Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

Charlie said, “Promise me we’ll leave.”

Rain said, “He’s gone. I have to, I don’t know… pay my respects first.”

Ms. Vendaval shrugged. Or maybe it was Marina or Miranda or Ariel. Or maybe it was her mother. “Pay your respects,” she said. “Say good-bye to everyone on the island, if you must. Then leave it quite behind you. There’s nothing left for you here.”

Charlie said, “Promise me.”

“He’s gone,” Rain said.

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said.

And on the Grande Jetée, without benefit of bait, Maq caught his own big fish. He used the last of his matches to light a fire on the beach just before the dawn. He roasted the fish on a flat rock and split half of it with me. I had had my doubts, but he was right again. It was really quite good.

It wasn’t on the nightstand. She checked it again. Checked behind. On the floor. Under the bed. She went through the drawers.

Outside, it was a sunny Saturday morning. A cheerful, pleasant morning. Mild for September, it could easily be classified as a “lovely morning.”

Inside, Rain, wearing a simple black sleeveless dress, tore through her room. She checked her dresser. Pulled clothes out of every drawer. Checked her desk. Under the desk. In the desk drawers. Back to the nightstand. “Where is it?” she said aloud.

“Where’s what?” Alonso stood in the doorway, wearing his worn dark suit. The one he usually referred to as “my funeral suit.” Usually. He watched his daughter pulling books off her shelf. “Where’s what?” he repeated.

“Papa’s armband. I left it on my nightstand, and I want to wear it for the…” She couldn’t complete the sentence. Couldn’t say the word. She threw her arms up in exasperation. “It’s vanished.”

“You’ll have to look for it after. We can’t be late.”

Rain had her back to her father. Her head sank melodramatically. She grumbled something he couldn’t hear. Something that on any other day he might have punished her for saying. Head still lowered, she turned and tramped past him. He stuck his tongue into his cheek. Took a deep breath and pulled the door closed. Automatically, he checked to make sure it was locked. (You learn to do that when you live at an Inn.) Then he followed his daughter down the stairs.

The Cacique family stood in the quiet tree-lined beauty of San Próspero Cemetery among people they loved. Charlie was there, straitjacketed into a coat and tie, offering a sympathetic smile. His mother, Adriana Dauphin, had given Rain a gentle kiss on the forehead. Charlie’s older brother, Hank, and younger brother, Phil, who usually treated Rain with differing versions of contempt, just nodded to her nervously. Old Joe Charone, ’Bastian’s oldest friend, gave Alonso an encouragingly firm handshake, before kissing Iris and Rain. He wore a coat and tie and the same special-occasion over-strong aftershave that ’Bastian would never wear again. Even Miller, who sometimes worked the boat with Rain’s father, was there, foregoing a perfect day for surfing to pay his respects. His blond ponytail lay against the back of his corduroy sports coat.

Then there were three generations of Ibaras. Two of Jacksons. Four of Hernandezes. Et cetera. ’Bastian had lived a long life and made many friends. Iris leaned her entire body against her husband’s and said, “He’d have liked this.” Rain heard and frowned.

Maq and I kept our distance. We didn’t exactly have a respectful change of clothes, but Maq removed his big straw hat and held it over his heart. Rain glanced back. He caught her eye and winked at her. She forced a smile and looked away.

A few lazy bees buzzed about, looking to pollinate. Father Lopez began to speak. Keeping my ears open, I wandered off among the familiar gravestones and vine-covered mausoleums. Some were neatly kept. Others had been overgrown for centuries. Most were empty of anything that mattered to me, but they were pleasant reminders of smiling faces, kind voices and rich smells. Off to the side was a small pet cemetery where I could easily have spent the entire day.

The good Father kept his sermon short. But it seemed to me he could have skipped it altogether. A pleasant breeze and the swaying, skipping shadows of leaves on the trees bespoke a better epitaph for old ’Bastian Bohique than any man’s words ever could.

Still, before Rain knew it, she was back at the Inn. Friends and loved ones milled around the lobby and dining room, eating food, offering condolences, telling ’Bastian stories. There were too many people for the space. Too many people touching her face or shoulder. Kissing her cheek or her forehead. Stopping their tales when she came near. Rain felt like she was overheating. She couldn’t eat. Could barely generate mumbled responses to each repetitive show of concern. She began to slowly navigate through the crowd toward the front stairs. She wanted to evaporate to the upper stories and listen to her iPod or her father’s rock CDs or ’Bastian’s old jazz LPs on the phonograph in his room. But reaching the bottom step, she immediately knew she couldn’t go into his room. So she stood there, vaguely paralyzed.

The front door opened. It was Mr. Chung and Ms. Ellis-Chung. Tourists, guests of the Inn, backlit by the sun, standing there, wondering what kind of party they had been missing. They held the door open as they considered the somber, whispering crowd. And Rain bolted. Out the door. Outside. Away.

To the N.T.Z. of course. Where else could she go? Her good shoes hidden away where she and Charlie had stowed the bicycles two short nights and one horrific eternity ago, she slipped through the jungle in her knee-length black dress. She entered the clearing silently. And sat down on the sandstone slab overlooking the sea. She hugged her knees to her chest and finally began to breathe again.

Time passed. And Charlie was there. She didn’t need to look back. She just slowly became aware of his presence behind her. Without turning, she nodded once. And he sat down on the slab next to her, still wearing his Sunday clothes, even his shoes. They sat there quietly, watching the ocean. Watching the sun move down the sky. They never spoke or even looked at each other. But she was glad he came. And he was glad to be with her.

Hours later found them in the exact same spot, practically holding the same pose. Rain had lowered her bare feet over the cliffside, and was gently letting them swing with the breeze. The sun sank into the ocean. The sunset was stunning. The end of a beautiful day on the Ghosts.

And still they maintained their vigil. Eventually, Rain felt moonlight wash over her body. Cooling and soothing her brittle fever from the wake. She stirred. Charlie turned his head toward her. “I just had to get away,” she said. As if he had just caught up with her and hadn’t spent half a day beside her.

“It’s okay.”

She stood up. He did too. She smiled sadly, leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said.

Once again, he felt the rush of being near her. Full of self-loathing, he admonished, reproved, reprimanded and chided himself reproachfully. He just wanted to be her friend. Now, of all times, just her friend. But to his frustration, the buzz remained.

She turned toward the clearing, and her smile vanished; the color drained from her face. She and Charlie were surrounded. Where had they come from? Who were they? What were they? A barely audible no escaped her lips, and she started to back away… nearly stepping right off the cliff.

“Rain! Careful!!” A panicked Charlie grabbed hold of her, steadied her. He glanced back over his shoulder and down. It was a long way to the bottom. He looked at her profile. She hadn’t even registered the cliff. What the hell is she looking at?