A Ghost of a Chance Page 18

  “You won’t believe what we found.” He’s so excited, he looks about to jump out of his skin. “I found those scholarship girls and they’re the same ones from the lake. Seems to be a pattern, too. These girls are in the yearbook and the next year they’re not.”

  There’s no stopping that intense, sudden onslaught of lust. Love, you can justify and logically process, but passion arrives via hormones that kick in on a moment’s notice and render your brain inactive. My ex-husband stands before me shirtless in a tight pair of jeans, beaming with information that will turn my present situation around, coming to my aid in ways I never thought possible, and my brain cells instantly disappear. It’s like the old days, when we were at LSU and high from a winning football game and bourbon and cokes, falling into our beds with such eagerness you’d thought we might burst if we couldn’t get our clothes off fast enough. It was that neglectful passion that led us to marry, for me to spend my days in that horrid job when I wanted to hit the road and explore life. And yet, all I can think of at this moment is how amazing we will feel blended together again.

  TB feels the charge in the air and stops talking, gazing at me with that puppy dog face. I smile, take his face in mine and plant there a deep, passionate kiss. In a matter of seconds, those research papers come flying off the bed, along with all our clothes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Victorian velvet coverlet, half the pillows and whatever was left of the room service falls to the floor as we mangle in each other’s arms. We’re not thinking — at least I’m not — as we devour each other in kisses and I struggle with the buttons on my blouse. TB breaks away to pull off my pants, slipping them free and casting them to the other side of the room in one effort, almost knocking over a lamp. We laugh briefly and then go at it again, me climbing backwards on the bed like a crab while TB follows suit.

  For a moment, my logical brain tries to break through the rush, to remind me that I’ve filed separation papers from my husband and a divorce is imminent, but I’m not listening and I swear I hear a childlike voice giggle and clap somewhere in the deep recesses of my consciousness. Finally, the buttons are freed and I struggle to pull off the blouse while TB leans over me fondling my breasts that are still constrained by my bra.

  “Patience, patience,” I mutter and we both laugh as I now struggle to get that damn thing off.

  We’ve not made love since before Lillye’s death and I doubt TB’s been unfaithful — I know I haven’t — and those three years feel like Hoover Dam after a massive spring rain. We’re both about to explode so we forget foreplay niceties and yank off all remaining clothes. Suddenly, we’re naked, then bonded and it feels so incredibly right, both of us moaning with exquisite pleasure. As TB rocks his magic, sliding one hand beneath my bottom to push himself deeper within me — dear God, oh yes — I fall into that haze of lovemaking so delicious and divine. We both hit our stride and fall off the edge at the same time, moaning way too loudly and I laugh, thinking of Richard hearing us as he unlocks his door across the hall, hopefully not being able to get inside his room due to the ghostly Theodora blocking his way.

  When we come down from the precipice TB whispers “Wow” in my ear and we giggle. Wow indeed.

  We wallow in the after-glow of that fervent lovemaking, lying silently in each other’s arms careful not to ruin the moment with logical talk — I’m not going there tonight — until TB begins to snore. I gently pull the sheet over us, cuddle into his arms and follow TB into dreamland.

  But what waits for me in that sublime land is nothing peaceful. This time, I’m floating through the Crescent Hotel, like a cloud following Lori around. I’m aware that I’m dreaming and yet it feels so incredibly real, as if I could reach over and touch her and we’d have a conversation like two normal women.

  It must be late for the halls of the college are empty and dark and Lori darts between doorways as if she’s not supposed to be out this time of night. Up ahead a shadow moves around a corner as well, and I realize she is following someone. Since I’m part of the ether in this scenario I can’t make out Lori’s face but I sense her anxious and distraught.

