Homing (15 page)

“Sorry,” Charlotte said, looking up. “This book is fascinating.” She put the green hardcover down on the floor, held the flashlight under her chin so it made pools of light and darkness on her face. “It's very scary,” she said, in her best Transylvanian accent.

Leah rolled her eyes in the darkness and waited while Charlotte chuckled at herself.

“Ah, that's funny,” Charlotte said, then straightened up some, tucking the flashlight beneath her arm once more. “Sorry, honey, you had a question.”

“I feel dumb asking now,” Leah said. She took a deep breath. “Do you think I'm going mad?”

“Huh,” said Charlotte. “Good question. Let's examine the evidence. You haven't left the house in a week, almost two, actually. You cook amazing meals all day, but you won't eat more than a bite. You hate and fear birds, yet you have two of them living in your bedroom because — and really, here's the punch line — you're using them to send messages to the ghost of your dead brother. What do
you
think?”

“On the face of it, sure,” said Leah. “That all sounds like stuff you'd do if you were going mad.” She rubbed her eyes. “God, I wish the lights would come back on. This would all be much easier if we weren't in the dark like this.”

The wind pushed up against the windows, whining against the glass. The furnace had been off long enough that the cold was becoming its own creature, with sharp edges and an abrasive personality. It pressed against Leah's skin, leaving her hands and face feeling stripped and dry. Her feet, even in their two pairs of socks, were so cold they hurt. She wrapped her arms around her self and bent her head down to her chest, trying to get warm. Her breath was hot and humid, but fleeting. She could breathe into the room all she wanted, but the result was the same. Her breath barely lingered. Soon as she'd breathe in again, what she had pushed out into the room, her hot, alive contribution, would just become another molecule of frigid air. She sighed, producing more eventual frigid air.

“I don't think I'm going mad,” she said at last. “I think I'm just really, really sad. And I wish I knew what else to do. I wish I knew if it was working.” She leaned her cheek on her knees and closed her eyes. Her black hair fell across her face like a curtain.

“This book says it should,” Charlotte said, nudging it with her foot. “I mean, you've certainly nailed the indirect contact thing, anyhow. I still don't get it, though. I mean, I know what the book says and all. I'm just not sure I buy it. Don't you think this whole thing would be a lot easier if you'd just go down there and try to talk to him in person?”

Leah barely lifted her face from her knees. Her eyes stayed closed. “It doesn't work like that.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“You read the book. Peter Pietropaulo says it in no uncertain terms. They don't like direct contact.”

“Well, fine, then. Go down there and recite poetry to Nathan till he gets it.”

Leah shook her head. “You just don't get it.”

“You're right about that one,” Charlotte said. She sipped her wine and looked at Leah over the rim of her cup. “You definitely have that one right.”

“Look, I'm sorry,” Leah said quickly. She didn't mean to be difficult, and she didn't want to anger Charlotte. The truth was, the book's information was in some ways convenient. The truth was she felt too guilty. It wasn't enough that she'd dropped out of sight those last six months of Nathan's life, but now she'd told him to get lost, and he had. It was taking forever to get him back to safety — which was not with her, she was more and more sure of that every day — and now one of the frigging birds was gone. Without Harold, Sandy would probably be useless and the whole thing was an unbelievable mess. She'd been no good to her brother while he was dying, and she was even less useful to him in his afterlife. It was too much to bear, really it was.

“I'm sorry,” she said again. “I just feel on edge. It's Harold, the power-out, it's so freaking cold in here; it's everything. I can't go down to the library and talk to him, I just can't. I wish I could explain it to you, but I only half-understand it myself.”

Charlotte pursed her lips to one side. “I'm just trying to help, Leah,” she said.

“I know it. I know you are.” She thought for a moment. “Hey, you know what? Maybe drop by the library some time and just let me know. Let me know what it's like there. If anything seems strange. If you think he's there, maybe.”

