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Anyone’s Ghost

The sound of metal striking against a flint, and then the smell of smoke.

“Put that damn thing out.”

“No. We take your car, I get to smoke my cigarettes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does.”

There was a pause as Jacob debated with himself as to whether or not to pursue this nearly pointless argument. In Mel’s eyes, if it came between himself and nicotine, nicotine would always win, logic be damned.

“At least open a window.”

Smirking, Mel depressed the button, and a blast of air rushed into the car. Even though September was only half over, the autumn seemed eager to arrive, preceded by unseasonably cool weather. Mel took a drag of the cigarette and flicked some ash out of the window.

“Is there a Sonic anywhere near here?” she asked, half to herself, half to Jacob.

“Oh, yeah,” Jacob drawled sarcastically. “I’m there all the time.”

“You’re the one with the GPS,” Mel said.

“And you’re the one with the fancy app,” Jacob retorted. “We can plan the whole thing out,” he rattled in a high-pitched voice, presumably meant to be an imitation of Mel’s. “Everything I need is right here.”

“Listen, man, I’m sorry that you lost your phone to a bowl of soup,” said Mel, and Jacob’s mind flashed to an image of a table, spattered with tomato bisque after his phone had slipped from his hand and into his first course. “There’s no need to be rude.”

Mel ended the sentence with attitude, and Jacob snorted slightly. Rude was one of the nicer aspects of their relationship. The two had met the first week of summer—both home from college, they collided—literally—in the sole bookstore of their town, Mal with a stack of books to put on the shelves and Jacob with a stack of books to be purchased. After initial apologies, Mal, who had worked at the bookstore every summer since she was sixteen, wasted no time in teasing him on his selections, ranging from Atlas Shrugged, which she considered highly overrated, to the Southern Living Christmas Cookbook: 2005, which he claimed was for his mother.

Of course, two people don’t become friends over a spilled stack of books. There was also the unfortunate, and significantly messier, incident with the spilled cake, which was largely the fault of a freshly-mopped grocery store floor. The cake, which had been for Jacob’s mother’s birthday, flew what may have been a record distance, landing directly at the feet of Mel, who, rather than clean up the cake or help get Jacob off the floor, had simply stood there and laughed; not in a cruel sort of way, but rather in the manner of someone who has learned to see the humor in nearly every situation. To her very core, this was Mel. She found that life was significantly more bearable if you simply learned to laugh at yourself and, in the case of the airborne cake, others as well. Some people found this charming, more found it irritating—it’s all well and good to laugh at yourself, these types of people thought, but laughing at another’s misfortune, well, that was rather uncalled for. Fortunately for Mel (though either way, she wouldn’t have really cared), Jacob felt the same way about the cake, and enlisted Mel to assist him in finding a suitable replacement, leaving a slightly disgruntled employee to clean up the cake.

Jacob had been neither enamored of Mal nor put off by her. She was pretty, surely, but there was something about her that kept him, or anyone, really, from liking her entirely. Her purpose in life was vague, though she always seemed to act deliberately. A framed bachelor’s degree hung on the wall of her bedroom, declaring that she had worked four long years toward a degree in Spanish. With no viable job offers, Mal had returned home after college, hoping to reduce her cost of living.

Jacob had done the same thing. A degree in psychology had opened far fewer doors than he had hoped. He had snagged a job at the local therapist’s office through several prominent and glowing recommendations. This job, however, was merely that of a secretary. Jacob maintained hope that even experiencing the environment would be to his benefit, but the job was tedious and far below his qualifications. His mother, single since his parents’ divorce when he was fourteen, had always lived below her means, but Jacob knew that she wasn’t getting any younger. Thus, he maintained his job and his life, residing once again in his childhood home.

“SONIC!” Mal shouted as they passed another of the endless information signs dotting the side of the interstate.

“We’ve been driving for hours,” said Jacob. “Why would you want to go to a place where the purpose is to sit in the car and eat?”

Apparently not having thought of this, Mal was silent for a moment. “They have picnic tables.”

“It’s going to rain.”

And indeed, the sky was painted an ominous steel blue—a lovely color, but even more appreciable if one is able to view the oncoming storm behind the safety of walls and doors.

“…They have cheesy tater tots.”

Jacob sighed, somewhat dramatically, and took the exit provided on the information sign. Once cheese-covered anything entered an argument, he wasn’t going to win. Several wrong turns later, Jacob eased the Honda into a parking spot at Sonic, just as the rain began a steady rhythm on the windshield.

“Look at that poor waitress,” Mal said, eyeing the girl walking sullenly toward the car to take their order. “She hates us already.”

“With good reason,” Jacob retorted. “But somebody had to have cheesy tater tots.”

“Yeah, you,” said Mal.

Indeed, half an hour later Jacob stabbed the last bit of potato with a black plastic fork, considered it for a moment, and then polished it off. The “tap-tap-tap” of the rain had turned into a steady drumming, bringing with it a chill that seemed to seep into the car, despite the windows being fully shut. Mal took a cigarette and lit it, much to Jacob’s dismay.

“You can’t hotbox my car. You’re going to give me cancer.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine,” she said, blowing smoke in his general direction, but nonetheless cracking the window ever so slightly. Through the tiny gap, fat raindrops fell and gathered on the sleeve of Mel’s sweatshirt, big, dark green polka dots. She finished the Marlboro quickly, slid it through the gap, and rolled up the window, rubbing her arms for warmth.

“Where to next?” she quipped.

