Authors: Desmond Doane
The White Night (6 page)
Ford Atticus Ford
What a day already.
The press release,
Lauren Coeburn… And it’s not even eight o’clock.
I absolutely can’t
concentrate on anything else. Before I left for the bakery this morning, my
sole intention was to find some work and get my mind off Chelsea, the demon,
and that ridiculous documentary. All I wanted to do was grab a stupid scone,
come back here, and then gorge myself on it while sifting through my messages,
hoping Jesse had missed something important.
He gets lazy
sometimes, and I’ve seen an email or two slip by that should’ve been answered,
but he works for sweatshop wages simply for the privilege of saying he’s
employed by Ford Atticus Ford, and I’m cool with that.
Scone. Email.
Work. That was the plan.
Then she showed up
and ruined everything.
I have to go for a
run.
Next to delicious
baked goods, that’s the best therapy.
After all,
according to Ulie, I am He Who Takes Me for a Run Sometimes.
So, with my
trainers on, shorts, a sweatshirt with a pouch on the front and, absent my
favorite windbreaker because I gave the damn thing to Lauren, I trot down the
rented condo’s stairs and into the rain. Ulie, thoroughly thrilled that we’re
once again outside, recognizes where we’re going. As soon as we round the
corner, he’s barreling down the sidewalk and gallops out onto the sand, tongue
wagging and grinning in doggie bliss.
I do the same,
stopping short of letting my tongue hang out. I don’t run as often as I used
to—still, this is a happy place that I can always come back to.
Usually.
It’s peaceful,
putting one foot in front of the other until I settle into a steady rhythm and
the morning’s events creep into my daydreams. In order to push them away, I
pick up the pace and run harder, focusing harder on proper breathing, and it’s
enough to push the bullshit to the back of my mind.
Ulie tags along
with an effortless trot, and thankfully, the weather is bad enough that we have
the beach entirely to ourselves. I don’t have to worry about snapping his leash
onto his collar if another dog or beachgoer comes along. We’re nuts to be out
here anyway, and I’m sure the tourists and homeowners on the eastern cliff
above us are wondering who the idiot might be that’s down here running in this
nonsense.
The almighty Ford
Atticus Ford, that’s who.
The big dummy.
Those people in my
imagination, they’re right. This is ridiculous. I’m only a couple of miles in
before I pull the mental plug.
“Ulie, let’s go,
bud.” I whistle sharply to get his attention, rescuing some poor sand crab from
Ulie’s snout. Without delay, he sprints after me, and after a couple of loping
gallops, he’s out front, leading the charge. I don’t feel like going back to
the condo just yet. A fifteen-minute run, if that, wasn’t enough to burn
through my agitated energy, and I’m certainly not looking forward to making any
profanity laden phone calls. Matter of fact, I’ve yet to figure out why Mike
hasn’t called to talk to me about it.
I imagine Carla’s
sitting in her Malibu home sipping a Mai Tai and congratulating herself. She
doesn’t have my new number anyway.
Regardless, I
would’ve expected
somebody
to call, somebody other than Lauren Coeburn,
to ring me up and ask me what the hell was going on.
I climb the hill,
stepping over the street runoff that’s rushing past like the mighty
Mississippi, while Ulie stops to take a drink. I try to remind him that it’s
gross water, full of oil, seagull shit, and God knows what else, but it falls
on deaf doggie ears. He regularly licks his own butt, so whatever.
“You’re not kissing
me with that mouth later, I can tell you that much.”
He ignores me.
Figures.
I spend the next
two hours along all the little shops and cafés, drinking too much free coffee
because people recognize me and want to give me something in return for gracing
their place of business. It’s times like this that I enjoy the fame that hasn’t
quite faded yet, but it’s hell on the bladder and the nervous system. I’m
shaking like a Chihuahua on a methamphetamine IV drip.
I have to find a
bathroom, so I duck into this fantastic little bookstore on Grover Street. I
did an impromptu autograph session here once for the owners, Bob and Betty, and
we always catch up whenever I’m in town. However, I see no sign of them today.
The shop is manned by their son—Dave, I think his name is—and no matter how
many times he’s seen me here, he flips out like I’m Tom Cruise walking in the
door.
“Dude!” he says,
stretching the word out for miles. Dave is a middle-aged hippie who would
better serve humanity by staying on a perpetual tour with the Grateful Dead or
Phish. Yet, here he is, holding a stack of books in one arm and tucking his
smoldering joint behind his ear with the other. Smoke wafts up, and I hold my
breath, waiting for that shaggy, curly hair to burst into flames.
“Holding down the
fort, Dave?”
