Making a Medium Page 4

  I sandwich my non-smart cell between my shoulder and ear and finish tying my shoes. "My parents bought me this one. iPhones are expensive."

  "And a waste of money, if you ask me. Everyone has their face glued to a screen these days, and they need to know what every person is doing. Back when I was younger, if you wanted to know what someone was doing, you walked to their house or you called them. No one was twittering."

  "That's great,” I say, not quite paying attention to what he's saying. I'm still trying to recover from my run-in with Mr. Batch. I grab my briefcase and go down the alleyway, in the opposite direction.

  "This isn’t the way to the library," Willie says.

  "No. We're taking the long route," I say into the phone. "We'll go around the back road and cut through the parking lot of Gladys’s Diner."

  "You don't seem like the type that gets out much. You sure you know where you're going?"

  He's right. I don't get out much. But I've been to the library many times. Fernn Valley is small, and I've got a keen sense of direction—it's like my sixth sense.

  Or … er … my seventh, I guess.

  "You don’t have many friends, do you?" Willie asks.

  "I'm not very social." My blood pressure has dropped from stroke level to mild heart attack, and I'm able to relax a bit. The back road is empty, but I keep the cell to my ear in case anyone happens to come strolling by.

  "Why don't you socialize?" Willie asks.

  "I'm shy."

  "You don't strike me as shy. I'd say you're more socially awkward."

  "Thanks."

  "Why is that?"

  "I don't know. Because I grew up an only child." I cut through Gladys’s Diner's parking lot. "We moved here when I was seven, and I never made any real friends, I guess."

  "Why?"

  "Why are you suddenly so interested in me?"

  "Because you're strange. Where did you live before you moved here?"

  "I don't remember."

  "That doesn't make sense. You were seven?"

  I shrug. "I don't have any memories prior to seven. I was young. It's not that uncommon."

  "I'm ninety-three years old, and I still remember my first day of kindergarten."

  "Congratulations." We stop at the curb, and I triple check to be sure no cars are racing down the road.

  Coast is clear.

  The library is a single-story, small clapboard building with a yellow awning and a revolving door. Inside smells of damp wood. The carpet is maroon, and the walls are painted with a mural of Fernn Valley. A sign asking all patrons to please silence their cells phones is mounted to the wall by the drinking fountain, and I slide mine into the outer pocket of my briefcase.

  We step into the main library area, and behind the desk is Rosa, the librarian, on her cell phone.

  Here's what I know about Rosa: her mother has early stages of dementia, and Rosa spends a great deal of her time on the phone fighting with the insurance company, or fighting with the nursing home, or fighting with her family. I don't know if she's ever been married, but I do know she's single now and has three sons, five grandchildren, and another one on the way. I've never asked how old she is, but I'm assuming she's in her late sixties, early seventies. Rosa is the closest thing I have to a friend.

  "You have to put the cream on first." Rosa pounds the counter and berates the caller in Spanish. A dark bun of messy hair is secured by a pencil on the top of her head. Red-rimmed glasses hang by a chain around her neck and colorful beaded earrings adorn each ear.

  "Guess she didn't get the no-cell memo," Willie says.

  "You can't do that!" Rosa yells. "Hello?" She looks at her phone then replaces it to her ear. "Hello?" With a grunt, she slides the phone across the desk and falls into her chair.

  I clear my throat.

  She looks up and claps her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, Zoe, sweetie. I didn't know anyone was here. It's my mother. The nursing home charges an arm and a leg, yet they can't … you know what? Never mind." She slips on her readers and scoots her chair closer. "The fifth book in the Sizzling Hot Fireman series came in yesterday, and I saved it for you."

  Willie gives me a look. "Sizzling fireman?"

  My cheeks go red. "Actually, I'm here about something else. Do I have to pay to use the internet?”

  "Of course not, silly thing. But I do need to sign you in. Follow me." Rosa takes off down an aisle of non-fiction books, and I run my hand along the colorful spines. Books of every shape, color, and width.

  Rosa stops at a table with a boxy computer atop. "Copies and printing are a quarter. Internet is free." She wiggles the mouse and types in a ten-digit passcode. "Here you go, my dear."

  "Great. Thank you. And, can you save the book for me?" I'm dying to find out who the fire captain ends up with.

  "Of course I will," Rosa says with a wave of her hand. "No else checks them out, anyway."

  "Thank you, and, um, if maybe you could not mention to my mom I was here, that would be helpful."

  Rosa touches my shoulder. "I never saw you." She winks and hurries back to her desk. I can hear her on the phone again, yelling in Spanish. Which is lucky for us, because I can talk to Willie freely without worry of Rosa overhearing.

  I take a seat, place my briefcase at my feet, and get to work.

  "Why do you carry a briefcase?" Willie is on the ground staring at it.

  "Because I'm supposed to be going to work." I roll my eyes. Honestly. Has he completely forgotten about our ruse?

  "It's twenty nineteen. Do people still use briefcases?"

  "Yes.”

  “It’s ugly.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing it’s not yours. Why don’t just go and … ugh … never mind." It doesn't matter what Willie thinks about my wardrobe or accessories or that he can remember kindergarten; he'll be gone soon. I type in his full name and birthday into Google and wait for the slow internet to show me the results. I read through each article. They all say the same thing: Willie MacIntosh, millionaire inventor, originally from Fernn Valley, retired in Trucker, died at ninety-three years old.

  With each passing article, Willie grows more quiet. At one point, I think he's gone and push away from the table only to find him lying atop a bookshelf with his hands clasped over his chest, staring at the ceiling.

  I return to the computer and keep reading until, finally, I find a helpful blurb in The California Post. "Got it. Got it. Got it," I almost sing.

