The Ghosts of Camembert (1700words)
A swirling tempest partially sunk an island of white froth into a sea of steaming blackness. Then a single cloud opened up and pummelled what was left of the whipped mountain peaks with golden hail.
I looked away from my cup and expected Lesley, my wife, to comment on the sweetness level of my beverage as I stirred the remnants and then swallowed half in a long gulp.
It was the annual get together of Les and her childhood friend, Angela Ross. Geoffrey, Angela’s boyfriend of twelve years, and I were dragged along for reasons unknown to the two of us. Luckily, the women had long ago given up on their hopes of Goofry (as I thought of him) and I becoming great chums.
Lesley and Angela chatted about the good old days of the late 1980’s; Geoff sent messages on his Blackberry; and I struggled with images of standing and screaming, yanking clumps of hair from my head and running from the establishment as though I had seen a poltergeist.
Angela mentioned a recent chance reunion with her former husband, effectively transporting the conversation into the 90’s. With still another decade of reminiscing to go before I could even contemplate leaving, I tuned everything out.
The waitress brought more food on crystal platters.
Groaning, I longed to be someplace else.
I never understood why my wife changed around these people. At home she was a chicken breast and pasta gal. With Angela and the Goof it was tray after tray of gooey cheeses imported from France, Italy and Denmark. The three of them nibbled lean sliced smoked turkey, grapes, and pears and spread Brie and Gouda on sharp tasting bread and thin crackers.
A waiter returned again and again uncorking numerous bottles of wine called Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir and, with a smile, took an order for figs, Gala apples and Havarti.
I washed down a steak the size of my head with a gallon of Guinness and wondered if I could get a refill on my French fries.
I heard snippets of the conversation, longed for a big-screen TV, and imagined a runaway vehicle crashing in the front door of the place.
“You could feel her presence there Geoffrey, couldn’t you?” Angela said. Her tone suggested that Geoff might not agree.
“Of course, babe. It sent shivers—you know what I mean, Jimmy?”
Leave me out of it. “Yeah—uh-huh shivers.” I rolled my eyes.
“I mean,” Geoff glanced at Angela and then to me. “That feeling—like someone is there—but isn’t?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. I’ve got a feeling I’d like to smack you around. Every time we get together—this nonsense about dead family members trying to reach out from the great beyond!
Lesley looked at me. She was well aware that I had no tolerance for this type of
talk. She knew I had it in me to tell these two where to shove their pickled herring. I
smiled. She returned the grin.
Geoffrey rambled on about his feeling. I wasn’t listening. This guy had a talent for irritating me. Last time I saw him he had a mullet haircut left over from 1986; on another occasion it was a ponytail. Now he was shaved bald, with a soul-patch goatee like he had stumbled out of the post grunge-rock scene.
“I had the photograph analyzed by an expert in Sydney,” Angela said, unable to hide her excitement.
I feigned interest, and unfortunately knew what Angela was talking about.
“And?” Lesley asked.
“Well…”
“You’re going to love this,” Geoff said.
The snapshot in question was taken at a Ross family Christmas nearly two years ago, shortly after Angela’s Aunt Rose had died from a stroke. Angela was closer to her aunt than her own mother and she took the sudden passing very hard. I guess she never imagined that someone weighing in at nearly three-hundred pounds, with uncontrolled diabetes and high blood pressure might have a shortened lifespan.
“Dr. Reilly, the expert, said that the image was definitely not a reflection.”
“How much do these ‘experts’ charge to ‘analyze’ a photo?” I blurted the question without thinking.
“There’s a nominal fee involved,” Angela said, her ice blue eyes stared in defiance, or was she pissed at me?
What kind of expert takes money from broken-hearted folks desperate for any connection with their departed loved ones? It sounded like a scam to me.
The legendary photo featured the entire Ross clan posing in front of the hearth, with stockings hung and faux fire blazing. And in the unlit television, was the vague outline of a person sitting in a chair. It didn’t matter that the silhouette was thin and appeared to have much longer hair; the phantom was of course, Aunt Rose.
“How can this doctor be so certain that it’s not a reflection of someone sitting elsewhere in the room?” I asked.
“Oh, Jimmy,” Angela said quickly. “I already knew that it wasn’t anyone in the room. Everyone—everyone was standing for the picture.”