  As we reach the stairwell, which is open from the fourth to the first floor, I see James walking one flight down. He pauses at the stair’s entrance on the third floor to make sure no one is about, then continues down, repeating this process at the following floor. Lori watches and waits and when James reaches the bottom floor and disappears down the hall, she follows, not pausing to check at each floor like he did, but whisking hurriedly down the stairs. At the bottom floor, she peers cautiously around the corner, spotting James by the massive fireplace, the one where Carmine instructed me in the world of SCANCs. Someone else is there now and their whispers carry ever so lightly through the lobby.

  “Did anyone follow you?” James asks his co-conspirator, his tone filled with his own anxiety.

  “Don’t be silly, Professor. I’m a very careful girl.”

  Lori inches forward ever so quietly but I fear her breathing, ragged and fearful, might give her away. I want to touch her, ease the crushing of her heart for I know that Blair stands before us, ready to steal her beloved teacher away. It’s so dark that it’s difficult to make out the two by the fireplace, so I venture forward. It’s a vision after all, I tell myself, but I can’t help feeling like I’m part of this scene and these people will all turn and ask me why I’m there.

  As I make my way toward the fireplace, I spy James dressed in dark clothes and a black fedora while Blair has tucked her signature blonde hair beneath a boy’s cap and is wearing dark knickers and a man’s shirt. If I hadn’t recognized the voice I would have thought Blair one of the male townies, as she likes to call them.

  “This is a bad idea.” James glances around the lobby. “You need to go back to your room.”

  Blair places a hand on the front of James’ shirt, unbuttons two buttons and slides her hand inside. “Only if you come with me.”

  That rush of passion I had experienced only minutes before is now emanating from James like a radiator. He’s young, so it’s raw and possibly never been unearthed. He grabs Blair’s elbow as if to stop her but his action lacks purpose. She senses this and smiles coquettishly, moving her hand back to the outside of his shirt and then sliding it downward.

  James tenses. “Don’t.”

  Again, his words belie what I’m sure is going on inside his head; he wants whatever carnal ideas Blair has roaming around her sexy blonde head to occur. Sure enough, even though I can’t see well in the dark, Blair’s arm has extended and she leans in close so that I fear her hand is in a place that will render Professor’s brain inactive.

  He gasps so I know I’m right, then leans down to devour her lips. Blair releases him and steps back. “Not so fast, Professor.”

  “We have to go somewhere.” James looks around the lobby nervously and Lori leans back in the shadows, emitting her own gasp.

  “I know a place,” Blair whispers, her hands tracing the front of his shirt again. “They never lock the doors of St. Elizabeth’s and there’s a lovely room with a couch in the back.”

  “That’s sacrilegious. We can’t make love in a church.”

  James acts appalled at the idea but his tone makes me think he’s excited as well. His actions reaffirm my beliefs for when Blair silently takes James’s hand and heads through the lobby to exit the back porch in the direction of St. Elizabeth’s, James follows obediently.

  I may be from New Orleans and have seen more than my share of carnal delights but I’m disgusted with them both, one, because she may be as young as seventeen and he’s her teacher, unethical at least and unlawful at worse, and two, because there’s a child standing beside me with a hand over her mouth to mute the aching sobs raking her chest. I come to Lori’s side and try to comfort her, forgetting that I’m only a whisk of a thought floating around.

  “Please don’t cry,” I whisper earnestly but she can’t hear me and there’s nothing neither one of us c
an do.

  Lori flees up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and even though I feel compelled to go after her, something encourages me to stay. For not the first time since I acquired my SCANCy habits, I feel a force guiding me, like dozens of tiny fingers gently pushing me one way or another. The thought that it might be Lillye flits through my consciousness and my breath catches in my throat. And yet, that same energy seems to remind me to focus on the issue at hand so I quell my beating heart and turn back toward the lobby, watching in the last few seconds of my vision, before it all fades to black, a truly skanky man appearing from behind the front desk. He heads toward the back porch and watches James and Blair from the oversized picture window, smiling grimly. A chill so intense floods my veins that when I jerk awake, I’m shivering to my bones.

