Chapter Seven All The Small Things
I watch tons of old comedies with him. Action movies. We sit and read together in the mornings.
After PT, he massages me until I’m whimpering out loud and bucking my hips. He doesn’t say anything, even though I know he’s hard.
I want him to say something.
But... I also don’t. Because what we have is odd, but nice. He cooks for me after PT, too. We sit side by side on the couch and watch the laptop when dinner is done, and my arm brushes his, and his thigh touches mine.
Those inches of skin buzz with pleasure, and it’s like a high mixed with the simplest, easiest comfort.
I’m taking advantage of Johnny Miller, and I know it. I can leave whenever I want, and he can’t. He’s going to get dependent on me for my friendship.
I’m going to get addicted to him for his pain relief.
“You have any onion?”
“What?” Johnny startles me.
“Onion. Tomorrow afternoon, you have PT. I’ll make us a meatloaf. My mother’s recipe.” He kisses his fingertips. “The best in Brooklyn. How about it?”
“I’d love it. Uh. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to find many leads, Johnny.
I know you said not to call your nephews, and I haven’t, but I’ve looked for people who might have been around when Harry and Nancy were in town.
I got referred to a place called Hilltop Home, a senior living place, but I haven’t heard back from the director. ”
Johnny looks at me. “To be honest... I haven’t been as worried about that as I once was. You’re good company, sweetheart.”
I usually hate pet names like that, but when he says it?
Damn butterflies in my belly.
“Uh. I better get gas in my car before PT. I have onions on the counter next to the potatoes. And the grocery store is out that way. Thanks to my personal masseur, I’m able to walk longer.
I can go pick up anything else you need for dinner.
Which, by the way, I feel guilty that you’re cooking food you’re not eating. ”
“Yeah, but then you eat the leftovers for lunch. It’s good. It’s all good.”
He beams at me.
I smile back. My hand does something stupid and reaches for his, and we both moan when our palms connect.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, eyes closed, body instantly warm in that wet, low, tingly way.
“You know, you should leave the laptop here. Put it on some massage videos on that website. The one with videos where you can learn stuff? Maybe I could help you feel even better,” he hints.
At least, I think it’s a hint. “Great idea.”
So, before I leave to get gas, I send him to check the kitchen and see if there’s something else he needs at the store, and I type “sensual full-body massage” into the search bar— and find myself looking at R-rated clips of oiled-up men massaging women in barely-there bikinis.
And I’m very okay with Johnny watching it, too. If it gives him ideas—I’ll be sharing them.
“I think you could use more milk,” he calls out.
“Good! The video is up. I’m gonna go get gas and head to PT,” I call, and blow him a kiss—for no reason other than it’s a reflex.
A reflex I’ve never shared or had before.
Johnny winks, catches it, and pats his cheek. “Good aim, kid.”
Oooh. So many butterflies.
I almost have a car accident at the gas station. A single car, operator-error kind of accident.
There are two men at Manny’s Automotive, a combo used-car lot, car rental spot, car repair shop, and three-pump gas station (two gas, one diesel). Yes, Pine Ridge is small.
And weird. Which is why I almost run into the green pickup truck that’s fueling at the pump in front of mine. I’m staring at the two men. The two men, who both look like Frankenstein’s monster. One is green and stitched up. One is gray and stitched up.
“You okay, miss?” The greenish one asks, rushing to my car as I stomp on the brakes so hard that I smoke my tires.
“You’re ... Oh, you’re both...” I can’t make words. I point. I stare. I stammer.
“I have an oil change. You handle this,” the gray one says with a sigh and leaves.
“Hi, yes. We’re your friendly local auto techs, and I’m Manny, owner and operator of Manny’s Auto—”
“Manny?” I blurt. Yes, I’m a ten on the rudeness scale, but I can’t help it. “Are you the real Manny? The one who owned this shop back in the 1950s?”
Manny blinks, bends lower, and nods. “Well, yes. But that’s not common knowledge, miss—”
“Amber. I’m Amber Pierce, and I just bought Johnny Miller’s house on Haven Way,” I gasp out, so excited I can’t take deep breaths.
“Johnny Miller! Gee whiz, that’s a blast from the past. What a guy. He only worked here three months, but that kid knew his way around a carburetor.” Manny’s face is wreathed in a wistful smile. “Are you a niece? I heard his family used to use it as a summer place.”
“No, no. I’m not a relative. They put it on the market.”
Manny sticks his hand out. “Well, pleased to meet ya! Manny Finklestein, here for all of your automotive needs. The way you pulled in, miss, I think you might need your brakes checked,” he says gently.
