Pleasing the Ghost (7 page)

“I
t's really Aunt Julia who has the good news,” my mother said.

I felt terrible. All I could think about was Uncle Arvie, who had disappeared on the wind.

The phone rang. “Go on,” my mother said. “Answer it. I bet it's Aunt Julia.”

Reluctantly, I lifted the receiver.

“Dennis? Is that you?” Aunt Julia said. “Did you happen to see a box of chocolates on the porch when you were here? Colin just phoned and said he left a box of chocolates.”

“Well, I—”

“I'm not suggesting that
you
took them!” Aunt Julia said. “Anyone could have taken them. It was silly of him to leave them there in the first place.”

“Yes, well—”

“I'm beginning to think he's rather a silly man. All that business with the wasps.
I
never saw any wasps, did you?” she asked.

“No, I—”

“Exactly. I think Colin is imagining things. He's a foolish man. Not nearly as interesting as your Uncle Arvie was. Colin is sort of a—a—”

“Sort of a beany booger?” I said.

“You sound just like Arvie,” Aunt Julia said. “Thank you for reminding me of him. And thank you for finding Arvie's poem, and that beautiful painting of our honeymoon—” She sniffled. “And of course for finding the box today with all my letters and the money. I don't know how to thank you—”

“Oh, that's okay,” I said.

“I think you deserve a reward,” she said. “Anything you want. Anything at all. It's yours. What would you like?”

I thought. There were three things I wanted, but I knew that Aunt Julia could not give me two of those things. So I asked for the third.

I said, “In your garage is an old bike. Was that Uncle Arvie's?”

“That old thing?” Aunt Julia said. “That old rusty thing? Sure, it was Arvie's, but—”

“I have a little money saved to fix it up, but I don't have enough. Maybe you could help me get it fixed—?”

Aunt Julia said, “Of course I could. We'll get new tires and have it painted and— Are you sure that's what you want? You could have a whole new bicycle if you'd rather.”

I was tempted to say, “Yes! A new bike!” but I thought about all those secret pouches and compartments on Uncle Arvie's old bike. “I'd rather have the one in the garage.” Maybe some of Uncle Arvie would be in it—something magical and mysterious in a ghostly sort of way.

That night, in bed, I listened to the wind rattle against the cardboard taped to my window. I knew that Billy Baker wouldn't be throwing any more rocks. I wondered if Billy could see a ghost because he wanted a ghost. Needed a ghost. Maybe that's what
foodle a doodle
meant. Maybe Billy and I both needed a ghost—we both foodled a doodle.

Across the room was my empty desk. I wished Uncle Arvie were lying across it, with his red hat poking off one end and his legs sticking straight out off the other end. That was one of the things I wanted that Aunt Julia could not give me.

Uncle Arvie was probably far, far away now, sailing along on the wind, going wherever it took him. I found one bright star and made my wish. I wished for the other thing that Aunt Julia couldn't give me.

“Maybe this wind will bring more ghosts,” I said. “Maybe this wind will bring me and Billy our pepperonis.”

It
could
, I thought. This wind
could
bring our fathers sailing right through our windows. You never know about ghosts.

T
he young couple found the child asleep in an old cushioned chair on the front porch. He was curled against a worn pillow, his feet bare and dusty, his clothes fashioned from rough linen. They could not imagine where he had come from or how he had made his way to their small farmhouse on a dirt road far from town.

“How old a boy is he, do you think?” the man asked.

“Hard to say, isn't it? Seven or eight?”

“Small for his age then.”

“Six?”

“Big feet.”

“Haven't been around kids much.”

“Me neither.”

The man circled the house and then walked down the dirt drive, past their battered blue truck and the shed, scanning the bushes on both sides as he went. Their dog, a silent beagle, slipped into his place beside the man, sniffing the ground earnestly.

When the man and the dog returned to the porch, the woman was kneeling beside the old cushioned chair, her hand resting gently on the boy's back. There was something in the tilt of her head and the tenderness of her touch that moved him. He wondered if they would have their own child one day. No, no, time enough to think about
that
. No need to rush things.

T
he young couple, whose names were Marta and John, were reluctant to go about their normal chores, fearing that the boy would wake and be afraid, and so they took turns watching over the sleeping boy. It did not seem right to wake him.

For several hours, they moved about more quietly than usual, until at last John said, “It is time to wake that child, Marta. Maybe he is sick, sleeping so much like that.”

“You think so?” She felt his forehead, but it was cool, not feverish.

And so John and Marta made small noises: they coughed and tapped their feet upon the floor, and they let the screen door flap shut in its clumsy way, but still the child slept.

“Tap him,” John said. “Tap him on the back.”

And so Marta did, tapping him lightly at first, and then more firmly, as if she were patting a drum. Nothing.

“Lift him up,” John said.

“Oh, no, I couldn't. You do it.”

“No, no, it might scare him to see a big man like me. You do it. You're more gentle.”

Marta blushed at this and considered the child and what might be the best way to lift him.

“Just scoop him up,” John said.

And so Marta did just that. She scooped up the boy in one swift move, but he was heavier than she had expected, and she swayed and turned and flopped into the chair with the boy now in her arms.

Still the boy slept.

Marta looked up at John and then down at the dusty-headed boy. “I suppose I'd better just sit here with him until he wakes,” she said.

The sight of his wife with the child in her lap made John feel peculiar. He felt joy and surprise and worry and fear all at once, in such a rush, making him dizzy.

“I'll tend to the cows,” he said abruptly. “Call me if you need me.”

Her chin rested on the child's head; her hand pat-patted his back.

“It's okay,” Marta whispered to the sleeping child. “I will sit here all day, if need be.”

Their dog normally shadowed John from dawn until dusk, but on this day, he chose to lie at Marta's feet, eyes closed, waiting. Before John went to the barn, he scanned the drive again and circled their farmhouse. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he hurried on to his chores.

Marta closed her eyes. “It's okay, it's okay,” she whispered.

Lyle Rigg

SHARON CREECH
is the author of the Newbery Medal winner
WALK TWO MOONS
and the Newbery Honor Book
THE WANDERER
. Her other work includes the novels
THE GREAT UNEXPECTED, THE UNFINISHED ANGEL, HATE THAT CAT, THE CASTLE CORONA, REPLAY, HEARTBEAT, GRANNY TORRELLI MAKES SOUP, RUBY HOLLER, LOVE THAT DOG, ABSOLUTELY NORMAL CHAOS
, and
CHASING REDBIRD
, as well as three picture books:
A FINE, FINE SCHOOL
;
FISHING IN THE AIR
; and
WHO'S THAT BABY
? Ms. Creech and her husband live in Maine. You can visit her online at www.sharoncreech.com.

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Walk Two Moons

Absolutely Normal Chaos

Chasing Redbird

Bloomability

The Wanderer

Fishing in the Air

Love That Dog

A Fine, Fine School

Ruby Holler

Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

Heartbeat

Who's That Baby?

Replay

The Castle Corona

Hate That Cat

The Unfinished Angel

The Great Unexpected

Cover art © 2013 by Zdenko Basic

Illustrations copyright © 1996 by Stacey Schuett

P
LEASING THE GHOST
. Text copyright © 1996 by
Sharon Creech. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
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