“Ford.
Atticus
.
Ford. My man! First Lauren Coeburn and now you? What a day,
what a day
.
Celebrity central up in this place.”
Shit.
“Lauren Coeburn
was here?” I fire off a quick prayer that she just picked up some books for the
road.
“Yeah, man.
Beautiful lady, inside and out. You know her? Said she was in town for a few
days, needed something to read to her blind grandmother.”
Damn.
“I know
of
her, but way out of my league. How’s she doing?” I play it off like I’m being
cordial. However, on the inside, I’m holding onto hope that Newport is big
enough for me to avoid her.
Dave says, “Had a
purple grapefruit around that left ankle. Swollen like you wouldn’t believe.”
Oh, I’m pretty
sure I would.
“She moped around
here for about fifteen minutes, bought a couple of books and left.”
“That’s it?”
“You know what’s
funny? She saw that autographed picture with you and my folks. Asked how well I
knew you, and of course, us being buds, I told her all about how you came by
whenever you’re in town. Never seen such a smile when I told her you usually
stay up the hill.”
Fuck.
***
I pick up a couple
of books, because hey, support your local bookstore, and then I risk running
into Lauren again by strolling over for an early lunch at Wanda’s Beachside Pub—the
best bangers and mash I’ve ever tasted—and I hang around the bar for a little
while, shooting the breeze with a few old timers who have no idea who I am.
It’s refreshing having a normal conversation about the weather. Baseball. The
magnificent set of—well, I’m sure they meant the bartender has a great
personality, too. Amazingly enough, she’s never seen
Graveyard
either
because “Ghosts are too scary,” and I don’t offer any further detail about the
show’s history. Nor mine.
Ulie is a hit out
on the covered porch, smiling, accepting French fry bribes for affection while
he waits on me.
This is why I come
here. Normal food. Normal life. Normal beer. The sanctity of the ocean. The hum
of the waves pounding the shoreline.
For another hour,
I don’t have a dark cloud loaded with bullshit hanging over my head.
The beer makes me
sleepy, so I pay, bid adios amigos to my compatriots, and head into the
downpour, trudging up the hill toward my condo. Ulie scampers along beside me,
happy as can be. I’m stopped a couple of times for autographs along the way,
which was a ray of sunshine for my ego, and then once we’re inside, Ulie gets a
scrubdown with a dry towel before he trots off to look for more food. He’s a
wood chipper when he’s hungry.
I take the longest
warm shower that any human has ever taken, and after that, I fall face first
onto the bed. I slip into dreamland before I have a chance to roll over.
I’m not sure how
long I’m out, a few hours, maybe, because when I finally open my eyes, the rainy
day has grown darker with dusk’s intrusion. I sit up and rub the naptime
grogginess from my eyes, uncertain if I actually heard a knock on the door or
if I was dreaming about it.
An insistent fist
pounds away. “Ford?”
Ugh. Not a dream.
Ulie barks twice,
sharply, then goes silent.
I hear “Ford?”
again, followed by, “I know you’re in there.”
No way I’m
mistaking her voice. That didn’t take long at all.
I grunt and push
myself up from the bed, realizing I passed out naked when a short breeze from
the window catches me in the right spot, and then rummage around in my suitcase
for pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
Her fist rattles
the door again.
I shout, “I’m
coming, Coeburn, chill the hell out.”
Here we go. How do
I get rid of her this time?
I probably
should’ve tracked down Carla Hancock, told her to go to hell, and then I’d have
something to give Lauren so she’ll get off my ass.
“Hurry.
Please
.”
Whoa. That sounded
a little panicked.
With Ulie trotting
along in strict formation at my side, ears perked up and curious, we head down
the hallway. I know it’s Lauren, but I take a peek through the eyehole anyway.
It’s her, and she’s brought company that I wouldn’t have expected.
Her companion is a
hunched-over cotton-top—I mean, what appears to be a sweetheart grandma type
who might have seen the last battles of the War Between the States.
Now she’s playing
the sympathy angle? Hey, here’s my dear ol’ gran, she loved your show—you know,
back when she could
see
—and she’d love nothing more than for you to go
back and help that little girl one more time. Please, oh please, Ford, do it
before she dies.
Nice try.
“Let’s get this
over with, huh, boy?” Ulie looks up at me with miles of doggie smiles. I slam
the deadbolt to the right and yank the door open. “
What
, Coeburn?”