“I’m not too exhilarated about driving in this,” Jacob gestured toward the outside of the car, where the rain was diligently making small pools in the dips of the Sonic parking lot. “And I am tired of sitting in this damn car. This town seems very touristy, I’m sure there’s a café or something where we can hunker down, get some coffee. A beer.”

“Hunker down?” teased Mal. All righty, pardner.”

Jacob rolled his eyes at her jab, turned the ignition key, and backed out of the parking space.

“Yeehaw.”

Quite the opposite of being Southern, both Mal and Jacob had grown up in western Michigan, Mal in Crenoe and Jacob in Macon. Their lives had converged in Grandville, an unexceptional but pleasant enough town. Converged, however, doesn’t seem like quite the right word. It is, of course, presumptuous to say that Fate brought the two together. It was clear that the two were not “soulmates” in any sense of the word. Both Jacob and Mal had their fair share, and probably then some, of failed relationships, as well as countless, boozy one-night stands. Romance was never an option, though, with one eye closed, anyone could see how lovely the two were. Green-eyed and dark haired, Jacob was tall and thin, his clothing choices nearly always being torn jeans and a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His theory was that the presentable aura of the shirt canceled out the rips in his jeans. While is theory was not necessarily correct, he still maintained a small following of ninth-grade girls, most of whom were constantly poking him on Facebook, and giggling every time they passed him at on the sidewalk.

Mal was lovely in her own way, with full lips and bright brown eyes. Her hair changed with the weather, red one day, chestnut the next, a line of jagged bangs across her forehead. She, like Jacob, preferred her jeans tattered, a constant source of umbrage to her poor mother, who had spent a significant portion of Mel’s teen years trying to get her to wear a skirt. Though Mal eventually came to her senses and accepted that not all items of clothing must have two legs, she maintained what she called an “artistic” style, rarely complete without a Marlboro Red in her hand. Mal had escaped college with a boyfriend of two years, who had promptly dumped her upon his acceptance to graduate school. Mal said good riddance, though her thoughts remained with him long after he was gone.

Converged, met, collided—however you wish to phrase it, Mal and Jacob became friends during the summer after they had both graduated, though both from different schools—Mal from the University of Michigan, and Jacob from Eastern Michigan University. The two had probably met at parties, introduced by mutual friends, but each was forgotten in lieu of someone more interesting. If only they had known precisely how interesting the other was, they would have gotten to know each other long before a flying cake brought them together. Grandville was devoid of people their age; like Jacob and Mal, many kids had gone off to college. Unlike Jacob and Mal, these kids had found jobs and places to live, with no need to return to Grandville. That’s the sort of place it was—while it’s certainly a nice place to live, it is not the place that dreams are made of. Though the two of them had found this out the hard way, at least, they consoled themselves, they had found out together.

“Jacob!” Mal shouted as Jacob’s head once again nodded in the direction of chest. He snapped to attention, blinking as though this would help him stay awake. Amongst the hundreds of blue information signs that they had passed, the opportunities for hotels were abundant, but Jacob had insisted on continuing, despite the fact that it was well past midnight.

“You need to sleep, Jakey boy” Mal said.

“I’m fine,” lied Jacob. “And don’t call me that. Check the GPS, we must be close.”

“All right…Jakey,” smirked Mal. She hit a few buttons, and the female voice of the GPS quipped, “Thirteen miles to destination.”

“There, you see?” said Jacob. “Fifteen minutes, we’ll be there.”

Mal rolled her eyes. “There” wasn’t really a place; it was more like an idea. An incredibly romanticized and cheesy idea, in Mal’s opinion, but Jacob was the one driving, not her. So they continued down the highway, the high beams of the car’s headlights pushing away the darkness in front of them, leaving it behind for another weary traveler.

Fifteen minutes later, they saw the sign, and Jacob slowed down.

“You’re actually going to stop here, in the middle of the interstate?” asked Mal indignantly.

“Do you have a better idea?” he asked.

“Yeah!” she said with the vaguest of an edge to her voice, no doubt the product of having sat in the car for ten hours. “We find an actual town, with an actual hotel, with actual beds—“

Jake cut her off. “We will. Just let me have my moment, and then, I promise, we’ll find a place to stay. You were incredibly keen on this idea earlier, leaving our ‘fate’ to chance.”

“That was after I had been well-rested, with a bowl and a half of Lucky Charms in me,” said Mal grumpily, reminiscing to that morning, which now seemed like years ago. However, after this, she remained silent. Jake eased the car onto the shoulder, left the lights on, and turned off the car. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

“Really?! You can’t flip the damn coin inside the vehicle?”

“Feel free to stay in there,” said Jacob loftily, and he pulled a quarter out of his pocket, making to toss it.

“Oh, all right, hang on. Let’s get this “feel good” shit over with,” said Mal as she scrambled out of the car, a slight smile on her face nonetheless. Jacob smirked as she walked around to his side of the car. A semi-truck passed, the driver undoubtedly wondering if those two kids were in trouble, or, if not, what the hell they were doing standing around. These musings, however, were not troublesome enough to cause the driver to stop, and Mal and Jacob’s hair was ruffled as he swooshed past.

“Okay,” said Jacob, holding up the quarter. “Heads—I70,” he gestured to the sign just ahead of them, which informed them that the road they were currently on would soon be morphing into another interstate. “Tails—I64,” and he gestured to the turnoff just up the road. “This quarter gets to decide how we spend the rest of our lives.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mal said. “It’s a month, tops, remember?”

