Nobody Gets the Girl, page 2
"What," Henry grunted from the bathroom.
"Did you just hear something?" she asked.
Richard stared at the woman's face. She was looking right through him. Was she blind? Being the victim of a bad joke didn't make him feel good about terrorizing old blind women. His anger fizzled.
"Look," he said softly. "I'm sorry I startled you. I'm not a burglar, or—"
Henry came out of the bathroom, naked. Richard once again hoped that this situation wasn't a dream. If he was going to be dreaming of a naked person this night, it should be Rose or Veronica, shouldn't it?
"What?" said Henry.
"I said did you hear something? It sounded like the bedroom door slammed."
Henry stared at the door, with no acknowledgment of Richard's presence.
"I didn't open it," said Henry.
"Neither did I," said the woman.
"Huh," said Henry.
Richard sighed. "If this is a joke, it's a great one, except for one tiny detail: it's not funny!"
Henry walked over to him, not in a menacing way, but with a speed and trajectory that showed very little respect for Richard's personal space. Richard held his ground. Henry stepped up to him. And then stepped right through him.
Richard felt dizzy. He stumbled forward, and leaned against the dresser.
Henry stood in the hallway, looking around.
"Maybe it was Pooky," Henry said.
"Pooky," the woman called out. "Where's my Pooky?"
With a plaintive meow, a large gray cat ran into the room from the hall and leapt up onto the bed. Then the cat looked at Richard. Its eyes widened, its fur bristled, and it hissed loudly.
"Pooky!" the woman exclaimed, reaching for her cat. Pooky eluded her grasp and fled the room.
"What's gotten into that cat?" she asked.
"Who knows, Martha?" said Henry, stepping back into the room. "Pointless to try to figure it out."
"OK," Richard said. "This has gone far enough. You've taken this gag a long way, but the cat just blew the act. Who are you and who put you up to this?"
Henry didn't answer. He went to the dresser and opened his underwear drawer.
"Answer me, damn it!" Richard yelled, reaching out to grasp the old man's shoulders. But his hand passed right through Henry as if he were a ghost.
Or as if Richard was.
Richard began to laugh. He fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. He’d figured it out. This was his house. This was his house.
And he was haunting it.
"I WONDER HOW I died," he said to Martha.
Martha kept ironing clothes.
"I mean, it seems like my death should have been memorable, huh? It's, you know, one of life's big events."
When Martha finished her ironing, she went into the living room to watch The Price is Right. She lit up a cigarette.
"You shouldn't smoke," Richard said. "It'll kill you."
He sat down next to her on the couch and looked at the television. "So will this crap. I mean, c'mon Martha. Don't make me spend my afterlife with Bob Barker. You hear me?"
She didn't hear him.
He sighed. "I figure I went in my sleep. That's why I don't remember it. But, I was so young! Pretty healthy, too. At least I thought so. Christ, I never even got colds."
He crossed his legs on the coffee table and sank back into the couch, making himself comfortable. Bob Barker revealed the correct price of the stainless-steel refrigerator.
"Twenty-two hundred dollars?" said Richard. "You know why refrigerators cost $2200? Women. Me, I was happy with my $50 dorm fridge. 'Why do we need a big refrigerator?' I asked. 'It just means we'll have more stuff going bad in it.' But Veronica had to have the top of the line. Our refrigerator had to make four different kinds of ice and have water on tap. I mean, ice is ice, and the water coming out of the refrigerator was exactly the same stuff coming out of the sink. But did any of that matter to her?"
Richard looked over at Martha. She didn't answer.
"Huh," said Richard. "Wonder what she spent on my funeral?"
The funeral. He imagined looking down on himself in the casket. It was almost like a memory. Was it a memory? He wondered where his body was now, moldering away in some grave. Or would Veronica have had him cremated? Was he sitting in perfect feng shui harmony on a mantle-piece in a new living room? The bank had pretty good life insurance. It was probably a very large living room. Maybe with a big screen TV. Just his luck to be stuck here.
