.
"It's like he's stroking something," Leo says. "Something in the air. Something on top of him."
I release the rosary, set it swinging. I'm not religious, but suddenly I find myself praying: Please no, please no. It's not quite loud enough to drown out the ghosts of my own cries: Yes, yes, yes, yes. I can almost feel Mike's calloused fingers moving over my skin.
I squeeze Leo's arm, and he jumps. "Just leave it," I say. "Come on."
He hesitates a moment longer, then shakes his head and goes back to wiping the windows. Silence follows, broken only by the squeak of paper towels on the glass, and the soft tap of the rosary beads against the window. No gasps of passion, no creaking springs, although the RV does rock gently every so often. The wind, I tell myself, it's just the wind. I keep glancing at the sofa, as if I'll be able to see something.
Leo looks back as we leave, his face troubled. I don't have to ask if the ghost is still there. He has always been fascinated by his ghosts, but this one makes him uneasy.
"He's staring right at you, Sophie."
I can't see, but I know he's right. All the Windex in the world won’t wipe it away: this ghost is mine. Later, when Leo's asleep, I'll come out here and lie on the sofa. I'll think about Mike, and I'll watch the rosary sway with the memory of what we did together, and I'll pray to whoever might be listening to help me let him—let us—go.
Copyright 2006 by Didi Wood