The sudden noise
and my shout spooks Dear Ol’ Gran, and she whimpers, cowers, and reaches for
Lauren. It’s then I remember that Dave said the grandmother was blind, and I
feel like an ass for spooking her. It’s a miracle the ticker didn’t crash right
there. “Oh, man, sorry. Sorry. It’s—I didn’t mean—” As I’m reaching for her,
trying to offer a soothing touch, I notice Lauren’s red, watery eyes and the
rivulets of smeared mascara on her cheeks. “What’s wrong? You okay?”
“You need to let
us in.”
“Uh, okay? Why,
exactly, would I do that?”
Ulie takes care of
Dear Ol’ Gran for me, nuzzling her hand. She coos and allows him to lick her
palm.
“This is my
grandmother, Ellen.”
I exchange hellos
with her, shaking a hand that’s either wet from dog slobber or old lady
sweat—probably the former—and stupidly wave at her sunglass-covered eyes.
Idiot.
Lauren is dressed
like a normal human now. She’s totally out of her exotic bird getup and now
wears skin-tight jeans, sneakers, and a University of Oregon sweatshirt. It’s a
thick, warm hoodie like mine. Her hair is flat and swept around to the front of
one shoulder.
Taken down a notch
and removed from her on-air persona, she’s more beautiful like this, in a
natural way, and I catch myself staring for a second. However, the fact doesn’t
prevent me from reminding myself that pretty things can also be poisonous.
She says, “We
didn’t know where else to go.”
“For what?”
Lauren looks over
her shoulder, examining the parking lot, trailing her eyes up the gravel road
that divides a row of houses and the condo. I look, too, and see nothing. “Can
we just come inside? Would that be okay?”
I hesitate,
assessing the situation, trying to decide how far she’s going to go with this
ruse.
If
it’s
even a ploy. She’s clearly spooked about something. She can’t stop fidgeting
and checking the parking lot.
“Was someone
following you?” It occurs to me that Lauren is also a celebrity—one whose star
has yet to fade—and it’s entirely possible that she ran into some crazed
superfan. Differences aside, I feel for her because I had to deal with a few
stalkers myself back in the day, and I know how unsettling it can be. “Should
we call the police?”
“I’m not sure they
can help with what we saw.”
“What you
saw
?”
Lauren steps
forward and places a cold hand on my bare arm. “I know you hate my guts, but you’re
the first person I thought about. I’m positive they didn’t follow us.”
“They? They w
ho
,
Lauren?”
“They were… This
is going to sound insane. They were children. Well, boys. One was in his teens
and the other was maybe eleven.”
“So? Just punks or
what?”
“Their eyes were
totally black. Like bottomless holes. You need to let us in.”
“Jesus. Get in
here. Now,” I say, practically dragging them both into the condo.
I quickly shut the
door, and double check to make sure it’s locked.
Then I triple
check just to be sure.
Black-eyed
children.
Maybe I should
check the lock again, just to be sure.
Mike Long
Toni is awake, but
half asleep, when we get back to my house. Thankfully, she’s wearing some
shorts and a t-shirt, which is the best thing for everyone involved since I
brought a guest along. It doesn’t register with Toni, at all—and this is
pre-coffee, mind you—that Dakota Freakin’ Bailey is in our house.
When Dakota and I
first walk in the ocean-side door, from the deck, I can immediately sense the
vitriol in Toni’s eyes. First, I get a strange phone call from a woman before
the sun comes up. Second, I leave for over thirty minutes, and then I come back
home with a tall, lean, athletic blonde woman who is wearing nothing more than
those salmon pink yoga shorts and a midriff-revealing sports bra.
Believe me, I know
what it looks like.
“Hi, hon,” I say, approaching
with all the tentativeness of a lion tamer holding a rare, bloody steak in
front of a ferocious, human-eating feline. “Got some company.”
Toni’s eyes shoot
laser beams through my skull. I’m sure she’s imagining my head exploding in a
fiery ball of flames, and then she turns the lasers on Dakota and splits her in
half, glaring at her all the way up from those bruised and battered feet to the
nearly neon blue eyes.
“Hello,” Toni
says, her tone not quite suggesting she’s ready to pull a knife out of the
drawer, but way down in the recesses of her instinctual reaction, she’s
thinking about it. It’s easy to pick up on such things when you’ve been with
the same person for so long. Truth be told, I’m not sure why she’s so jealous.
For a couple of years now, she’s been ready to toss me out like a stale cheese
puff, in hopes that a screeching seagull would carry me away. And then there
was the questionable time with the contractor. And then there was the
additionally questionable time with the satellite television repairman. And
then there was that time…
Whatever. Do as I
say, not as I do, right?