A commercial started playing and Martha got up and went into the kitchen. Richard grabbed the remote control and changed channels the second she was out of the room, clicking through crap until he found CNN. From the kitchen, he heard the beeps of a microwave.
"The Washington D.C. Dome was the target of another bomb scare today," the announcer said. "The bomb was discovered and diffused by a UN peacekeeping squad with the assistance of the mysterious adventurer known as Rail Blade." The screen shifted to stock footage of a woman lifting a tank over her head. This was the kind of stuff that made Richard assume that the line between journalism and fiction had been forever erased. "There were no injuries," the announcer continued. "The terrorist group Monday's Revelation claimed credit for the failed attack, and vowed further acts of violence during next week's completion ceremonies."
This news gave Richard pause. He could recall the last day of his life, and he was pretty sure the D.C. Dome celebration was about a week away then. Just how quickly did Veronica sell the house once he'd died?
The smell of popcorn filled the room as Martha came back from the kitchen. As she neared the couch, Richard's fingers turned to smoke around the remote, and it fell to the couch, right through his lap.
Martha looked at the television, confused.
"Pooky?" she asked, looking around.
Richard felt more than a little confused himself. His on-again-off-again tangibility was frustrating. And, if he was dead, why was his stomach rumbling now that he smelled the popcorn? He got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator (definitely not a $2,200 model). To his relief, he found a pack of bologna and some cheese. To his greater relief, there was also a six-pack of beer. A loaf of bread sat on top of the fridge.
He finished his second beer by the time he’d assembled a sandwich. He sat down at the kitchen table. The chair made a rasping sound as he scooted it closer to the table.
A moment later, Martha cautiously peeked around the doorway. Richard waved at her, then returned to his sandwich. He was a little surprised that the sandwich didn't fall from his fingers. He wondered what Martha saw. Did it look as if the sandwich was just floating in mid air?
Martha took a step forward. Richard reached for his beer, to wash down his food. His fingers passed right through the can.
"Well, damn," he said, spitting crumbs.
Martha crept toward the table. She reached out and touched the can of beer, then pulled her fingers away. The phone rang, and both of them jumped.
Martha smoothed down her hair, before answering the phone.
"Henry! Oh, thank God! No, Henry, listen to me! I think there's someone in the house!"
She paced back and forth as she spoke, casting her eyes warily around the room.
"Well, I was watching channel 6, then went into the kitchen, and when I went back, the remote had moved, and the TV was on channel 32. And then, when I came back into the kitchen, there was a can of beer on the table. And . . . and someone's moved the bread from the top of the refrigerator to the counter."
Martha twisted the phone cord around her fingers until Richard thought she might pull it from the wall. He felt bad about scaring her, but it wasn't like he meant it. He was just trying to get on with his afterlife.
"No!" said Martha. "I mean, sure, Pooky could have stepped on the remote. But how did she get a beer out of the refrigerator? No, it isn't one you left out last night. It's still cold!"
Richard finished his sandwich. Since he was unable to touch the beer, he thought he'd try to get some water from the sink. But, for some reason, he couldn't scoot his chair back. It seemed nailed to the floor. He tried again, pushing harder, and suddenly tumbled to the floor, as the chair became intangible. He sat up quickly, rubbing his right elbow. The floor was still solid enough. And it was filthy. Martha and Henry weren't the best housekeepers. He got up, brushing away dirt.
Martha was telling Henry she planned to call the police then go over to Edna's house. This bugged Richard. Edna Green was his neighbor. She was a sweet little old lady who deserved better neighbors than slobs like Martha and Henry.
If Martha were going to call the cops, he'd give her something to call about. He went to the dishes in the sink. Martha was looking away, craning her neck to see if anyone was in the living room.
Richard picked up a plate, and hurled it against the wall by her head. It shattered with a satisfying crash.