“I was just trying to set the feel for the situation,” Jacob replied. “Let’s be a little bit dramatic. Please?”

Mal rolled her eyes, a move that she seemed to be perfecting, and Jacob grinned. After a moment’s silence, he threw the quarter high up into the air. It swirled in a silvery ark, and after a moment dropped to the ground, several paces from where the two of them were standing. For a second, neither of them moved, as if the situation called for a moment of silence. Then, Mal closer to the place where the coin had landed, walked over and stooped next to it.

“Heads,” she said, smiling.

Jacob walked over to her, smiling also. “West it is.” “The East will have to wait for another day,” said Mal.

The two stood there for a moment, perhaps contemplating that they had just let a coin toss decide to which end of the country they were going to travel. Perhaps they were just happy the thing had been decided; after a significant amount of arguing on both ends, the two had come to the conclusion that this was the only way to decide. Now that they knew, a raging calm seemed to settle over the entire situation, a peacefulness that held the promise of excitement and action.

But not tonight.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” said Mal, rubbing her arms and heading toward the passenger side. “Let’s go find those warm beds, yeah?”

“All right,” said Jacob, bending down to pick up the quarter, distributing it quietly back into his pocket. They got in, and Jacob coaxed the engine back to life. Mal’s iPod, which had been hooked up to play through the car’s speaker, seemed to have a feel for the situation, and began playing California Dreaming as soon as the car started. Mal looked half-disgusted, half-amused at the clichéd choice of the thing, but let it play regardless. Jacob put the car into drive, and pulled off of the shoulder onto the deserted interstate, heading towards I70.

Mal opened her eyes to a dim room, vague, blurry shapes all around her, which could have been furniture, but her groggy mind could barely acknowledge them. She rolled over and looked at the clock sitting on the nightstand, the generic red numbers assaulting her eyes. 10:17. Too early. She rolled back over and closed her eyes. There was nowhere important to be, right? She had half-drifted off once again when a loud pounding came from the general direction of the door. Mal’s eyes snapped open, and all of the possibilities flew through her instantly alert mind. Serial killer? Guy from the front desk? Stranger? Serial killer? Probably a serial killer, but the only way to be sure was to check. She crept out of the bed and walked over the door, tripping on comforter that she had gotten tangled up in. Reasserting herself, rubbing her now-bruised shin, Mal peeked through the peephole, expecting the worst.

It was Jacob.

Surprised, she turned back to the twin beds, and noticed that, in stark comparison to her own bed, Jacob’s bed was neatly made and, more importantly, devoid of Jacob, a fact that she had somehow missed. She unlocked the deadbolt turned the handle, and swung open the door, just in time for Jacob to swing his leg forward and kick her in the already-affected shin, apparently hoping to kick the door to get her attention.

“ARGH! What the hell, man?”

“Sorry,” Jacob grinned. “Didn’t see you there.”

Mal muttered a variety of insults that Jacob seemed not to hear as he walked into the small room.

“Let’s try that again, eh? Mornin’, sunshine!” he practically shouted, causing Mal to scowl as she slammed the door shut, once again dimming the room. “Oh, hey now, it’s not that bad. Look, I brought food, and, more importantly, caffeine!”

Even in her groggy state, Mal could not deny the importance of caffeine, and she grudgingly accepted a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Jacob set the rest of his armful on the generic desk that can be found in every hotel room, as though the people who stay in $35 a night hotels are going to sit down and write a letter to the folks back home. From what Mal could tell from the items Jacob deposited on the desk, he had bought every single pink-sprinkled donut in the store. In addition to these, there were two boxes of Pop-Tarts and a family sized bag of Cheetos.

“For the road,” he explained in answer to her slightly indignant gaze.

“We’re going to get fat,” she said, pointedly poking him in the stomach.

“Maybe you will,” retorted Jacob, avoiding her finger. “My metabolism absolutely will not allow it.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” muffled Mal, for her mouth was now full of pink-sprinkled donut. Jacob grinned and picked up a donut for himself.

“So, early start?” he said, throwing himself onto his bed, wrinkling the covers yet again. “Or should we stick around for lunch in St. Louie?”

“We have…” Mal counted them up. “Four donuts apiece. Shouldn’t that suffice for now?”

“Ahh, come on,” said Jacob. We can…go see the Arch, and…”

“’And’ is right,” said Mal. “What else is there in St. Louis?”

“Well,” said Jacob, “Let’s find out, eh? Where else do we have to be? Now get…” he pulled the covers off of Mal, who had snuggled back into warmth, “your ass out of bed. There’s a whole damn city waiting for us.”

The idea of travel has always been overly-romanticized, in Mal’s opinion. Jacob thought so too, privately, but he preferred to maintain a “too cool for this town” sort of image. In college, they had always talked about where they were going to go, what they were going to do. Europe, Australia, Asia. See the world, see the sights, see the people. Get drunk in Russia, high in Amsterdam. Run from the bulls in Spain, surf in Sydney. Of course, none of this ever happened. None of this was likely to ever happen. Neither of them even left Michigan very often; everything they needed was there, really. Friends and family, what more was there? Adventure, perhaps. The Great Unknown, waiting for whoever cared to venture into it, offering the promise of new and beautiful. Mal and Jacob had gone to seek the Great Unknown, at Michigan State and Eastern Michigan Universities, respectively. Neither had found exactly what they were looking for. The greatest discovery of the adult life is, that while there may be a Great Unknown, there is a reason it is called such. So few ever get to discover it, finding instead overdue rent payments, car trouble, student loans, failed exams. The Eiffel Tower, the Sydney Opera House…so close, and yet, so very far away. There was no time, no money. There was other living to do, and that life, the life of adventure, would have to wait.

