We are chasing ghosts of our own making, Olive, and me.
I’m going to Greg’s house for brunch. I’m eating Carnivore, so I hope he’s serving lots of bacon and eggs. Just in case, I brought a cheese platter. I’m thoughtful that way.
I know Greg from work. He’s an eager climber, and I am not. At least not for the moment as I am satisfied clinging to the sheer rock face that is my life and my ascent or descent is equally perilous, depending on the day. I’m relatively new to Insure All USA. Home, life, auto, renters—I lease after the divorce. We market and sell the usual stuff. I write ad copy that tries to persuade people to plan for impending doom. I’ll never write a better tagline than better safe than sorry, but that’s already taken, so I plagiarize the intent and call it even. Then I usually stop for a pop or two on the way home, and pace in small circles in my small pad until I pass out.
Greg is finishing his MBA at night. His eyes are hollow, and his stomach is squarely protruding as he answers the door and welcomes me.
“I brought cheese,” I say, and shake his hand. I’m bad at small talk. I’m more comfortable conversing with blank paper.
I wander about Greg’s house. It’s a nice place. A little mid-century modern, a little traditional but it works. I can’t remember his wife’s name. Vera? Velma? Something with a V for sure. Maybe a Y. Not K. Still, I run the alphabet in my head just to be sure and plugin names along the way. Then I think about another list. For my spanking new cracker box apartment, my home since I split with Maria. I call her—never to her face—Black Maria, after the dark sedans that carried the condemned to Lenin’s kangaroo courts, a quick respite before hanging ten years in a gulag around their necks.
Looking back, I was driver, passenger, and jury when it came to my divorce. It’s easier for the truth to track you down in a 900 square foot one-bedroom apartment. I can’t take a shit without going nose to nose with myself. The worst part is bedtime, with no one to tuck in but myself, the ceiling an inch above my lips.
I am free now, at least that’s what I tell myself, the price of my liberation, such as it is, tallied in monthly child support checks. I sentence you to twelve years of hard labor, says the judge, and the gavel smashes, final, and I turn my pockets inside out.
So be it—it's not my son’s fault. Earn it, pay it, and love him. And go to Target.
The shopping carts there are larger than my car. I feel the eyes of the entire store on me. I am easy to spot. It’s obvious I’m refurbishing a tattered life. The newly divorced starter set includes pots and pans, the cheaper the better, potholders, cutlery—though one knife, fork, and spoon would do nicely—pillows, sheets, a blanket, bowls, glasses, plates, dish towels, laundry basket, and an alarm clock to make sure I remember this is not a dream. Chase down some paper towels, hand soap, toilet paper, dish soap, and laundry detergent—I save quarters in my Java the Hutt novelty mug. Maria was OK with me taking it.
The female version of this phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes-metamorphosis is the attractive woman at the gym scenario. She pops up, a slightly haggard daisy, out of nowhere, at 6 a.m., pounding the treadmill into the carpet, her angry legs sledgehammers, and her sweat flying, and she runs, sprints climbs to catch her new future. She has a trainer, Chad, at $75 an hour. Her workout gear is new. Always check the running shoes, it's a sure tip-off she’s back in the game. She wears no jewelry but drives the new seventy-grand Volvo out front, no doubt to keep the kids safe—and the gavel crashes again. Welcome to Target, Dad.
The nineteen-year-old at the checkout, redshirt blaring, asks, cash or credit. Funny girl. I run it all up on my Amex, which is already squealing. On the upside, I’m accumulating air miles for faraway trips I can’t afford. This is all temporary, I keep telling myself that as I pile my sad pirate bounty into the trunk of my blue Honda Accord, and set sail for destinations unknown, a choppy sea riding bitch. Ass, gas, or grass, I say, turning to my right. No one rides for free. I get a face full of saltwater in return.
I realize I am standing on the back deck of Greg’s house. Even in a self-absorbed haze, I have navigated myself to the most desolate part of the house‑—it smells like rain. I hear clashing small talk inside, laughter, and my stomach churns. I don’t belong here. All I can think about is leaving, retracing my steps, an invisible man-eating a chunk of cheddar backing ass first through the front door, smoke passing through gauze, the perfect Irish goodbye.
Hi, I’m Olive. You’re David? You work with Greg, right? I noticed you make a beeline out here. The smoke clears in my head and there she is, Greg’s wife. She’s sipping a Bloody Mary. Olive—I knew there was a V. She’s thinner than I expect, prettier, too, with acorn-colored hair. Her glasses are out of style. Big is in now, and her’s are not. Still, I compliment them. She’s giving off nonchalant energy, almost smoldering and benign at the same time. I try not to stare at her flat stomach peeking out beneath her tight t-shirt. And then there’s that skull and crossbones tattoo on her wrist. I have many questions.
She looks familiar but we haven’t met. She has my interest. We are both facing the yard, not each other, and it seems natural. There’s intimacy in not having to be intimate. It’s almost as if we are talking to the trees, so our words carry less weight, maybe more.
Nice place you have. Big yard, I say.