Dakota, barefoot
and lithe, with hardened muscles and a deep tan from exercising outdoors when
she’s not hovering over a grill, moves with poetic grace as she pads across the
floor, hand extended outward, all smiles and sparkles as she introduces
herself. “Hi, Toni. I’m Dakota. I really love your home. It’s so beautiful.”
Toni squints and
for a moment I’m thinking that she can see through the façade I’ve created to
keep the fireworks to a minimum.
As we were walking
along the beach, I informed Dakota that showing up with a strange woman, not to
mention an attractive, barely dressed strange woman, would not sit well with my
controlling, condescending wife, and that she should diffuse the impending explosion
right away by complimenting her on the glorious, fabulous, wondrous interior
decorating design.
I’m worried that
Toni will know… and that she’ll also think I’m guilty of something, and that
we’re only a couple of seconds away from a detonation roughly the size of Krakatoa’s
eruption. The resulting aftermath of Toni’s anger could send enough ash and
dirt into the atmosphere to create a miniature ice age.
Instead, her
squint softens into a wide-eyed moment of realization. She sets her coffee mug
down on the countertop, brown liquid sloshing everywhere, and her hands fly up
to cover her excited, squealing gasp. “Dakota Bailey!” she screeches. “Oh my
God, what’re you doing here? I mean, like,
here
-here, in our house?”
Dakota looks at me
with a mixture of “What just happened?” and “This is a good thing, right?”
Perhaps one could
say that I painted too dark of a picture of my wife and the rocky road our
marriage has been on. I’ll admit to giving Dakota overly exaggerated
descriptions of fire-breathing dragons and snake-haired Medusa.
Dakota says, “I’m
sorry to come by so early, but I needed Mike’s help, and—”
“Oh my God, I love
you.” Toni bounces on the balls of her bare feet and claps like a teenage girl.
You’d think it’s 1960 and the Beatles have landed in America for the first
time. She looks at me, then back at Dakota in disbelief. “Mikey, sweetheart.
You should’ve told me you were bringing her by. I would’ve straightened up a
bit.”
The house is
immaculate. This is just a little warning shot to say, “You’ll get an earful
later when the famous guest that I love so much is gone.”
I used to be semi-famous.
I’ve seen wives give their husbands the same look before when a crewmember
invited me over for dinner without checking in first.
Unless Ford was
along, too, then I’d have to set myself on fire to have anyone notice. Not that
I cared, really. I was happy to let him take over the room. I didn’t—and still
don’t—need to have my ego stroked like the Almighty Ford Atticus Ford.
Usually.
Once in a while,
it would be nice to be the brightest bulb in the room.
Toni quickly gets
back to ignoring me and then speeds through the official pleasantries of
Celebrity Entertaining 101, like drink requests, apologizing for only having
ground coffee that came from a chain grocery store instead of some upper-end,
high-class local market who only sells individually handpicked beans from the
indigenous peoples of some tribe in South America. She offers fruits, then
pastries, then scolds herself after taking another glance at Dakota’s athletic
body, saying, “What’s wrong with me? Protein bar? How about a protein bar?
Mikey, sweetheart, go get the box of peanut butter ones out in the garage.”
Who slipped in
here and injected my wife with super-hostess stimulants?
Plus, she hasn’t
called me “Mikey” in years.
Cut the act, Toni.
Mikey Sweetheart
is on to your shenanigans.
By the time I get
back from the garage, Toni and Dakota are sitting around the kitchen island,
drinking steaming coffee out of those blue mugs with the white handles that I
hate, and chatting about life as a reality television star.
Actually, Toni
peppers Dakota with questions, and she answers politely when she can, and then
defers when there are things she can’t talk about due to confidentiality
agreements. Toni knows exactly what she means, though, because I’ve been
through the same thing, explaining to her how Ford and I weren’t really allowed
to talk about any of the behind-the-scenes stuff, like
coaching
some of
the clients who were more terrified of the cameras than they were of the
spirits invading their homes.
If Ford and I ever
let it slip that Carla Hancock fabricated storylines to give certain filming
locations more
oomph
, she would sue us until she had taken everything,
all the way down to the metal in our fillings. More than likely, TPC’s big
swingin’ dick lawyers would argue for the death penalty.
Forget I said anything
about that part.
Don’t get me
wrong, every bit of the investigations were real. Every EVP, disembodied voice,
heat signature, floating black mass or apparition that we captured was one
hundred percent honest-to-God legitimate. I made sure of that, and so did Ford.
We didn’t agree on a lot in the last couple of seasons of
Graveyard
, but
the legitimacy of our evidence is one thing we never budged on. That was out of
respect for ourselves and respect for the other side.