He flinched as Martha shrieked at an octave he didn't know the human voice could reach before she fled the house through the kitchen door.
"Martha!" Henry shouted from the phone.
Richard picked up the phone.
"Hi," he said.
"Martha! What's happening?" said Henry.
"Can you hear me?" asked Richard.
"Martha! Say something!"
"Sorry," said Richard, hanging up the phone. "Nobody's home."
CHAPTER TWO
HEY! I'M ON TV!
IN RETROSPECT, RICHARD felt kind of bad about how close the plate had come to Martha's head. In life he hadn't been short-tempered. He'd always been able to take consolation in the fact that today's frustrations could be turned into next week's stand-up comedy.
But his current situation didn't strike him as particularly funny.
He took a shower to wash away the grime of the kitchen floor, although the grime of the shower tiles prevented him from feeling clean. It made him wonder again just how long he'd been dead. Veronica had been such a neat freak. The shower tiles used to sparkle. How long would it take to build up so many layers of soap scum and mildew?
He got out of the shower and toweled himself dry. He thought he heard something like footsteps in the hall. Had Martha come back? They sounded too heavy for Martha.
A voice called out, "Anybody here?"
"Yes!" said Richard, bounding out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around him.
Two police officers stood in the door of the bedroom. The first one, a middle-aged black man, crept into the room cautiously, seemingly oblivious to Richard. He was followed by a young Hispanic woman who seemed much more relaxed.
"Search the closet," the man said, pulling out his flashlight and lowering himself to his knees. He clicked the light on and looked under the bed.
The woman shrugged and went to the open closet door. She half-heartedly pushed the clothes around with her flashlight.
"Look at the size of these pants," she said. "Whoever lives here must be a real lard-bucket."
"I don't suppose you can see me," Richard said, waving his hand in front of the woman's face. She turned from the closet and walked through him.
"Just testing," he said.
"Why are we wasting our time with this?" the woman asked.
"It's our job," said the man, sounding annoyed.
From outside, there was the sound of squealing tires, followed quickly by a slamming car door.
"Martha," Henry screamed, bursting through the front door.
The older cop stepped into the hallway, his gun drawn. "Freeze!" he shouted.
"Don't shoot!" Henry cried out from the hallway. "I live here! What's happened to my wife?"
"She's OK," said the woman, cautiously slipping past her partner. "Just stay calm. I believe that you live here, but we're going to need to see some ID."
Richard followed to watch events unfold, toweling his hair dry. No one seemed to see a towel floating in mid air. He wished he understood the rules of this ghost business a little better. This bit about being able to touch stuff unless someone was looking at it...
Was that it? Was it as simple as that?
He stepped back into the bedroom and turned on the light. Then, just for the hell of it, he picked up the lamp on the nightstand and threw it against the wall.
The cops were in the room in seconds, guns drawn. "Come on out!" the male cop shouted.
"With your hands up!" the woman added. "We know you're in here! Give up!"
"I'm trying, OK?" said Richard.
They swiveled around, placing their backs together, studying the entire room.
Richard went to the lamp. He couldn't budge it. He could feel it, but it seemed made of lead. With a grunt, he tried harder. Once more either he or the lamp seemed no longer solid. His hand passed right through.
"Curious," he said.
Then, just for the heck of it, he threw his towel into the air.
It fell to the bed. The woman cop jumped, and looked in his direction.
"You see that?" she said.
"What?" the guy asked.
"That towel on the bed. It wasn't there a second ago." She reached out and picked it up.
"It's damp," she said.
"You sure?" the guy asked.
"Yes, it's damp," she said.
"No. I mean, maybe it was there. I think I saw it there earlier."
"I don't know," she said. "It . . . I don't know what I saw. It was like it moved."
Suddenly, the male cop relaxed. "OK. OK. Whoever you are, I know you can hear me. So far, you haven't hurt anybody. I don't think you want to hurt anybody. I think this is all a joke to you. Come out right now, before I change my mind about how serious this is."