Except that they were tired of waiting, Mal and Jacob. They were both practical people, and realized that the Great Unknown would probably stay such. There was no reason, however, that it could not be turned into the “Somewhat Unknown” or the “So-So Unknown.” They had set out to diminish the Great Unknown, whatever it took. Turns out, all it took was quitting their jobs, packing a suitcase, and saying goodbye to their families. Diminishing the Great Unknown was, by all accounts, not the most responsible move, as many people had told them. Knowing far better than to argue, they had simply agreed, but had carried on with their plans. They would be okay, they said. They could get jobs, they were willing to do what it took. They didn’t have a plan, but they didn’t need one. If anything, plans were overrated. Twenty-one damn years of living had taught them that.

“I am famished,” announced Jacob. Several passersby gave him a slightly odd look, as though he was talking to himself, rather than…Mal. He spotted her several paces back, lighting yet another cigarette. He was talking to himself. He crossed his arms and tutted impatiently, until Mal’s cigarette caught fire and she looked up and noticed him.

“Calm down, Jakey boy,” she said. “Where precisely are we rushing to?”

Jacob was silent, and Mal smirked. “Lunch?” asked Jacob.

“Sure,” replied Mal, slightly sarcastically. “I mean, I only had…two and a half donuts.”

“Not to mention a package of Pop-Tarts,” he teased.

“You’re one to talk, Cheeto boy.”

And indeed, Jacob had eaten nearly half the bag of Cheetos by himself.

“Lunch it is,” he said.

They walked along in silence for several moments, listening to the hum of the people surrounding them, the polite chatter of people meeting outside cafes, heated and apparently one-sided arguments from people on their cell phones, the “clack clack clack” of so many high-heeled shoes beating out their rhythm on the sidewalk.

“How ‘bout that little place?” asked Jacob, pointing to a dark little café set far back from the others on the street. A purple and gold banner announced “Coffee,” but there was no indication as to the name of the place, nor even what type of place it might be.

“Typical hipster,” said Mal in a vaguely sarcastic tone. “Pick the most secluded, unusual looking place.”

“You’re one to talk,” Jacob retorted, pointing to the two plastic bags she had been carrying, one containing several vinyl records (though the opportunity of finding a record player on the road—or anywhere, really—seemed rather scarce), and the other carrying several pieces of vintage jewelry, which Mal herself had professed the she did not need; her jewelry collection outweighed the amount of her actual clothing by at least ten to one. Mal gave him a teasing sneer, and without further argument they walked through a space in the low wrought iron gate surrounding the small courtyard outside the restaurant. A heavy, gold-handled wooden door seemed to be the entrance. Jacob turned the handle and the door swung inward, revealing, somewhat unsurprisingly, a dim interior, bathed in smoky, golden-yellow light. The floor was the same type of wood as the door, and the walls were covered with elegant maroon wallpaper, occasionally interrupted by a thickly-framed painting of a landscape of some far-off place. A haunting violin sonata filled the room, the source of which was revealed to be a silver-haired man sitting in the corner, a mahogany violin under his chin, the bow swinging back and forth on the strings. Though the music seemed complicated, the man used no sheet music. Jacob and Mal watched him for a moment, entranced. The man finished his song with one last flourish of the bow, and the two of them seemed to be free from its spell. They looked around the café, taking in the splendor of the room. Splendor was the right word; the room’s rich colors, the golden light, even the tables themselves seemed set for royalty. One thing that remained unseen, however, was a server.

“I guess we’ll just…take a seat?” said Jacob, slightly uncertainly.

The silver-haired man began playing again, a song that neither of them recognized, somewhere between a mournful waltz and requiem. There were no other people in the café, despite the fact that it was lunch time. Surely one of the hundreds of people outside would come in and enjoy a quick sandwich? Come to think of it, though, the people outside seemed dim and far away, as though the hustle and bustle of the human race had been shut out with the closing of door. Curious, surely, but not of particular concern to either Mal or Jacob. They chose a seat near the window, or what was passing for a window, for the glass was so distorted that the outside was little but a colorful blurry mass, and through which little sunlight was able to stream through. The table was the same dark mahogany as the rest of the place, polished enough to reflect the candle sitting between the two place settings.

“Romantic,” quipped Mal, and the two sat down. Two drink menus sat in a silver holder on the edge of the table. They perused these for a moment, each deciding upon a delectable-sounding drink. After several more moments of waiting and looking around, however, there was still not a single server in sight.

“Should we…should we go find someone?” Mal whispered, as though the musician would be offended by her question.

“I dunno,” said Jacob, continuing to look around as though people might start appearing from the woodwork. “Ask him, I suppose.” Jacob pointed toward the violinist, who was completing the last measure of his song.

“Why do I have to—“

“Just go! I’m hungry.”

Mal stood up and took several quick steps toward the violinist.

“Excuse me,” she said in a polite tone. “Do you know where a server might be? Or could you go tell them that we’re here, or something?”

The silver-haired man smiled, violin still under his chin. “They know you’re here,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. “Someone will be along shortly.”

Before she could reply to this, the man had begun to run the bow across the strings yet again, and Mal frowned at him as she turned and headed back to the table.

“He said someone’s coming,” she told him.

“Someone needs to hurry up. I feel like we’ve been here for hours.”