I excuse myself
while the two of them chat, and Dakota gives me a glance that says, “Don’t
leave me here,” as I exit the kitchen. Out in the garage, I head to the
workshop where I keep all of my equipment, wondering what I should take to
Dakota’s to conduct a proper investigation.
It smells like a
group of sweaty socks got together, ran off a cliff like lemmings, and died in
here, and that’s probably because it also doubles as my workout room when I
don’t feel like going out into the world to hit the gym. Lately, that’s more
often than not. The weight bench, stair-climber, elliptical, and treadmill sit
off to the right, stationed in front of a flat-screen television mounted on the
wall.
That equipment
over there has done more good than thousands of dollars of therapy. I
discovered not too long after the incident with Chelsea, the show’s
cancellation, and the subsequent fallout with Ford, that pushing myself to the
point of exhaustion was a happy place for me.
Still is.
On the left side
sit three extra large pelican cases, relics from the early days of the show
when the filming budget didn’t have room to supply us with quality equipment.
Ford and I bought all three of these together, along with the ancient digital
voice recorders and camcorders that sit on the shelves or hang from pegs. Most
guys have hammers, saws, wrenches, and other tools hanging from a pegboard in
their garages. Mine holds an SB-11 spirit box, thermal imaging cameras, EMF pumps,
laser-light shadow detectors, and a whole host of experimental equipment that
never worked during testing or simply didn’t have a necessary function that we
thought applied to an investigation.
Like this thing
right here—this little black box with four red lights that supposedly detects
when a spirit farts.
My hand to God,
that’s what it was designed to do.
True story, Ford
and I went by the inventor’s place while we were on location outside of Dallas.
The guy’s name was Teddy Carmichael—wiry white hair that swayed in the breeze
like seaweed underwater—and he owned a couple of rental properties down the
block, one of which was haunted by a spirit with extreme, uh,
flatulence
.
You can’t make
this up.
We took off down
the street with this guy, Ford and I chuckling behind his back, unable to
comprehend what we were actually about to do, right? Fifteen minutes into this
little mini investigation, the lights on Carmichael’s black box start blinking
left to right the way that talking car used to do with Hasselhoff. And wouldn’t
you know it, we listened to the digital voice recording; sure enough, right
when we marked the time where the lights fired up, it had recorded the loudest
fart EVP that none of us heard with our own ears.
I remember looking
at Ford, trying to contain my laughter, and then I couldn’t. We guffawed like
teenage boys infatuated with lowbrow humor like dicks, butts, boobs, and poop. Carmichael
hadn’t seen the humor in it, obviously, but he insisted we take the device
anyway, telling us that he hoped to see it on the show one day.
Never happened.
As I stand here
looking at the thing—what we labeled the CF-1000, with the ‘CF’ short for
‘Carmichael Farts’—I’m struck by a suffocating sense of remorse and regret.
All I ever wanted
by doing the show was to impress Toni. That’s it. I balked after the first
season—didn’t want to sign again. Felt like one was enough. There are only so
many ways you can walk into a dark house and ask if anybody is there.
Ford convinced me
to stay on, again and again. Eventually, all the long hours and long nights
away, all the interviews and conventions, all the autographs and selfie poses,
they became a part of me. It
was
me.
And then Ford
fucked up.
And then I lost
the thing that had made me
me
.
Rather, it was
ripped from my hands.
As I stand here
looking at my collection of equipment, some bought with my own money, some
bought using money from the deep coffers of The Paranormal Channel that they
never made us return, maybe it’s not regret and remorse I’m feeling. Maybe it’s
longing.
A couple of weeks
ago, working the Craghorn case with Ford, man, that was what it’s supposed to
feel like.
Energy.
Anticipation. Fear. Wonder. Excitement. Just like the memories I was fond of
when
Graveyard: Classified
was an infant, rather than a lumbering
juggernaut concerned with sweeps week and landing monster sponsorships.
Ah, the glory
days.
I finally realize
that I want to do the documentary for the experience, too, not just for the
cash that might keep my disappointed family happy.
I also understand
how odd it must be for Ford that I’m the one trying to talk him into coming
back for another round. Should I call him?
My watch says it’s
not much past seven a.m.
He’s still
snoozing, for sure. I’m tempted to call and get his ass up anyway. I want to
share this moment with him. I want to tell him that I’m about to go on another
legitimate investigation and that it’d be great to have him along if he was
here.
I’ve been drinking
the venom called blame for two years. It’s time to let go.
Besides, this is
my chance to prove to the universe that Mikey Sweetheart has the juice to face
demons on his own.
I figure that’s
probably both literal and figurative, depending on what’s haunting Dakota’s
house.