"It's breaking and entering," said Henry, from the hall.
"Sir, it's probably safer if you go next door with your wife," said the woman.
Richard stepped through all three of them on his way into the hallway. Martha and Henry could go next door. Could he?
He opened the back door and stepped into the sunlight, leaving the door open.
He stretched his arms over his head, luxuriating in the warmth on his naked skin. He walked a little further into the backyard. The lawn had really gone to hell. But it really didn't matter. Why had he wasted even one Saturday morning mowing it? What did an unmown lawn matter in the grand scheme of things? Then he noticed that his feet itched, and he worried that he might have stepped on something bad in the tall grass. So, OK, maybe his life hadn't been a complete waste.
Before he had time to further ruminate on the cosmic significance of his life, the cops followed him out the door.
"Told you I heard the door open," the woman said, with a smug tone that indicated she’d won some small argument.
"Gloat later," the guy said, sprinting around the edge of the house. The woman raced in the opposite direction. Henry came out onto the back deck, and Martha called out to him from the neighbor's yard.
Richard decided to go back inside. He wasn't used to being barefoot. Maybe Henry had some sandals that would fit.
A few minutes later, he joined the crowd that had gathered in the front yard. He was dressed in Martha's pink silk robe with Henry's neon green flip-flops. No one paid him any attention.
The lady cop was on the radio, reporting back to the dispatcher. "Whoever it was got away. Ray thinks it might have been a runaway kid hiding out. We're pretty sure he slipped out the back door and is long gone."
"So, you're not going to do anything?" Henry asked the male cop.
"We did do something," the cop answered. "We searched the house. Nobody's in there. All we can do now is keep an eye on the place."
Martha looked wild-eyed, half-afraid, half-angry. "I can't go back in there," she said. "What if he's still inside? Maybe he just opened the door, then went back into hiding."
"Ma'am," said the male cop, "if anyone's hiding in that house, they're either the size of a rat or invisible. We searched everywhere."
"Well, he must be invisible then," Martha said. "Because, I swear, there's someone in that house!"
"Sorry lady," said the cop with a shrug. "Invisible people aren't really a police matter. Maybe you should call a priest."
RICHARD WOKE UP feeling wonderful. He'd had the most awful dream. Then he looked around the room and realized he was still in Henry and Martha's bed. He owed his good night's sleep only to exhaustion and the fact that Martha had insisted on sleeping in a hotel.
"So, you're not going to wake up from this," he said. "This is real, Richard, deal with it."
First, he wanted to deal with some coffee. He wandered into the kitchen and found a coffeemaker. Unfortunately, he didn't find any coffee.
So he grabbed a beer.
He went into the living room and stretched out on the couch, then clicked on the TV with the remote.
Somehow, he had imagined the afterlife would provide a sharper contrast with life. Was he really going to spend the rest of eternity wandering around the house in a bathrobe, drinking beer, and watching TV? Was death like a Saturday morning that would never end? If so, was that heaven, or hell?
"I'm getting real tired of this," he said, casting his eyes toward the ceiling. "I mean, shouldn't I be here for a reason? To avenge some injustice or something?"
It occurred to him that this would probably make for a pretty good Jerry Springer show. "My boyfriend don't do nothing with his afterlife but keep his ass glued to the couch," he said in his best redneck woman voice.
But instead of finding Jerry Springer as he flipped through the channels, he found a local news show with a picture of his house on the screen.
"Police say the strange occurrences could have been caused by a runaway child. But the owners of the house have another theory."
Martha's wrinkled visage suddenly flashed on screen. "Poltergeist," she said. "I’ve learned all about haunted houses on the Travel Channel. Our home has been possessed by an unquiet spirit."
The camera cut to home video of the crowd gathered in front of the house the day before. And there, plain as day, was Richard in his pink robe.
"Hey!" he said, sitting up. "I'm on TV!"
The report ended with the news that Martha and Henry planned to contact a priest.