“It’s only been…” Mal pulled out her phone, the bright electronic glow seeming very out of place. “It’s only been fifteen minutes. Five more minutes, okay? Then we’ll leave.”

“All right,” agreed Jacob. “But if they’re not going to serve me…” he eyed the bar at the far end of the room, something that Mal had just noticed, “I’ll serve myself.” And before Mal could stop him, Jacob jumped up and headed behind the bar, frowning for a moment, and then ducking down and opening what Mal presumed to be a mini-fridge.

“You can’t just…” she said to no one in particular, as Jacob was too far away to hear her. She eyed the violinist, whom one would expect to object to customers helping themselves to the bar, but his eyes were closed, perhaps intentionally, and he was swaying along to the rhythm of his music, seemingly blissfully unaware. She looked back to Jacob, who now had two beers in his hand and was heading towards her.

“We’ll pay for it,” he assured her. “Though really, it’s the least they could do after this wait. It’s not exactly packed in here.”

Mal accepted the bottle from him and twisted the top of, which always tore up her hand. Jacob used his teeth to pry the top off of his bottle, spitting it distastefully onto the table.

“Eckh, that tastes—“

“Like metal?” Mal teased. “Can’t imagine why.”

Jacob gave her a look of pretend disgust, and then held his bottle out for a toast. “To us,” he said simply.

“To us,” Mal agreed, clinking her bottle to Jacob’s. They both drank deeply and, both apparently deep in thought, were silent for a moment. The violin music continued to float around them, somatic and inviting, and the moment was still.

Jacob punctuated the atmosphere by taking out his own phone. “One o’ clock, he stated pointedly. Mal looked conflicted for a moment, but then nodded. Jacob stood up and took his wallet out, intending to pay for the drinks.

“Wait!’

The violin had ceased abruptly, and the violinist was looking at them both, a calm and smiling expression on his face.

“Someone will be with you shortly, I promise.” His deep voice enveloped them like a warm blanket. “Sit down, finish your drinks.” So he had noticed, then. Jacob and Mal looked at him, and then looked at each other, and slowly returned to their seats. The violinist smiled widely, and resumed his piece. Mal and Jacob looked at one another with inquisitive expressions, but both remained seated. The candle in the middle of the table flickered, causing bits and pieces of shadows to jump and transform, flying wildly around the table. Jacob took another drink of his beer, and began, “But why—“ but he was cut off by the sound of a door swinging open. Both he and Mal turned their heads to the opposite side of the room, next to the bar, where a tall, thin woman had just exited what had to be the kitchen. She wore a flowing, earth-brown dress, interrupted at the waist by a turquoise belt. Her long red hair was pulled back to reveal earring that matched the belt. Heavily-lidded eyes sparkled in the candle light as she slowly approached their table with a sultry smile on her face.

“Jacob,” she said, looking at him, “and Mal,” turning toward her. “One thousand apologies for keeping you waiting.” The woman had a slight accent, probably Italian, they would hazard to guess. Her voice, like the violinist’s, was deep and slightly raspy. “Though I see you have already helped yourselves.”

“We didn’t think—“ Jacob began.

“It is perfectly all right, my dear.” She spoke slowly, as though she was trying to put Jacob under a trance. “I know you’re honest.”

Jacob just looked at the woman for a moment, his expression fixed between awestruck and inexplicably confused. “How did you know our names?”

The woman smiled her sultry smile. “That doesn’t matter much right now,” she said. “In case you were wondering”—they weren’t, really—“my name is Colette. And now that we’re all acquainted,” if possible, Colette’s smile grew even bigger. “What can I get you to drink?”

“I…uh…I’ll take another beer,” stammered Jacob, slightly taken aback by Colette’s sudden return to normality.

“Water, please,” said Mal as Colette turned her gigantic smile in Mal’s direction.

“Very good. Here are some menus,” she said, handing them to Mal and Jacob, seeming to pull them from thin air. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She wooshed away, and Mal and Jacob turned and looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

“That was…”

“Odd,” Jacob agreed.

“How did she know…?”

“I don’t know.”

It was just then that they noticed that the café was quiet, devoid of the mournful violin that had filled it just moments earlier. They looked over to the corner where the violinist had been, and saw nothing but a vacated stool and an empty violin case.

“Now where did he…?” Mal started, but did not finish, for Colette returned with their drinks at lightning speed.

“What can I get you to eat, my dears?” she asked as she set the drinks down, the same simpering smile upon her face.

Neither of them had really had a chance to look at the menu, but, wishing to be done with the thing as quickly as possible, both ordered at random. Colette took the menus and whirled away yet again.

“It’s a bit off, this place,” said Jacob.

“That it is,” agreed Mal. “We’ll be out of here soon enough, though, I suppose. Back on the open road!”

“Please, try to be a little bit more cliché?” teased Jacob, but his eyes lit up. “Where do we go from here?”

“Well,” said Mal, pulling up the app on her phone, “There’s not a whole lot of anything. Kansas, or Nebraska?”

“Both thrilling options,” said Jacob drolly.

“Another coin toss?” teased Mal.

“Nah. It’s not the difficult of a decision. Kansas.”

At the same time Mal said, “Nebraska.”

They stopped and stared at each other for a moment.

“What the hell is in Kansas?” Mal asked.

Well what the hell is in Nebraska?!” Jacob retorted.

“Go through Nebraska,” said Colette, who had sneaked up on them without a single bit of notice from either of her customers, scaring the living hell out of them both. “I’m sure you’ll find something worthwhile there.”