  I’m sitting up in bed covered in sweat, a rain-soaked morning light filtering through the bedroom curtains. TB whistles in the bathroom and I rub my eyes to make sure I’m not still dreaming. I’m not, damn it, it’s the next morning and my body aches from lack of sleep. It’s now been several nights of fitful dreams and my head feels like Ash Wednesday after five days of Mardi Gras fervor.

  TB emerges from the bathroom shirtless and newly showered and shaved, owning a sly grin. “Hey sexy.”

  Oh my God, I suddenly realize through my fog of insomnia. I slept with my ex-husband! Before I can fully digest that thought and filter it through a colander of grace and kindness I blurt out, “What were we thinking?”

  If I had slapped TB hard across the face I couldn’t have done more damage. I instantly regret my words as his smile falters but the deed is done. TB looks down at the floor and takes a deep breath, letting it out in a loud rush while shaking his head. “I should have known better. I should have known you’d do this.”

  I open my mouth to offer damage control but my head’s cloudy and I’m too exhausted to figure out the right words. Instead, I lean forward, holding up my head with my hand and rubbing my forehead to try to think clearer. “TB, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….”

  TB grins sadly. “I get it, Vi. You’re sorry you ever met me, sorry we got married, sorry you had to put up with me all these years. But hey, what’s a good roll in the sack every once and a while.”

  I look up which makes my eyes ache. “That’s not what I meant and that’s not what happened.” Truth is, I have no idea what happened.

  He holds his hands up, looking like Bill Clinton being asked about Monica Lewinski. “Moment of passion. Big mistake. No worries.”

  TB turns and heads back into the bathroom, slamming the door in his wake. I can hear him packing up his toiletries through the closed door. Why must I always say the first thing that pops into my head? I throw my legs over the bed and, still holding on to my throbbing head, manage to walk to the closet and pull out the last of my clean clothes, basically a comfortable shirt and cardigan sweater and a pair of jeans I’ve worn three days but still look decent. While I pull these clothes out of the suitcase, items that feel like they’re made of iron, TB emerges from the bathroom, throwing his toiletries and clothes into his backpack.

  “TB, please don’t go.” This is what my mind is instructing me to say but the words fail to come. Instead, I turn to watch the man with whom I’ve spent the last eight years of my life pack up what little belongings he now possesses and waltz back into a nightmare. I’m engulfed in shame but I do nothing.

  Fully dressed and packed, TB hauls the backpack on to his shoulder and hands me a set of papers. “This is what I found on the orphan girls. They started the program because the ladies social club in town wanted to do something good for the po’ folks in the area. First, they brought in two sisters from an orphanage in Harrison, wherever that is. The following year it was a girl from Little Rock.”

  I can’t stand this. I don’t want to be married to this man any longer but the pain staring back at me is more than I can bear. “TB, I really didn’t mean….”

  TB thrusts more pages at me, which land on top of the pile of clothes in my arms. “These are pages from the yearbook and their names are beneath the photos so that may help you and the police identify those bones. All three of them were here one year and gone the next.”

  “TB, please.”

  “The librarian and I did searches through census records and city directories and we couldn’t find these girls anywhere.” He’s rushing through all this as if he has a train to catch. “She was going to call the Little Rock Diocese this morning to see if they have any information, too.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  He hands me a business card, places it on top of the pile. “That’s her name and number. Clarice Williams. When you talk to her, be sure and thank her for all her help. She’s been tremendous.”

  “Yes, she has,” although I’m not referring to the librarian.

  TB gives me one last look, as if maybe he catches my meaning, but then he opens the door. “Goodbye Vi.” And with those last words, my husband disappears through the crooked door.

  I feel like a heel, on top of aching from lack of sleep and being tormented by several ghosts on my first travel press trip that was supposed to change my career and my life. I angrily throw my pile on to the mussed bed and those three faces I spotted at the lake stare back at me, as if to confirm that yes, Viola Valentine, you are the biggest bitch on the planet right now.

  “No help from you,” I shout back.

