Jan Burke - Eighteen

“Were you watching me the whole time I sat there?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I was,” he said, not seeming in the least embarrassed about it.

“Did you see anyone else?”

“While you sat there?”

“Yes.”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Why?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing at all. I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything more about what happened?”

“No, I’m sorry, Dr. Blackburn. But we’re still working on it.”

“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I got into the car and let Lisa’s chatter roll over me as my father held my hand.

Back at the house, the ghost became rather nervy. I would see him standing among groups of people, watching me. Everyone excused my vacant stares as widow’s grief, which was fine with me. I wasn’t in the mood to be entertaining.

The gathering thinned out quickly. Lisa left only after I reassured her for the fifty-third time that I wanted to be by myself. Only I knew I wasn’t going to be able to be by myself. The ghost was growing as eager as I was to have her leave.

“Okay,” I said, after I saw her drive off. “Let’s talk.”

He looked even sadder than before.

“What? Did I say something?”

He didn’t reply.

I decided that even if he was a figment of my imagination, I needed to play this out. Avoiding him obviously wouldn’t work. “Let’s sit down,” I said.

He followed me into the living room, and we sat on opposite ends of the couch.

“Who are you?” I asked.

No answer, just gestures that I couldn’t make anything out of.

“Can’t you talk?”

He shook his head, pointing at his mouth.

“If I gave you a pen and paper could you write a note?”

He shook his head again.

“I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold. When you touched me today you were warm.”

He shrugged.

“Perhaps you haven’t been dead long?”

He nodded, and held up four fingers.

“Four days?”

He nodded again.

“Most people would be cold.”

He waited.

“Why me?” I asked.

He walked over to the mantel over the fireplace and pointed to a photograph.

“Because of David?”

He nodded.

“Is something wrong with him?” It immediately seemed like a stupid question. The man was dead. Things don’t go too much more wrong, unless-“He’s not in some sort of eternal torment is he? I don’t believe it. That can’t be true.”

The ghost made a frantic gesture to get me to stop talking, then looked up.

“Are you looking in the direction David traveled?”

He nodded.

“Thank you,” I said. I found myself crying. I had felt in my heart that David, for all his weaknesses, was a good man, but it was nice to have confirmation. I suddenly felt a sense of relief. I decided I owed the ghost a favor.

“What can I do for you?”

He got up and paced, tried to gesture, couldn’t get through to “Wait, settle down.”

He sat down again.

“You know David, right?”

He nodded.

“You are a ghost?”

Yes again.

I thought about everything I had heard about ghosts. “Are you trying to haunt me? Did I do something wrong to David?”

No.

“Are you trying to right some wrong done to you?”

Yes.

I figured he probably couldn’t explain the details just yet, so I tried to question my way to it. “Did you know David before you became a ghost?”

Another yes.

“But I never met you?”

He shook his head.

“Did you know him a long time ago?”

No.

“You knew him recently?”

Yes.

There weren’t many possibilities. “You knew him from work?”

Yes again. He seemed anxious, as if this would give me the answer.

“You’re one of the workers who died when the tank ruptured!”

He looked stricken, but shook his head. He held up the four fingers again.

“Oh, that’s right. That was five days ago. You said you died four days ago. But the only person who died four days ago was the…”

He could see the understanding dawning on me.

“You’re the plant manager.”

He nodded sadly.

“Mr. Devereaux?”

Yes, he nodded.

“You killed yourself.”

He stood up, shaking his head side to side, mouthing the word ‘No!’

“You didn’t kill yourself?”

Again, just as firmly, no.

“Someone killed you?”

Yes.

“Who?”

He pointed to his ring finger on his left hand. There was no wedding band, but I could guess.

“Your wife?”

Yes.

“Your wife killed you?”

I tried to remember the stories. I couldn’t. Everything had been blurred by the events of three days ago. I went over to a stack of newspapers that I had been meaning to take out to the recycling bin. I put the two unopened ones-which I knew had stories of David’s murder in them-aside, and reached for the one from the day David was killed. That was the day after Devereaux suicide. The suicide was front page news.

“Will it bother you if I read this to you?”

No.

“‘Mr. Chance Devereaux…’ Chance? Your first name is Chance?”

He nodded.

“‘Mr. Chance Devereaux, plant manager of Emery amp; Walden, died of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound yesterday evening. His wife, Louise, who is also employed at Emery amp; Walden, discovered her husband’s body when she returned home late from work. She said her husband had grown despondent following the deaths of three workers Tuesday in an industrial accident caused by a ruptured acid tank. Mr. Devereaux had received complaints from the workers about the tank, but failed to repair it…’”

I looked up to see him angrily indicating his disagreement.

“We’ll get to your side of the story in a moment,” I said. “Where was I? Oh yes, ‘…failed to repair it in time to prevent the deaths.’” I read on in silence. The rest of the article was simply a rehash of the previous reports on the accident.

“My name is Anna. May I call you Chance?”

Yes.

“Is your wife Emery’s secretary?”

Yes.

“And you didn’t kill yourself?”

No. He pointed to the ring finger again.

“Your wife killed you.”

Yes.

“How?”

He pointed to his mouth again, only this time I saw what I had missed before: he wasn’t pointing, he was imitating the firing of a gun into his mouth.

“She shot you in the mouth?”

He nodded.

I shuddered. “How did she manage that? I’ve seen your wife. She’s not a very large woman.”

He pantomimed holding a glass, pouring something into the glass, then adding something to it. Then he pantomimed sleep.

“She drugged your drink?”

He nodded.

“That should come out in the autopsy.”

He made a helpless gesture.

“It didn’t?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t know if it did or it didn’t, but they declared it a suicide?”

He nodded again.

“Have you…” I tried, but couldn’t think of a more polite way to phrase it. “Have you been buried?”

He nodded, looking very unhappy.

“You don’t like where you’re buried?”

He looked into my face and made the Sign of the Cross.

“You’re Catholic.”

Yes.

“And you aren’t buried in consecrated ground?”

No.

“Is that why you’re haunting me?”

He gave me a look that said he was disgusted with me and disappeared.

The moment he was gone, the house felt very empty. “Come back,” I said.

Nothing.

“Chance, please come back. I apologize. This is a very difficult time for me. I didn’t mean to offend you by calling it ‘haunting.’ If you come back, I’ll try to help you.”