Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
F lip didn’t notice when the storm ended. He didn’t notice anything outside the world of his story until his eyesight grew so fuzzy that he could barely read the screen. He gasped when he saw his word count. Seven thousand words. He’d never written anywhere near that many in one day, but tonight they’d flowed effortlessly, as fast as runoff rain gushing through a downspout.
He gathered his still-damp clothing from the floor and carried it into the bathroom, where he tossed it into the tub. He’d deal with it in the morning. Still naked, and after a minimum of nighttime ablutions, he climbed into bed.
“I like how the rain cleans the streets,” said Scratch, holding and toying with the folded umbrella.
Flip sat up and blinked rapidly. He hadn’t even realized he was falling asleep, but now here Scratch was, sitting on the edge of the mattress and grinning at him. Scratch wore charcoal trousers, a white shirt, and a striped tie, as usual, but tonight he didn’t have a vest or jacket or hat.
“We don’t usually get big thunderstorms on the West Coast,” said Flip.
“That’s right. You’re from California.” He drew the name of the state out, making it sound exotic. Then he cocked his head and stared at Flip’s bare chest. “Y’all don’t wear pajamas in California?”
“Sometimes.”
“My mama used to remind me to wear something decent to bed. ‘What if there’s a fire in the middle of the night?’ she used to say. ‘Y’all want the neighborhood to see you in all your glory?’”
“Did you follow her advice?”
“Depends on whether I had company. I figured if there was a fire and there were two of us with no clothes on, folks wouldn’t know which of us to stare at.” His smile faded. “There’s a lot more she said that I should have listened to. Mama’s been dead now for a long time, but she outlived me. I caused her and my daddy so much grief.”
“Are they ghosts too?”
“Nah. How about you? Do you do what your mama tells you?”
That made Flip squirm. “I haven’t talked to her in years. And even when we were in touch, she wasn’t much for imparting guidance. ”
“Sorry to hear that. You have other relatives you can lean on when you need it?”
Flip shook his head.
“Sorry to hear that too. I got—well, I had —a big family. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins. I could hardly do anything without one of them noticing and reporting back to my parents, even after I was fully grown. But they were all there for me whenever I got myself in a bind. Up ’til that last time, that is. None of them could help me when I got shot.” He looked down at his chest, where a crimson stain suddenly bloomed like a terrible flower.
Flip cried out in alarm and the blood disappeared.
Scratch patted Flip’s blanket-covered knee. “Sorry ’bout that.” Then he set the umbrella on the floor with great care, as if it were valuable, and twisted around to face Flip more directly. “What’d you do today besides writing?”
“Shopped. Ate. Walked.”
“I used to walk a lot too. Partly out of necessity—didn’t have no car back then—but I also liked it. I miss it. Wish I could see what the rest of the city looks like now.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Can’t go more than a couple blocks from the spot where I died.” Scratch raised his eyebrows and spread his arms, his message clear. He’d died right here .
It wasn’t something that Flip wanted to think about, so he changed the subject. “I’ve been taking a lot of photos during my walks. Want to see them? ”
Joy illuminated Scratch’s face and made his eyes sparkle. “Can I?”
So Flip lifted his phone off the nightstand and gestured for Scratch to sit beside him, both of them with backs against the headboard and legs stretched out straight, Flip under the blanket and Scratch above. Flip scrolled slowly through his recent pictures. Sometimes he paused to explain something, but other times it was Scratch who explained. “That’s Congo Square. I used to go there on Sundays to listen to the bands,” and “My sister, Delphine? Her husband’s people are in that cemetery. Dunno if she ended up there too,” and “That restaurant was around in my time too. One of my cousins waited tables there.”
Flip wondered about the accuracy of some of the details Scratch shared. Maybe those things were true, and Flip had heard or read about them at some point and then forgot. Or maybe his subconscious was simply creating plausible fictions. That’s what he did for a living, after all.
In any case, it was an enjoyable experience, with Scratch pressed against his side and clearly delighted with the photos, and with Flip’s head feeling clearer than it had all day.
When they ran out of recent photos, Scratch took control of the phone and started scrolling backward. “No wonder you people spend so much time on these things. Hey, who’s this?”
Flip fought the impulse to snatch the phone away. “Nobody. ”
“Don’t look like nobody. Two of you are scrunched up together and all smiles.”