Charlotte nodded. “I can do that for you.” She thought of her regular visits to the library lawn to meet up with the hip-hop kid, the money and cigarettes that disappeared into his dirty parka, the neat parade of origami animals lined up behind the bushes against the library wall. Was it helping or not? If the pigeons had been returning home all this time with the origami still attached, Leah would be crushed. But she would have also had to find another way to get her
message to him. Or maybe she would have let it go, let Nathan go. And maybe that would have been for the best.

“I can do that for you,” she repeated, “if you think it will help.” Charlotte wasn't sure she even believed in ghosts, herself. Maybe Leah
could
see Nathan. Maybe he
was
genuinely lost now. Or maybe something else was going on.

“It will,” Leah said. “I really think it will.”

“Well, you know more about it than me,” Charlotte sighed, and Leah didn't bother to correct her.

“I'm going to check for Harold,” she said, and stood up. She took a candle and climbed the stairs.

“Well?” Charlotte called after a few minutes had passed.

“No sign,” Leah called back.

“Come on down then, wouldja,” Charlotte said. “He'll come when he comes.”

Leah came down the stairs, her face glum.

“Have you ever thought,” Charlotte began, then halted.

“What?” Leah said.

“You're not going to like it,” Charlotte cautioned.

“I can't remember the last time I heard something I liked. It's okay.”

“Well, alright,” said Charlotte. “Have you ever thought that maybe you should get Psychic Sue over here, see what she's saying?”

Leah laughed. “Um, it's because of Psychic Sue that I think heaven is a big meatball party.”

“No,” said Charlotte, “you think heaven is a big meatball party because you love Italian food. Seriously. Maybe Psychic Sue could tell you where Nathan is. I mean, isn't she the one who told you where he was the first time?”

“She was,” Leah said. “She sure was. And it was kind of a shock.” She thought about the last time she'd seen Sue. It hadn't gone well. She pushed it out of her mind. “I don't want to talk to Sue,” she said firmly. “Maybe this whole thing is ridiculous. Maybe Peter Pietropaulo is wrong, though god I hope he's right. Or maybe it's all in my imagination. I mean, what is Nathan doing with me, anyhow? Shouldn't he be with Rebecca? Maybe he's with her now.” She nodded her head slowly. “That's probably it. It's where he should have been
in the first place, and she'll probably be a whole lot nicer to him than I've been.”

“But what about the book?” Charlotte said. “How can you say it's ridiculous? You've put so much into it. I mean, the birds, for crying out loud.”

“I know,” Leah said. She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I'm just tired of it, you know? Maybe you were right in the first place. Ghosts are supposed to have access to things. Nathan should know his story; he shouldn't need me to tell it to him. And now Harold, and that just makes things so much worse somehow, you know?”

“Well, so what are you going to do?”

Leah shrugged. She started to answer, but she stopped, stiff ened, waited, listened.

“What is it?” whispered Charlotte. “Is it Harold coming back?”

Leah held up her hands. “Listen,” she barely whispered. “He's playing it again.”

The strains of the guitar sidled in through the wall between the houses. Such a familiar melody. And then the voice, rising to meet the chords. The words were ones that had always made Leah cry, about ghosts and wishing wells, and the necessity of mind-reading.

Leah let her head drop into her hands. She cupped her forehead in her fingertips and just listened. She almost sang along, but she didn't want to lose the thread of the song.
Nathan
, she thought.
I am here, where are you?

* * *

Warmed up now, and finally ready to work, Henry played the guitar for all it was worth. He played whatever came to mind. New songs he was still working on, old songs he'd written in school, cover songs, songs he'd sung when he was a child, songs he'd hated in the ‘80s but couldn't get enough of now. It was like his fingers were their own creature with their own agenda. His back ached from hunching around the guitar, but he couldn't stop playing. He'd slow down for a few minutes, but then his hands would catch their breath and they'd be off again. He laughed between verses. He hadn't felt like
this in so long, or maybe he hadn't felt like this ever. The pigeon woke up and flew all around the room, in graceful dips and swoops, never once threatening Henry even a little, and Henry ducked and laughed, laughed and ducked. How incredible to be here, to be playing.
I am here
, he thought. And then he called it out to the bird: “I am here!”

