Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
“ D o you honestly think this will work?” Tony ran his fingers gently over the plastic keys.
Flip, pacing the bedroom nervously, shrugged. “Seems worth a try.”
The little electronic keyboard had been Tony’s idea, a sort of extra enticement, like bait on a hook. He and Flip had taken a Lyft to Target, bought the thing, and dragged it back to Flip’s apartment. It now sat on the bed beside Tony. If they were unsuccessful, Flip had no idea what he’d do with an electronic keyboard. Donate it to charity? Maybe he’d learn to play it himself.
At least Tony had been willing to go along with his plan. Flip appreciated that.
“I’m going to open my Eye all the way now,” he announced.
“You’ve never seen him while you were awake, though. What if you can’t? ”
“I’ve seen other ghosts outside of my dreams.”
Tony nodded. “Okay. Go for it.” He braced himself on the mattress as if expecting an earthquake or a gale-force wind.
But Flip simply stood straight, took a deep breath, and mentally pried his spectral eyelid as wide as it would go. The bedroom immediately seemed… more three-dimensional, somehow. The colors were brighter, the shadows deeper, and an invisible energy made his skin tingle. More startling, however, was Tony, who emanated waves of soft, soothing colors, and who was tied to Flip with a glowing filament. Although Flip didn’t mention the filament to Tony, Flip found its existence reassuring.
“Scratch?” Flip called. “Can you hear me? I’d like to introduce you to your great-great-great nephew. And we have a piano for you to play if you want.”
Nothing happened, so Flip called again, and then a third time. Maybe Scratch had had enough of him. Maybe Flip could reach him only in dreams. Maybe?—
“That’s Anthony Bergeron?” Scratch stood beside the bed in his snazzy three-piece suit, Homburg cocked and eyes squinting as he stared at Tony. He held the umbrella in one hand.
“You can’t tell? He looks just like you.”
“He ain’t as good-looking as me.”
“Um, Flip?” said Tony, barely above a whisper. “Is he….”
“Standing right in front of you. ”
“I can’t see him,” said Tony, at the exact same time that Scratch said, “He can’t see me.”
Shit. This was going to be harder than Flip had expected. He frowned, trying to think of the best way to facilitate matters. But before he could think of anything, Scratch huffed and put his free hand to his hip. “Don’t be so selfish, boy. Share your Eye.”
Flip hadn’t been aware that such a thing was possible, and for a moment he had a gruesome image of plucking out one of his eyeballs and handing it over. Then good sense took over and he moved the keyboard so he could sit close to Tony. “Hold my hand.”
Looking doubtful, Tony did. The contact crackled like static electricity, which sent a pleasant frisson down Flip’s spine and into his groin. He might have gotten distracted by that if Tony hadn’t gasped.
“Scratch!” Tony’s voice was choked.
Smirking, Scratch struck a pose. “In the flesh. Well, actually not. My flesh is long gone. But in the spirit.”
“I… uh… it’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You ain’t.” Something desolate showed in Scratch’s eyes. “Nobody knows nothing about me.”
“That’s not true. I was named after you!”
“Nah. There’s a lot of Anthony Bergerons. Wasn’t me.” But Scratch nonetheless seemed slightly soothed.
“It was, and some of the old people, they tell stories about you.”
“About the fool who got himself killed ’cause he couldn’t keep it in his pants? I bet that keeps ’em laughing over their beers.”
“About your talent as a musician. They say you were the best piano player in Storyville. And they talk about how joyful you were—how you seized life with two hands and made everyone around you happy too.”
Scratch’s shoulders drooped and he stared at the floor. “Didn’t seize it hard enough, did I? It got away from me.” He glanced at Flip and then lifted his chin. “I saw him first, you know. Before you. You, you’re almost as pretty as I was, you could have anyone you want. You got a whole world full of living folks to choose from. But he’s all I got.”
Flip wasn’t sure how he felt about being the consolation prize, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to antagonize either the living man or the dead one.