“Well…er…I suppose that settles it, then?” said Jacob uncertainly, looking at Mal.

“Oh, why not,” sighed Mal.

Colette simpered, and brought their attention to the two plates in her hands.

“Primera Pasta,” she said as she set a plate of pasta in a creamy tomato sauce in front of Mal, “And the roasted pork sandwich for you,” setting a plate of sliced pork on a toasted ciabatta roll in front of Jacob. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Mal began to twirl pasta onto her fork. “Could you tell us what exactly is in Kansas?” she asked Colette.

“Oh, there’s nothing of particular importance, I suppose,” said Colette, with a light air. “It’s just rather interesting, the history, the small towns, the local color. Tell you what,” she reached into a previously invisible pocket of her dress and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “If you find yourself near Lawrence, go see my old friend Mindy. She’ll tell you what’s what out in old farm country.” Colette wrote down what was presumably an address, ripped the sheet out of the notebook and handed it to Mal.

“Uhm, thanks,” said Mal, her mouth now full of pasta. She swallowed. “We’ll certainly try.”

Colette clapped her hands together in apparent delight, and swirled away from their table. Mal placed the piece of paper in the center.

“Lawrence…that sounds familiar. Wasn’t your dad from Lawrence?” Mal asked Jacob.

Jacob looked moodily down at his plate. “Yeah, he was. Is, I guess. I don’t know where he went, after…” Jacob trailed off, and Mal felt a sudden pang of pity for him. It had been stupid of her to ask that. Though Jacob’s parents had split without much ado, he still blamed his father for…well, whatever he could. A poor childhood, his mother’s unhappiness. Mostly the latter, as Jacob had spent a significant portion of his teen years trying to remedy that situation, usually without much success. It was cliché, he knew, but Jacob had learned how to be a man without his father, and he could damn well live the rest of his life without him, too.

Mal spoke softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I mean we’re not going to see him or anything.”

“It’s fine,” said Jacob, regaining his candor. He took a large bite of his sandwich, and chewed for an extraordinarily long time, as though postponing saying anything else. “It’s fine. I’m over him. Obviously, I’ve done just fine without.”

“You have. You really have,” Mal grabbed Jacob’s hand. “You turned out phenomenally.”

Jacob stared at her a moment, his green eyes looking deep into her brown ones. “I, uh, thanks,” he stuttered, swiftly pulling his hand out of hers and returning his gaze to his sandwich. Mal did the same, and the two chewed in silence for a while, avoiding each other’s gaze. Jacob scrolled through emails on his phone, while Mal focused on twirling as many noodles as possible onto her fork at the same time. The rest of the meal went in much the same way, silence continuing to permeate the room as the violinist stayed missing.

“I need a cigarette,” Mal said finally, rummaging through her bag.

“Haha, me too,” said Jacob, glad to finally have something to say. Mal grinned at him, and a vague sense of normality was restored.

“I’m completely stuffed,” said Jacob, taking one more bite of his sandwich, regardless. “I wonder if we could get…”

“The check?” said Colette, once again seeming to appear out of nowhere. How it was physically possible that she had heard Jacob, he did not know, but he accepted the black book from her anyway. Colette turned away, but instead of disappearing, she went behind the bar, and began mixing a drink, though for whom was a mystery, as Mal and Jacob were still the only customers.

Both of them counted out the price of their meals, added a tip for Colette, and set the black book on the table. They stood up to go, and Colette was once again right next to them.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, and stretched out her arms to give Mal a hug, which she accepted with a confused look. Colette did the same for Jacob, who gave Mal a questioning look behind Colette’s back. Mal shrugged as Colette was letting go of Jacob. “Have a wonderful day, dears. Good luck out west.”

They stammered their thanks, and turned toward the door. The violinist, now back at his perch, waved his bow at them. They waved back, and swung open the heavy wooden door. The sunlight assaulted their eyes, the outside a stark contrast to the dim interior of the café. Once again, the two walked through the low wrought iron gate, onto the sidewalk, on which not a soul was to be seen.

“That was,” Jacob began.

“Really odd, finished Mal, pulling a cigarette out of the pack.

“How did she know our names?” asked Jacob.

Mal waved the pack of cigarettes in Jacob’s face. He contemplated for a moment, and then took one. “More than that,” she said as she lit her cigarette, and handed the lighter to Jacob “When did we ever tell her that we were traveling west?”

“Actually,” said Jacob, as he lit his own cigarette. “I don’t think we ever did.”

Roaring yellow light flooded the senses, wiping all other thoughts from the mind. The constant din of indistinct voices provided a background soundtrack to the odd scene, or whatever you would call it. There wasn’t much to see: the light, jarring and impossibly bright, was all-encompassing, and made it hard to focus on anything else—not that there was anything else to focus on. The light seemed to grow in intensity, looking the same whether the eyes were opened or closed. Decidedly, though, the eyes were open, because vaguely in the distance, the light was being swallowed up by a new form, something dark. Rushing forward, the form gobbled up the light with an insatiable hunger, getting closer and closer, until…

Mal’s eyes snapped open, sucking in air. It was…it was…what was that? It was gone now, right? Almost afraid to look, she rolled her eyes from side to side. Wall. Jacob. Window. Normal. The dull yellow of a streetlight crept through the cracks around the curtain, casting eerie shadows, turning chairs into monsters and coffee pots into looming figures. Mal sat up and shook her head, as though trying to fling her thoughts away. The dream. Weird. There was light, and, then there wasn’t. What else had happened? She didn’t know, maybe nothing. She was already starting to forget. Just a dream, it didn’t matter. She eased her head back down onto the pillow, closed her eyes, and fell back asleep.