“Doctor Reilly’s investigation confirmed that it is in fact her Aunt Rosemary,” Geoffrey said, pulling at the tiny thatch of whiskers on his chin.
“And how does he do that?” I asked. “Google Advanced Search?” As soon as the words exited my mouth I cringed.
“Jimmy!” Lesley said as she turned to glare at me.
“Still can’t open your mind to other possibilities, eh Jim?” Geoff said, shaking his head slightly.
“Guess not.” I sneered at him and envisioned reaching out with my fork and stabbing the utensil into his manicured fingers.
“Its fine, Les,” Angela smiled. “Doctor Reilly used the latest technology and then sought a second opinion.”
Find-a-spook-dot-com must have had server problems.
“And then,” Angela leaned forward at the table and spoke softly as if she had secrets that could jeopardize national security. “Reilly forwarded the picture to a colleague in Bangkok.”
That’s when I returned to my drink. The B-52 coffee was now ice-cold and I ordered another.
“I-I went to the lake in-in May,” Geoffrey said softly.
Not the lake story.
His eyes misted over as he went on about how his brother at age ten had drowned in Green Lake. I felt bad for Geoff and wondered if he might benefit from counseling. He spoke of the thirty-year old tragedy as though it had happened the previous weekend. Perhaps he and Angela would be better served by a professional who could help them with their grief. Instead, they continued to look to the paranormal for answers.
The tale of Geoffrey’s Green lake pilgrimage continued. “Dave is still there—I can tell,” he paused to wipe a tear.
“It’s okay, Geoff,” Angela said in a comforting tone. “You don’t need to continue.”
Apparently he did need to finish as he spent the next twenty minutes accounting for his visit to the place where his only sibling had died. “I-I could sense him…”
Young David had suffered from a rare form of asthma. The remedy of that time was a pungent concoction that I believed was mainly alcohol and eucalyptus. The syrup left David with a peculiar foul smelling breath and now decades later near the waters edge, Geoffrey was certain that he could smell the medicine in the air.
After a pause of more than a minute and a call for the check, Angela asked Lesley
if she had felt her grandfather recently.
Lesley glanced at me, hesitating to begin her contribution to the triptych. I knew that Lesley’s father had deserted the family when she was a little girl and her grandfather had stepped in to fill the void. When he died around the time Lesley was struggling through puberty, it left her angry and bitter.
“The other night at my birthday party—I was really depressed about turning
forty…”
Huh? “Go on,” I said.
“I was upset—it was silly—but I think Grandpa was there—in the kitchen.”
How did I miss that my wife was having such a rough time with her age? My face warmed. I looked away.
“What? No eye roll, or comment there, Jim-bo?” Geoffrey said, a smirk forming on his face.
“Anyway,” Lesley said loud enough to break the tension growing between me and Geoffrey. “I’m—I felt his hand on my hair. He always stroked my hair when I was upset.”
It should have been me. I should have been there for Lesley. Me—not some…something else. “I’m sorry Les. I wish I had been more aware…I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” Lesley touched my hand and smiled at me.
These three people all needed and occasionally found comfort in their beliefs, in these links to the past.
I had none.
It wasn’t for me—but who was I to make jokes—to judge them?
“Sometimes I envy you guys,” I said looking from person to person at the table.
“Bullshit!” Geoff leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
“Geoffrey!” Angela’s eyes were wide and her mouth dropped open. She didn’t accept foul language.
“Whatever,” I whispered.
It was my turn to get the tab and I set cash on the table. Waiting for the change I couldn’t look at any of them. Not even Lesley.
I didn’t notice the waitress place the receipt folder in front of me. I opened it and found three five dollar bills and a collection of coins. One of the fives was wrinkled and torn and had a message written in faded blue pen. The script was the flowing artistic penmanship of a generation that spent long hours in school practicing handwriting. A time before word processing and the internet rendered the written word obsolete.
Dearest James,
A very Happy 7th Birthday to you
Love Great-Grandma. April 11, 1975
My breath caught, and then suddenly I could hear my Grandma Louise’s laughter, feel her warmth as she hugged me and kissed my cheek.
“Jim?” Lesley said.
“Hey Jim-bo—what’s up—is the check wrong?’
“Jimmy, are you okay?”
I pushed the scripted bill toward my wife.
“What’s this? My God that’s your birth date.”
the end 04-20/08
Regis