  I stumble into the bathroom for a shower, checking the time because I’m due downstairs for breakfast at eight and it’s now twenty after seven. I start the water and gather my shampoo and conditioner when I spot a piece of clothing on the floor. It’s TB’s old T-shirt, the one he got at the turn of the century when everyone thought the world’s computers would fail. He bought it on the streets of New Orleans when we took Lillye, then just a baby, to watch the midnight fireworks over the river. I pick it up and gaze at its message — “I caught the Y2K Millennium bug” — remembering what a great night that was. I inhale its scent, recalling, too, those moments when I enjoyed being TB’s wife, the manly scent of him after work, his expert lovemaking and watching him with Lillye, such an amazing father. Even though I’m raked with guilt and shame, was that enough? Was Lillye the mortar that kept us together? Or am I the biggest fool that ever lived?

  My head buzzes and I catch movement in the mirror. Sure enough, Lori is there, her eyes sad and pleading but I’m not in the mood. “What do you want?”

  She reacts to my harsh tone but says nothing, glances down at the bathtub and holds her arms in that baby-cuddling fashion. My head hurts and I’m oh so incredibly tired. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it and we can all move on.”

  Lori still says nothing but this time she points to the bathtub. This is new.

  “Did you die here?”

  She nods and finally, we’re getting somewhere. It makes sense, too, since I never could figure out why I could see a ghost who committed suicide by throwing herself off a balcony, being that I’m a water SCANC and all. “Did you drown?”

  She places her hands around her neck.

  “Did someone strangle you?”

  That’s not it; she looks at me frustrated.

  “I’m tired, Lori.” I don’t want to play this game right now, but then that avalanche of energy I felt in the dream returns. Someone or some force is urging me to feel what she’s saying. I try to focus on strangulation. What does one feel like when they’re being strangled? Lack of air. But in a bathtub? “Did someone hold you down under the water?”

  She nods and I sense she’s fading. It’s dark in the bathroom because of one small window and the fact that it’s pouring outside but her image isn’t stable, like a lightbulb buzzing in and out. Once more she cradles her arms like she’s holding a baby.

  “I don’t get it. A baby?” A wave of exhaustion rolls over me and I rub my eyes to clear my head but in those brief seconds Lori disappears. I feel like I’m taking tiny steps
in a reality I can’t comprehend and the frustration of it exhausts me even more, not to mention the grief that continually emerges thinking of my own loss.

  I plop down on the toilet, still holding TB’s shirt in my hands and try to make sense of it all. Is the baby Lori’s referring to my Lillye? Is Lillye on the other side waiting for me to contact her? Could this ghost and those I sense in the ether showing me the way to my daughter? Oh, how that would be such a sweet ending to this insanity of seeing ghosts. Hell, this nightmare of life as I now know it.

  I pull TB’s shirt to my face again and wish I hadn’t sent my husband away. For the first time since Lillye’s death, I want to discuss this with him, knowing he’s the only person who would understand, would listen to my crazy ghost stories and not judge, offer some answers.

  My phone buzzes and from the irritating vibration I know it’s my mother. I let it go, sitting on the john of my tiny Victorian bathroom clutching my soon-to-be ex-husband’s T-shirt, crying my eyes out. But it’s so like my mother, stops and starts, stops and then starts again, so that no matter if you’re hanging upside down from a tree like the damn Tarot Hanged Man, you must pause in your dying to give that woman attention. Finally, I can’t take it anymore, grab the phone and push talk while wiping the tears and snot off my face with my other hand and practically yell, “What?”

  “So nice to talk to you too, darling.” Of course, it’s my mother. And like usual, she doesn’t inquire as to my fragile state of mind, just starts rattling on about her insensitive daughter who never calls her back, even though she’s lost her job, her house is a mess from the storm of the century (wasn’t flooded, mind you) and she must revert to calling constantly to talk to the inconsiderate child. And, as always, I’m sitting there with tear streaks on my cheeks, wondering how a woman can be so clueless.