“That’s… my ex.”
Flip had taken the selfie six months ago, when the shadows were already deepening but he was still hoping for a happy resolution. Flip’s newest book had just released, and he and Ethan had celebrated with a weekend getaway to Catalina Island. The picture had been taken on the ferry ride over. They had a big argument just a few hours later and both spent the rest of the weekend sulking, playing on their phones and barely speaking to each other.
“I’m better looking,” Scratch announced.
“Agreed.”
“What happened to him?”
Flip shrugged. “Nothing. As far as I know, he’s still in Oakland. He probably has a new boyfriend. Maybe Ethan’s cheating on him too.”
With a derisive snort, Scratch set the phone screen-down on the nightstand. “I never did that… exactly. Mostly I didn’t make any promises. Not to the fellow who killed me and not to his wife. Only slept with each of them once. Not even once with the wife, really. Bastard killed me while we were in flagrante. He could’ve just joined us instead and then we’d all three of us been happy.”
“Well, Ethan did. Cheat, I mean.” But he might as well be honest, at least in his dreams. “I wasn’t entirely blameless.”
“You cheated too? ”
“No. But I didn’t treat him all that well, and when he tried to talk to me about it, I just shut him out. Story of my life.” He’d seen a therapist for a while, a few years back, who thought that Flip might be pushing people away before they had a chance to reject him. Maybe so—probably the result of shithead parents and a fucked-up childhood—and it was possible that a whole lot of counseling and effort might have improved him. But Flip had bailed on the therapist too.
“Bad decisions, huh?” Scratch’s smile looked sympathetic.
“Yeah. One of many.”
“Least yours didn’t get you shot.”
He had a point.
They sat there together, watching the ceiling fan spin, each lost in his own thoughts. Except Scratch wasn’t lost in anything because he was just a figment; Flip needed to remember that. It was difficult to do, though, when he heard Scratch breathing—did ghosts need to breathe?—and felt the slight pressure of Scratch’s shoulder against his.
Anyway, it was surprisingly nice, just relaxing in silent company. They’d each traveled very different roads, but they could share these moments.
Except Scratch wasn’t real, dammit.
Although he sure felt real when he took Flip’s hand in his and kissed his knuckles. “You got long fingers,” Scratch said. “Like a piano player.” He stretched out his free hand as illustration.
“Well, I do play a computer keyboard. ”
Scratch chuckled and bumped their shoulders together. “You know,” he said after a pause, “that kiss was mighty nice.”
“It was.”
“And you don’t have any clothes on, and I could also not have any clothes on, and….” He sighed deeply. “It’s been so long, Flip.”
“It’s been a dry spell for me too. Which is probably why I’m dreaming you.”
“You’re dreaming me ’cause I’m here,” said Scratch. “And how long has your dry spell been? ’Cause mine’s lasted for a century.”
Four months suddenly didn’t seem like so long.
While Flip was still considering this, Scratch did a gymnastic feat and was suddenly straddling Flip, torso bent forward so their lips could meet. This kiss was even better than the first, because now they knew each other a little better, and Flip was naked, and their groins were in contact despite several layers of cloth between them. And Scratch had a true talent for this, knowing exactly how to alternate between delicate brushes against tender skin, hungry invasions with his tongue, and teasing little nips along jawline and down the neck.
“Thought… you were a ghost… not a vampire,” Flip panted. He had his hands planted firmly on Scratch’s hips, holding him in place.
Scratch merely hummed a laugh and began working his way down Flip’s chest. When he bit playfully at a nipple, Flip nearly lost his mind .
Things would have proceeded very quickly from that point, except Flip remembered his plans for the following afternoon and froze.
“Something wrong, baby?” Scratch looked concerned.
“I think we should stop. Uh, maybe.”
“Maybe? It seems like you’re feeling good.” Scratch did a little wiggle that ground his ass against Flip’s very hard cock, making Flip groan. “Real good.”
Realizing that he was still holding Scratch against him, Flip let go and spread his arms wide. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. He wanted every inch of Scratch pressed tightly against him. “I’m trying to decide if this counts as cheating,” he admitted.
“With Ethan?”
