Caitlin R. Kiernan - The Red Tree

She paused again, but this time I didn’t say anything. Just sat listening to the wheezy AC and the birds outside the old house far from the sea, but maybe not far enough. When she started talking again, Constance opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at me. She lay there, very still, staring at the ceiling.

“A few days later, I went back to Newport, to the public library, and found this book there on local ghosts. I don’t remember the title. Oh, wait. yes, I do— The Hauntings of Newport —written by a history professor up at Harvard. Right near the end of the book, there was a story — not really a ghost story, not exactly — about a woman in 1901 who went down the Forty Steps to kill herself. She’d found out that her husband was sleeping around on her, getting it on with the maid or some such, and she’d brought his gun with her. She planned to shoot herself and fall over the edge, let the current carry her body away so that no one would ever know she was a suicide, and she’d never have to face the shame of her husband’s infidelity. Maybe people would just think she slipped on the steps and fell, whatever. But she didn’t shoot herself, Sarah, and she didn’t jump, either. Decades later, when she was an old woman, when her husband was dead, she told all this to a newspaper reporter. She said that she heard someone, right as she was about to pull the trigger, and turned to find this strangely dressed girl watching her, and the strangely dressed girl told her that the gun was unnecessary, that the fall alone would do the job. And then the girl just. wasn’t there anymore. That’s precisely how she described it. ‘Then the girl wasn’t there anymore.’ The woman’s name was Anna Turner.”

There was another silence here, and I stubbed out the butt of my cigarette and set my empty beer bottle on the floor, waiting, because I wasn’t sure if she was finished, and, really, what do you say to something like this? She rolled over on her side, towards me, and the air mattress complained with a rubbery, scrunching noise.

“I promise, I’m not making any of this up,” she said, and I either nodded or shrugged, I can’t remember which. Constance furrowed her eyebrows again, like someone trying to solve a trigonometry problem, and licked nervously at her lips. “I imagine the book’s still in the Newport library, if you ever wanted to look it up yourself.”

“Did I say I don’t believe you? I don’t think I did.”

“No, you didn’t,” and she sat up, reaching for her unfinished beer. She took a swallow, then returned the bottle to the wet ring of condensation it had left on the unfinished hardwood. “What I really think, Sarah,” and here she lowered her voice as if someone might overhear. “About ghosts, I mean — is that there are weak spots in the universe, or thin places in time. In the fabric of time or the quantum foam, whatever physicists are calling it these days. And where these weak spots exist, they essentially act as windows, connecting two moments that otherwise would be separated by months or years or even by centuries. Maybe they only last for an instant or two, maybe a few minutes, then wink out of existence. Maybe, sometimes, they recur at the same place and time repeatedly. It explains what I saw that day, and what I found in the book later on. It explains what Anna Turner saw, and why she didn’t kill herself. You stop and think about it, well, it explains a lot of things that people call ghosts.”

“It does,” I agreed, lighting another Camel and blowing smoke towards the ceiling.

“But you don’t buy it?”

“Well, come on. You have to admit, it does seem rather too convenient, or fortuitous, whatever, that a randomly occurring flaw in spacetime would just happen to manifest at a point that would have allowed you to save this woman’s life that day, the two of you ninety-four years apart.” I took another puff, exhaled, and squinted at her through the smoke.

“I never said I believe that it’s necessarily a random event. Maybe, somehow, human consciousness plays a role in the process. Perhaps, Sarah, consciousness, like mass, can distort space and time. So, traumatic emotions can act as a catalyst, if certain conditions are just exactly right. Or, maybe, there’s some greater mind — maybe Jung’s collective unconscious, let’s say — that determines when and where these thin spots appear.”

“Or God, maybe? A beneficent, intervening cosmic intelligence…”

“I thought you said you’re an atheist,” she said, scowling slightly.

“Oh, I am. Through and through. But I also don’t believe in the collective unconscious, so, for me, if you’re looking for potential causal agents for this hypothesis of yours, one’s just as good as the other. Anyway, it would make for a pretty fickle fucking god, don’t you think, since your thin spots seem picky about who they show up to save? Well, unless that’s the random part.”

Constance laughed then, and that was good, just knowing that my skepticism hadn’t pissed her off. She lay down again, and the talk moved on to other things. Nothing else was said about ghosts or Jung or holes in time, and that was good, too. Because, sooner or later, I might have done something stupid like tell her I do think it’s a crackpot idea. Or, I might have pointed out that her having discovered the account of this Anna Turner woman in a library book only works as evidence in favor of her proposal if I accept that she’s not lying about having found it after the supposed ghostly sighting, instead of having come across it first and then fabricated the story of that day at the Forty Steps to match what she’d read. If I had to bet green folding money, well, I fear that’s where I’d place my wager.

But, I will admit, hearing her “ghost story,” I couldn’t help but be reminded of what I thought I saw in a chert quarry in the sweltering summer of 1977.

Sitting here now, pecking at the typewriter of the late Dr. Charles Harvey and watching the clock hung above the kitchen sink, I’ve just remembered something Isak Dinesen wrote. Well, I’m sure I’m not recalling it exactly, so this is a paraphrase— God made the world round, so we wouldn’t ever be able to look too far ahead. Something like that. And I’m thinking, maybe it isn’t nearly round enough, and what would be the point of limiting how far ahead we can see, when we can see so far back the way we’ve come? It’s too late at night for thoughts like these, and the pads of my fingers are feeling tender. Sometimes, these days, that’s the only way I know that it’s time to give up and go to bed, when my fingertips get sore from slamming at these keys. Anyway, Constance and I have rescheduled our picnic at the “Red Tree” for tomorrow, assuming the weathermen are right and the day’s really going to be cooler, like they’re predicting. I hope so. I need to get out of this house for a few hours.

No coffee yet, and only one cigarette, and it only half smoked. If I were any less awake, sitting upright wouldn’t be an option. There was a very minor absence seizure last night, late; Constance had come downstairs to bum a cigarette, and she had not yet gone back upstairs when it happened. No big deal. I faded out for a few seconds, but she made a huge fuss over it. Can’t wait until she’s unlucky enough to be around for one of the big ones, if that’s how she’s going to react to the petit mal episodes. She brewed a pot of tea, and kept asking if she could look at my pupils, and if maybe I smelled oranges — stuff like that — and sat with me a while, though, of course, it was entirely unnecessary. I told her it was unnecessary, but she insisted. It must have been almost four in the morning before she climbed back up into her garret and left me alone to try and sleep. And I really didn’t do much better than try. My head filled itself with all the sorts of unease that comes on nights like that, the unanswerable questions, the heavy thoughts to needle me and keep me awake. My health, the book, money, and also the story that Constance had told me about her ghost, the “ghost” she claims to have witnessed in Newport years ago. So, even though it’s probably not fair, I’m going to blame her for the nightmares that came when I finally did doze off. It was almost five a.m., and the sky was going gray. I’m still not accustomed to how early the sun rises here, compared to Atlanta, and I really hate when it catches me off my guard like that. But I was sleeping before genuine daylight came along, thank fuck, or I wouldn’t have gotten even the lousy couple of hours that I managed.