Jacob stood outside the motel room door, lit cigarette in hand—he knew Mal wouldn’t mind that he borrowed one. Just one. Nasty habit, certainly one he didn’t want to acquire, but as the influx of nicotine numbed his brain, he smiled a sleepy smile. The smoke floated lazily away as he once again put the cigarette to his lips. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat until dead. It was morbid, sure, but then, why shouldn’t it be, he asked himself. That was life. Live fast. Die young. Jacob shook his head and took one last drag of the cigarette. He flicked it into the parking lot and went back inside. Mal was still asleep, and it was far too early to wake her. Their itinerary was rather fluid, at times, nonexistent. What they were doing here—and not just here, in this hotel, but here, in Kansas, here, on the road, here, together—he did not know. He sighed introspectively, and then had to chuckle vaguely to himself as he realized just how obtuse his thoughts were. What did it matter, where they were, or why. They were there, they were doing something, what more mattered? Jacob quietly got back into his bed and pulled the covers up to his nose. Sleep returned easily, and he thought no more.

It has been said that it’s always darkest before dawn. This was obviously said by someone who had never been awake to see the dawn. It comes slowly. The sky, while perhaps not the darkest, has reached a velvety dark blue, swirling away the stars until they are nothing but nearly invisible, faded dots. The sky lightens gradually, with the dark blue lightening, acquiring streaks of orange, red, yellow, whatever shade the sun has chosen today. Speaking of the sun, it doesn’t appear for a good long time. But its essence, the weak, pale yellow will appear in the east, swallowing the horizon—or is it the other way around? It creeps up, gaining stamina, gaining color, changing the entire sky itself, until bursting forth with streaming rays. The moon hangs low in the sky, but the stars have disappeared completely. In this moment, this brief moment, everything that could happen, does. All the hopes, the dreams, the fears, the worries, all is possible. The sun begins its decent, the moon fades, and the moment ends. Here we are again. Here you are again.

More importantly, here he is again. He seemed to appear with the sun’s rays; perhaps he is one of them. His face is jagged, his hair golden. Despite the promising warmth of the day, he has on a heavy coat. He thinks it adds to his “mysterious” persona, and perhaps he is right. The bright red tennis shoes aren’t doing a whole lot, in that respect, however. He seems to realize this, and absentmindedly scuffs the toe of one of the shoes against the cement, still cold from last night’s chill. He frowns, and checks his watch, a cheap, black plastic affair, $10.95 at Wal-Mart. He knows what he’s waiting for, has his eyes sharply trained on the hotel window. The sun is taking command of the sky now, the moon surrenders, at least, temporarily. Behind the dull beige curtain of the motel window, a light has been flicked on.

There it is.

He smiles to himself and turns away, walks behind a row of cars, and is gone.

“Jacob.”

“Jacob”

“JACOB!”

“WHAT,” yelled Jacob, waking angrily. “WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT AT THIS TIME OF THE MORNING. WHAT IS SO DAMN IMPORTANT THAT YOU COULD NOT WAKE ME UP AT A DECENT HOUR, LIKE A DECENT HUMAN BEING?!”

Perhaps “waking” wasn’t quite the word for it. Jacob seemed to have skipped the waking part, and had proceeded directly to senseless rage. Mal stepped back carefully as he attempted to yank the covers off himself, but instead got tangled in them, a feat that only served to make him angrier. After several tense moments, which resulted in Jacob bringing half of the bed with him, he stood upright.

“Phonecall,” said Mal, holding up his phone.

Jacob simply stared coldly at her for a moment, and then snatched the phone away.

“Hello?” his sleep-clogged voice rang.

“Jacob?” his mother’s voice took the tone of surprise. “It’s nearly eleven o’ clock, what on earth are you still doing in bed?”

“I was tired,” he replied, slumping back on to the bed. “What’s up?” Jacob’s tone remained casual, but deep concern broke through the sleepy fog. Tenuous was not quite the correct word to explain the relationship between him and his mother, but she wouldn’t have called unless it was something important. Something like…

“Your father called me yesterday.”

Fuck.

“He said that he heard you were in the area. I don’t know how…are you in the area?”

Jacob massaged his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Yeah. We are.”

“Well, he…he said…”

“That he’d like to see me?” finished Jacob. This was not unexpected, because it was the thing Jacob wanted the least. The bastard had done more, in a single act, no less, to ruin his life than all the bullies, bosses, and rejected dates combined. “I don’t want to.” He stated bluntly, trepidation coloring his tone.

“I know. And I told him that. But, Jacob, you haven’t really…I mean, it’s been so long, maybe…”

“Mom. I do not want to see him,” Jacob punctuated. “I don’t want to hear from him, I don’t want to be aware of his existence at all. Being in the same state as him makes my skin crawl.”

“You’re in Kansas already?” his mom sounded slightly shocked.

“Yeah, well, go big or go home,” was his only reply. His mother laughed weakly, a sigh barely concealed, and Jacob felt a surge of guilt. He should be home. Taking care of her. Doing something useful. What the hell was the point of this stupid road trip? A massive waste of gas, of time. He could be working, he could be looking for work, he could be home, fulfilling his role as protector of his family. He was the only one left to fill the role. Why, why would he even want to look at someone who had deserted all of that on a simple whim? His father was not stupid, he knew. He was not merciless or cruel. He was, more than anything else, Jacob had decided, selfish. His father was selfish for leaving his wife alone, selfish for leaving his son without a father.