“I’m not nearly as popular as you imply,” Tony said softly. “And Flip isn’t yours. He isn’t mine either—he’s his own man. But Scratch, you know the two of you have no future together. A living person can’t be partners with a ghost. It’s not fair to either of you.”
“Fair,” Scratch scoffed. “Fair woulda meant I got treated the same as folks who didn’t have ancestors from Africa. Fair woulda meant the government didn’t shut down the houses and rob me of my work. Fair woulda meant Octave Hebert had a nice chat with me and his wife instead of shooting me here in my own bed. Ain’t nothin’ fair about this world.” His tone was angry but his eyes glistened with tears. Flip wanted to reach out to comfort him but feared letting go of Tony.
He aimed for comfort via words instead. “You’re right. Lots of shitty things happen to people—good people too—for no reason at all. And unfortunately we can’t do anything to fix the shitty things that happened to you. But maybe we can help you a little anyway.”
“Nobody can help me. I’m nothing but dust sitting in a caveau in Saint Roch’s cemetery.”
“You’re more than that. Think on what Tony said. It’s so long after you died, yet your family still talks about you. You are?—”
“History,” Tony interrupted with a smile. “You are a part of what makes the Bergerons who we are today. I study history—it’s my life—because I believe that it’s important. Every family, every city, is like a building, each generation resting on the bricks of those who came before. You know, we have a cousin who’s a pretty well-known R he didn’t like being constrained too heavily by data and facts. He wanted his readers to taste the foods, smell the scents, hear the clop of hooves and the calls of street vendors, feel his characters’ hopes and fears. Of course he’d ground everything firmly in reality, which is where Tony could be invaluable. And with a novel, they’d never have to explain to anyone that their primary source was a ghost. Did the Chicago Manual even specify how to cite phantasms?
Frowning, Scratch walked slowly to the window and gazed into the darkness. From the back, Flip would have easily mistaken him for Tony. They had the same stalwart stance, the same broad shoulders that seemed ready for life’s burdens.
“Ain’t nobody gonna care,” Scratch said.
“Tony and the rest of the Bergerons, they care because you’re one of them. But I’m not. I’m a complete outsider, but as soon as I met you, as soon as I learned just a little about you, I wanted more. I wanted to know you because you’re worth knowing. Give us a chance and we’ll introduce you to the world. They’ll want to know you too.”
Tony squeezed Flip’s hand. It was clear from his tense posture and gnawed-upon lip that Tony was as desperate for Scratch to agree as Flip was.
Before beginning a writing project, Flip would hear the characters whispering faintly in his head. It could be a bit maddening, actually, and writing was his way of making those voices clearer. Now, however, he was experiencing far more than murmurs. His inspiration stood in the same room as him, three-dimensional despite being dead, and Flip’s fingers twitched with eagerness to start typing.
“What story will you tell about me?” Scratch asked. “The tomcatting nitwit who was too broke to pay his rent on time, who fucked everyone but never held a lover’s interest long enough to settle down?”
“We’ll tell the story of a man with human foibles, who was shaped and sometimes constrained by the city and by the times. A devilishly handsome man who dressed sharply and loved music, who didn’t seek to harm anyone but wanted to live his life to the fullest. A man who made a lasting impression on others even though he died far too young.”
Slowly Scratch turned to face them. “There are plenty of other ghosts in this city. Most of ’em were richer than me. Lots of ’em were more famous. Some of ’em?—”
“None of them are you,” said Tony firmly. “We’re not simply searching for a dead man’s story—we want to tell yours .”
Scratch’s expression softened, the guardedness replaced with wonder that emphasized the youth of his mortal years. “You ain’t lyin’.”
“No.”
Scratch leaned the umbrella against the wall and walked toward them. A battered wooden chair appeared and he sat in it, his posture regal. “I’m gonna start by tellin’ you about my mama and papa.”
“My great-great-great-great grandparents,” said Tony, smiling.
“The very same.” But then Scratch tilted his head and pointed. “What’s that thing there?”
Flip answered. “An electric keyboard. I know you can conjure a real piano, but we thought you might enjoy playing with this one.”
And at that, Scratch’s eyes sparkled as brightly as if he were alive.