* * *

Johnny Parker was in Hell, one of his favourite places to be. The beer was cold, the girls were hot and the music was loud. Always. That was the thing about Hell, it never changed. He loved it for that. He was starving he realised, as he drank his first beer of the night. He hadn't eaten much that day besides a bag of oatmeal raisin cookies, and Henry had had half of those. Henry. There was no accounting for that guy. Sure, he was a little messed up these days, what with Tina giving him the boot and all, but he was better off for it, he'd see that eventually, Johnny Parker was sure of it. Not that he'd shied away from telling Henry that soon as he got the call that Henry was out on his ass. But Henry hadn't been ready to hear that yet. And what little of it he did hear, Johnny Parker was sure, Henry'd chalked up to loyalty. He knew it, because he'd done the same thing himself every time Henry'd told him that he was well out of one situation or another. It took a while to believe it, that was all. But Johnny Parker was confident that some day soon, Henry would be ready. Jesus Christ, he thought, Tina was stepping out on him, and giving him a hard time about being faithful. That was just fucked, Johnny thought, taking another long swallow of beer. Now, wait a minute, food. He needed to get a good base coat down to cushion the prodigious amounts of alcohol he was planning to pour into his gut over the next few hours.

“Pizza ready yet?” he asked the bartender, who was a giant dude with greyish-blond dreadlocks.

“'Nother ten minutes,” the bartender said.

“I'll have another drink till then,” Johnny Parker said, and as he took a final swallow of beer, another frosty one appeared before him. Hell. It was a great place.

* * *

“Well I'd say the soufflé was a big success,” Charlotte said, clearing away their dishes. Leah nodded.

“Yeah, not bad,” she said, her voice small and dull. “I guess.”

“And the cookies,” Charlotte said brightly, trying to fill the space her friend used to fill, “so good! Hey, can I take some with me?”

“Sure,” Leah said. She smiled a half-smile as Charlotte crammed a handful of cookies in her pocket.

“I wish you'd come with me, Leah.”

Leah nodded. “Maybe another time. I'd better wait for Harold to come home.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Okay,” she said, “but I'll be at Hell if you change your mind, okay?” She put her coat on, wrapped her skinny scarf around her skinny neck and said, “I'll call you tomorrow. Don't stay up all night fretting about the bird. He's a homing pigeon, he'll come home, in his own time, okay?”

“Okay,” Leah said. “Oh!” she said and jumped as if she'd been prodded. The lights had come back on.

“That's better,” Charlotte said.

“Much.” Leah smiled and closed the door behind Charlotte.

When the house was empty again, when she was alone, she sat on the steps and pressed her head to the wall. There was music there, still, music coming from the house next door. She closed her eyes and waited.

* * *

It was early yet. It'd be a while before the band was ready to hit the stage. Johnny Parker swung around on his barstool to see if he could see anyone he knew. Not yet. There was a smattering of NSCADets from the art school gathered at one table.

God knew what kind of ruckus they were planning. Like everyone else in town, Johnny had heard the beautiful rumours of naked parties at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. He'd never been to one, but he wanted to believe. This group was made up of guys and girls and a few kids in between. There were pixie cuts and dreadlocks, those androgynous hairstyles of the middle class art school crowd. The predominant fashion statement was patchwork, that and dresses over pants, on both guys and girls. Johnny Parker watched them with
a mixture of admiration and impatience. They were certainly disconnected from the real world, though that was no reason to disdain them. Hell, Johnny Parker did what he could on a daily basis to lose his connection with the real world. And more than that he made a living playing guitar in a bar band. It could not be said of Johnny Parker that he lived in the real world. No way, not for an instant. And if you asked his father, he never had. But there was something too willfully playful about the NSCADets, that's what it was that disturbed Johnny Parker. Live and let live and all that, but these kids worked hard at being weird, or tragic, or sexually liberated or all three, and honestly, Johnny Parker found the whole thing a bit confusing. Then again, he reflected, it wasn't really for him, their show. At thirty years old, he was ancient to them, and meaningless, made more so by his status as part of a mostly-covers band. They were all about pushing the boundaries, and Johnny was all about selling beer.