I shake his hand, which engulfs mine completely. “Um, thanks. I’ll think about that.” I drop my voice. “Honestly, I just stopped short because I saw you. Other than Johnny, I haven’t seen any other supernatural beings. People. Um, is there a term you—”
“Johnny Miller! Johnny’s alive? Well—here? How? Vampire? Ghost?” Manny practically tips my car over, leaning down and gripping the small sedan’s door where I’ve rolled my window down.
“Ghost,” I squeak.
“How about that! And I never even know. Oh, jeez, this is great. Gosh, can I stop by sometime and say hi?”
“Yes! Yes, please do. Stop on by whenever you want. He would love to see you. I get the impression he can’t leave.”
“Well, no, ghosts typically can’t, not without a spirit bottle, but even so, I’m just flabbergasted. All these years, and I never even knew. I just feel like a heel.”
“Spirit bottle?” I murmur. “So, he could go places with one of those?”
“Sure could. They’re rare and precious, and expensive, but Johnny’s Pine Ridge family. I’m sure Madge and Mr. Minegold would whip up something for him.”
“Who?”
A horn blips politely behind me, and Manny stands up. “Two locals who are good with the old benevolent magic. If Johnny’s the guy I remember, he sure qualifies as a kind soul.”
“He is.” I smile, thinking of the way he seamlessly started caring for me once he knew I was a friend.
“Pull into a spot here, and we’ll chat.”
I follow Manny’s lead, even though I know I have to hurry—and I never did get any gas. “Can I just ask you one question, Manny?” I ask, pulling up behind an open bay in the auto shop.
“Of course, dear!” He grins, a wide smile in a comically square jaw beaming down on me. “About Johnny?”
“Do you know how he died? Or where I could see his autopsy? Not because I’m nosy!” I clarify when Manny looks alarmed. “For Johnny. He wants to cross over, but he’s plagued by questions.”
“Gosh, now that’s a long, long time ago.
But, being as he was my employee, I was the one who came to check on him when he didn’t show up for work.
It was a Friday, payday, and he was a young fellow with a new mortgage and a girl that he was serious about.
He wouldn’t skip payday. And he had a phone—some people didn’t back in the fifties, which I know shocks all of you young folks,” he gives me an indulgent smile.
“He wasn’t answering, so I went out there and found him. ”
I switch off my car.
PT can wait.
“You found him?”
“Mmmhm. I went over after work. I remember thinking if I had only checked on him earlier, but we were slammed and short-handed without him there. When I found him... He wasn’t pretty.
I’m sorry I didn’t see his ghost at the time.
I could have... I could have helped him, maybe, but I know from some of the other ghosts in town that the first few weeks, or even years, can be disorienting and confusing.
Other ghosts in town? Yeah, saving that tidbit up for later.
“And you called the police?”
“Well, no, I called the hospital. The ambulance came over. Harry Rogers—”
“Harry Rogers!” I screech.
“Uh. Yes?”
“Sorry, go on. Johnny mentioned him.”
“That’s right, they were friends. You see where the shopping center is now?
That all used to be fields. Those two used to take their sandwiches from Bond’s drugstore and meet in those fields for lunch.
Anyway... He was an Army medic. He must’ve seen horrible things,” Manny’s voice gets softer.
“But he hugged Johnny like a brother, crying. I remember he asked if I had called Nancy, Johnny’s sweetheart.
I told him no one had that I knew of. Oh, it was a tough week.
He was so young, and he knew something was off. That much I remember.”
“Harry?”
“No, Johnny. He must’ve known something was wrong. We found Bisma Fizz and a bottle of syrup of ipecac that was almost empty.”
“Syrup of what?”
“Ipecac. You use it to induce vomiting. Of course, you shouldn’t do that with appendicitis. I think Harry thought that’s what caused the rupture, and you know, peritonitis can set in quick. It can kill you in a day or two. Such a shame. A tragedy.”
My mind is spinning. Harry Rogers poisoned Johnny, and he tried to force himself to vomit.
But that made it worse. But it all started with Harry.
And who is to say that he didn’t leave the bottle there?
He was the medic on the scene. Who is to say that he didn’t hide some evidence, or do something to the body in transport, or at the hospital, that made it all look innocent, natural?
Ooooh, this is turning into the real deal.
Or... Or Johnny has been stuck in limbo, all alone, trapped in the house where he hoped to start a beautiful life—because of an ugly, unfounded suspicion.
I figure maybe doctors at a small rural hospital in the 1950s could have missed something.
On the other hand, a man without any medical training, who’d just had an argument with his friend over a woman, could have had misplaced suspicions.