The swing set was supposed to go over there. And the sandbox there. We wanted kids but we can’t have them. I can’t tell you how many trips to the doctors we did, how many tests…the mechanical fucking…before we figured it out. Sorry. Her voice trails off then it picks up steam.
We’re both infertile. What are the odds of that?
I research it later. The nearest I can get is that, on average, about ten percent of all adults are infertile. The fact they married marriage adds a variable that’s hard to account for. She seemingly wants to talk, so I shrug and grunt. It’s an introvert’s wet dream.
Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I’ve seen one. My cousin, Katie. She drowned when she was about nine—a sweet girl, always smiling. Everyone loved her—everyone’s favorite, that was KK. That’s what I called her. My Grandpa Mike smoked a pipe. We always liked the smell. It was spicy and woodsy. Cinnamon and pine and black tea. Hard to describe. We’re at the wake, all of us, and she’s in the coffin, just lying there, placid and plastic in a pink dress with yellow wildflowers. It was the same dress she was wearing when they pulled her out of the river behind the house. How practical is that? My grandpa, he’s about 80 at this point, is just sitting there, depleted, a birthday balloon long after the cake has gone stale, and I see his pipe on the floor. He must have dropped it and kicked it under the chair. No one is paying attention to me, kind of par for the course, so I pick it up and drop it into the coffin and I whisper into Katie’s ear. I was this close—Olive turns and puts her warm lips to my ear and repeated—I was this close. My blood percolates.
What did you whisper? Olive ignores me.
About two weeks later I’m at my Grandpa’s place. The whole family has disappeared. There’s a small army of us scattered throughout the valley. Normally you can’t get your haircut, or oil changed, or a bag of groceries or a beer without running into one relation or another. They all became a crowd of sleepwalkers looking for a quiet corner—fishing, hiking, hunting, working—anywhere to escape. It’s about 80 outside but the house is cold and oddly quiet. Grandpa’s napping on the porch—that’s how he lost track of Katie. I’m wandering around aimlessly, poking through drawers, staring at the endless collection of family photos in the long narrow hallway My grandparents had twelve kids, and I can’t push out one. It would have been a baker’s dozen, but they lost a boy at birth. Lost, she repeats, as if he was misplaced. Funny the words we choose to use for the things we can’t admit. Suddenly I feel someone behind me, and there’s KK. She’s holding the pipe and wearing the dress they buried her in. Her hair looks wet. She motions for me to come closer, and when I do she moves away, and then she’s gone. I look for Katie back here from time to time. I look for my kids, too. They should be there and there and there. I come out here and pray for ghosts the way some people pray for rain. This entire yard is my cathedral. Does that sound crazy?
She turns and looks directly into my eyes. I’ve never told anybody any of this. Do you have kids?
One. He’s eight. Lives with his Mom. I see him on weekends, I say. My throat tightens and my eyes fill. Looks like rain—I choke the words out.
It’s Ok, she says, gently stroking my arm. We all have ghosts that we chase. And that chase us.
What do you do for fun, I ask? A lightning flash pulsates behind the thickening, granite clouds.
Too much of this lately, she says lifting her Blood Mary. I’m thinking of going back to the gym.
She’s barefoot, I notice.
You have a nice face, kind eyes. I feel like I know you. I’ve known Greg since high school, but I don’t love him. To be honest, I never have. I got married because it was the easy thing to do. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. Now I don’t even like the way he smells. A stiff wind kicks up and the underside of the leaves show themselves.
His cologne is awful. Who still wears Old Spice? I say, laughing, trying to lighten the mood. Now I touch her lightly on the arm. It’s easy because she has moved closer, imperceptibly as if she were gliding a micron per syllable.
No, that’s not it. I don’t like his natural scent. He smells flat, like new linoleum. Artificial and shiny and imitation. I imagine a factory and he is part of a big rolling chemical sheet mixed, heated, imprinted, and cut into perfect squares. There are linoleum people and there are wood people. Maybe it's that simple?
I like wood, too, I answer. My apartment has hardwood floors. I’m still getting settled.
Greg’s always working or studying. There’s only so much I can do to occupy my time. I tried baking and knitting and learning Spanish and watercolor painting and fuck all else, and nothing sticks. I’m studying interior design now. I have a knack for it. I’m free every Monday and Wednesday night when he’s at study group if you need help putting your place together, she says. We can finish this conversation later. I’m sure you’ll have questions. The ball is in your court. It starts to spit rain.
Hey, there you are, Greg says, appearing out of nowhere it seems. The Old Spice shows up a split second before his words. Maybe Olive picked up on that, too. What are you guys talking about?
Not much, just small talk, I say, the weather mostly. Just then the sky opens, a bulging dam bursting, and we all go inside. So many eyes in here. So many transparent faces. Too many wagging tongues.
David’s got to go, Olive volunteers abruptly as if she’s reading my mind. I’ll walk him out. She firmly hooks my elbow and leads me to the front door and opens it. I step out and turn and we both paused, locking eyes. The street is a runaway river.
I’m sorry I pushed you, Olive says flatly. That’s what I whispered to KK.
And with that, she kisses me on the cheek and closes the door.