“No, he’s absolutely past-tense for me. But tomorrow I have a date—well, I’m not sure if it’s technically a date, but it’s at least a close cousin of one—with a man I met yesterday. He’s going to show me around town. He’s a historian,” he added, as if that were somehow relevant.
Scratch’s face registered amusement. “Did you tell him that you wouldn’t go near another man?”
“Of course not. And anyway, I haven’t. You’re not even real.”
“I may be dead, but I’m as real as you are.” Scratch poked Flip hard in the belly.
“I’m dreaming you.”
“I’m in your dream, but that’s… it just makes things easier, is all.” Scratch heaved a loud sigh and rolled off of Flip, then stood on the floor. “But I don’t fool around with nobody unless they’re into it, and I guess you ain’t.”
“I am. I was. I just….” Flip made a garbled sound of frustration and covered his face with a pillow.
When he tossed the pillow aside, Scratch was still there, looking down at him with the corner of his mouth quirked. His tie was loose and his shirt rumpled; his hair had started to escape the oil or pomade or whatever he used, and soft curls were beginning to take over. He looked even more handsome when disheveled.
“Sorry,” said Flip. “You’re sort of hard up, and I’m not making any sense.”
“Feelings are feelings. And I’ve never wanted anyone to regret what we’ve done together. I still feel bad about the fellow who shot me and the woman I was in bed with at the time.” He brightened. “Tell you what. How about some music? That always improves my mood, and I ain’t played for nobody in a long time.”
“But how—” Flip stopped abruptly because there was a piano in one corner of the room. It wasn’t there in real life and hadn’t existed in his dream until now, but there it was. “Um, okay.”
Scratch sat at the piano, interlaced his hands to crack his knuckles, and gave his shoulders a shake as if to loosen them up. Then he began to play a lively tune that put Flip in mind of young women with bobbed hair and short, fringed dresses kicking up their heels. He was good, and Flip couldn’t help wiggling his toes and swaying along with him.
When Scratch finished, Flip clapped, and Scratch gave a little seated bow. “It’s called After You’re Gone . It was a big hit the year I died. I used to play it a lot. The year before, the military closed down the brothels in Storyville, so I was kinda hard up for musical work, but I found it now and then.”
“I don’t know anything about jazz, but I liked that song. Will you play another?”
Clearly pleased, Scratch put his fingers on the keys and produced a tune that sounded like it was straight out of an old noir film. “This one was written long after I died,” he said, still playing. “ Blue in Green . Sounds better with a whole band—trumpet, sax, drums, bass—but it’s good like this too.”
Flip pictured Humphrey Bogart nursing a cigarette and whiskey in a bar. Maybe he was trying to crack a case, or maybe he was brooding over the femme fatale. Either way, Blue in Green was in the background. Funny how music could so easily convey a setting and mood, even without lyrics. A musician used notes the way a writer used words.
When the song was over, Scratch seemed to consider for a moment. “I’ll play one more and then I’ll let you rest. You got a date tomorrow.” He punctuated this with a ta-dah! cord on the piano before launching into a new song. Flip found this one bluesier and was delighted when Scratch started singing. The lyrics were about somewhere called Beale Street, which sounded like a hoppin’ place.
When it was over, Flip clapped again. “You have a good voice.”
“Passable. I play better than I sing.”
Scratch stood, stretched, and sauntered over. He leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Flip’s forehead. Then he picked up the umbrella and walked to the door. “Sleep well. Don’t wanna be too tired for—what was his name?”
“Tony Bergeron,” Flip said through a yawn. And the dream ended.
By morning the storm had blown away the hot, stifling air, leaving a chill that caused Flip to shiver before getting dressed. His dream still unusually sharp in his mind, he decided to go out for food and coffee. He’d already discovered a cute place on Ursuline Street, just a block over. It had tiled walls and very tempting pastry cases, and one table was tucked into a tight window-side niche that was perfect for people-watching.
He bundled his laptop into a case, put on a hoodie as an extra layer, and slipped into his tennis shoes. After opening his apartment door, he saw a piece of folded white paper lying on the mat. To the guy in Apt 2C , it said on the outside. That was him. He picked it up and unfolded it, squinting to read the messy cursive.
Dear neighbor,
We don’t mind your taste in music, but can you please keep it down after midnight? That piano was loud.
—Apt 1C