Yet, here Jacob had done the same. He had left his mother for a joy ride. He felt the air being punched out of him as the thought occurred. Maybe he was more like his father than he knew.

“I think it would be good for you,” said his mother timorously. “Maybe some things have changed.”

Jacob sighed. His father had become a nonentity to him long ago; the sole reason the man had even crossed his mind was their current proximity. For his mother, though, he knew he would put that aside. He would not be his father, he would not leave her alone. He would do this for her.

“Yeah.” The word was drawn out, mingling interchangeably with a deep sigh. “I suppose I can stop by.”

His mother’s voice brightened and he could picture one of her sad smiles. “Good. I’ll text you his number, okay?”

“Okay. Hey, mom,” Jacob began.

There was a brief silence.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you…you doing okay?” Jacob mumbled.

Another sad smile. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Believe it or not, I can handle myself. Enjoy yourself while you still can.”

In the background, Jacob could hear the smoke alarm going off.

“Crap!” came his mother’s agitated voice. “I have to…the bacon…love you!”

Jacob laughed quietly. “Love you too.” The line went dead, and he hung up. Mal was lying on her own bed, pretending that she hadn’t heard any of the conversation.

“Up for a visit?” Jacob asked.

Mal looked over at him, deep brown eyes surveying his own green ones. “Listen, man, you don’t have to…you don’t have to go—“

“Yeah, I do,” Jacob returned. Not angrily, he was not angry. He was defeated; his past had not only caught up to him, but had kicked him in the teeth. “For her,” he said, looking at his phone. “Maybe, for once in my life,” he looked back to Mal, still gazing intently at him. He looked at the floor, knowing she was staring at him still. “Maybe for a bit of peace.”

An hour later, once Jacob had properly awoke, he and Mal lugged their suitcases to the car. Mal threw hers into the trunk and lit a cigarette, leaning against the car. She inhaled deeply, and released a slow stream of smoke.

“So…did you call him?”

Mal knew very well that Jacob had not yet called his father, but she was at a loss as to how to approach the situation delicately.

“I’m…I will. I’m going to,” he said, fishing the pack of cigarettes out of her bag. Mal handed him her lighter with a superior look. He inhaled thoughtfully, slowly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. The text message from his mother was still there, unread. He copied the digits and hit “call.”

“Hello?”

“Uhm…hi. This is Jacob.”

“Jacob!” the smile in his father’s voice rang through the speaker. “I talked to your mother, she said she would—“

“Yeah, she did,” Jacob interrupted. He took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “So…we’re in Kansas.”

“Really?” his father exclaimed. “What brought you here so quickly?”

“We…well, dunno, really. Anyway, if you’re not busy today, I was wondering if…” Jacob’s voice trailed off. He was not wondering, he was not hoping, he was not even vaguely anticipating “if.” He knew his father would make the time. That’s precisely what Jacob had wanted to avoid. Well, we really tried to make it, but, you know, he had to work.

“Listen, son—“ Jacob cringed. If his father sensed his discomfort, he made no note of it. “I’d love to see you. I understand you’re with a friend?”

“Mal, yeah.” Mal looked up at the mention of her name, and, through a haze of smoke, offered up something like an encouraging smile.

“Well why don’t you and Mal stop by the house. Lawrence, Twenty-two Bronson Street. I’ll be here all day.” He chuckled, as though his comedic genius might go unappreciated by his less-than-enthusiastic offspring.

“Lawrence is eighty or so miles from here,” Jacob said, looking to Mal for confirmation, but she was too busy stomping out the butt of her cigarette. “That would put us there around…”

“Two?” his father offered.

“We’re going to eat, first,” said Jacob, defensive without reason. “Three, at the earliest.”

“All right then.” The chipper tone of his father’s voice did not diminish. “See you then. Let me know if you have any trouble finding the place. White truck in front, ugliest green shutters you’d ever want to see. And, Jacob…thanks. I know how difficult this must be…”

“Yeah,” Jacob cut him off. “See you soon.”

His father barely had time for “bye” before Jacob hung up. Mal stared at him, but he avoided her gaze, choosing instead to contemplate the cigarette that had been dangling between his fingers for the duration of the conversation. Mal seemed to understand.

He had, it seemed, missed a few crucial points when it came to Mal. Sure, she was funny as hell, and sure, she could grate upon his nerves. Of course, she was pretty. Sure, they were friends. Close friends, best friends, even. He had been so nearsighted, however, that he had never truly realized how much she cared about him, truly cared about his happiness--something that he had never bothered much with himself. He was flooded with appreciation, and, something odd, something warm. Happiness? Something close to happiness, anyway. He took a long drag of his cigarette, and realized that he felt the same way. Their stupid conversations, their ever-clashing music tastes, their late-night escapades to the park, swinging like children, laughing at the sheer simplicity of such joy. Nothing and no one could ever take her place. He tossed the cigarette several feet away, and turned and swept her into a hug. Mal’s arms dangled at her side for a moment, thoroughly astonished, but then wrapped around him as well. They stood like this for some time, her chin on his shoulder, his hands laced behind her back. If either of them had been feeling themselves, the moment would have quickly been punctured with a smart comment, but neither spoke. For one small moment, they were together. There was happiness, and there was peace.

#anyone's ghost #tiredandwired #story #nanowrimo