  Willie appears at my side. I highlight the sentence using the mouse. "It says you died of natural causes. No one killed you. You died because you were old. Congratulations." I spin around in my chair—happy this is all over.

  Except Willie is still here.

  "What's wrong?" I ask.

  "That's not how I died."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I just know. Someone else was responsible." He grunts. "I didn't want to do this, but it looks like we have no choice."

  I'm scared to ask.

  "You need to talk to Betty," he says.

  I'm scared to ask.

  "She's my wife," he says, sensing my hesitation.

  "Where does she live?"

  "In Trucker. Let's go." He starts toward the exit.

  "Um, one small problem," I say from my chair. "Trucker is a forty-minute drive, and I don't have enough money for the bus."

  I wait for Willie to stop kicking at the wall.

  “All right," he finally says with a long exhale. "I've got an idea. Let's go."

  I'm scared to ask.

  Chapter Four

  "Why are we at Old Man LeRoy's house?" I ask.

  "You’ll see."

  I have a sinking suspicion I'm not going to like this.

  Here's what I know about Old Man LeRoy: he lives in a double-wide on the outskirts of town. His yard consists of dead grass, broken lawn chairs, sun-faded plastic flamingos, and his dirty brown Buick that has a hula girl on the dashboard. Per The Gazette, he's the one who ran over the mailbox
on Second Street last year. He's single, not sure if he's ever been married, and two months ago, he listed a golf cart in the classified ads, which didn't sell, obviously, because it's parked and rusting out front.

  Oh, and he can't drive.

  I follow Willie down a dirt driveway. The front hood of Old Man LeRoy's car is still smudged from where my body slid across. If I weren't so busy trying to convince a ninety-three-year-old dead man that he died of old age, I might be more upset about the accident.

  "Now what?" I ask. "I'm not getting a ride from him."

  Willie looks at me as if I'm being ridiculous. "I'd never let LeRoy drive me around. Dead or alive. We're going to use his car."

  "What? No, no, no, no." I retreat toward the main road.

  Willie appears in front of me. "That old man takes a three-hour nap every day. We'll borrow the car now and return it before he wakes up."

  "I draw the line at grand theft auto."

  "It's not theft if we return it. Look at it like this, he owes you one."

  "No."

  "He's a good friend of mine. We’ve known each other since grammar school. He'll understand."

  "No."

  "He'll never know."

  "No!" I step around him. This entire situation is bananas, and I'm done.

  "If we don't find out today how I died, then I'll be stuck here with you forever!" Willie hollers after me.

  I spin around and study the old man trapped in a thirty-something's body. In his tailored suit and black shoes that, despite the dusty road, are still shiny. He looks ready for a photo shoot. "You're bluffing," I say.

  "Am I?" He pulls the sleeve of his jacket up and reveals a watch. "Time is running out. This is our last option. Either get in the car or you get me for the rest of your life."

  Willie has me and he knows it. I can tell by the smug look on his face. Even if he is bluffing, and I suspect he is, I can't risk being stuck with him. The thought gives me indigestion. I drop my head into my hands and massage my temples. I wouldn't mind taking a three-hour nap as well.

  "Fine," I say with a relenting sigh. "Where are the keys?"

  "Good girl." Willie claps his hands and runs into the trailer, disappears, and returns a moment later with a triumphant smile.

  I'm not sure I'll ever get used to watching someone who looks so real walk through walls.

  "Good news," Willie says. "The door is unlocked, and the keys are right inside on a hook. LeRoy is sawing logs, so we have at least two hours."

  "And you're sure he won't wake up?"

  "I've known LeRoy my whole life. He’s my best friend. The man is as predictable as stale bread."

  I don't understand the analogy, but I go with it. I'd rather risk jail time than spend another day with Willie.

  As promised, LeRoy's door is unlocked. I step into his entryway, if you can call it that. I'm basically in his living room, and there's LeRoy, fewer than five feet away, lying back in a recliner, snoozing away. Old Man LeRoy looks like a shar-pei dog—wrinkles upon wrinkles upon wrinkles. It's no wonder he hit me. He probably couldn't see.

  The keys are on a hook by the door, and I snatch them up and exit as quietly as I entered.

  "Hot damn, she did it." Willie throws his arms up in the air as if I just scored a touchdown. "Let's beat feet."

  I don't know what that means exactly, but it dawns on me that there are two very real problems with Willie's plan.

  First, "Everyone knows Old Man LeRoy's car. Someone will definitely see me driving it through town."

  "I live by the lake. We can take the back road to get there. No one will notice."

  Easy for him to say, he's invisible.

  The second problem, "I've never driven a car before. I don't know how."

  I wait for Willie to stop cursing and kicking the ground.

  It takes a while.

  … Still waiting …

  Finally he runs his hands down his face and says, "Do you have a watch?"

  "Yes."

  "Set the timer for one and a half hours."

  I do as told.

  "Good. Now get in, and I'll teach you how to adult."

  This seems like a very bad idea.

  But I do it anyway and slide into the driver's seat. "What in the world is that awful smell?" I check the backseat to make sure there's no dead body back there. No body. Just moldy sandwiches and grease-stained bags from fast food restaurants. I spot a Wendy's wrapper crinkled on the floor. The Wendy's in Fernn Valley closed down three years ago. Gross.

  "LeRoy is a slob," Willie says as he settles into the passenger seat. "And has been since Gail died in eighty-nine."

  I pinch my nose. "Was Gail his wife?"

  "No. German shepherd." Willie tips his hat back and leans closer. "First you want to put that key into the—"

  "I know how to start a car," I cut him off. "I'm not a complete imbecile. I do watch movies." I shove the key into the … round key thing and turn it. Nothing happens.

  "You have to press the brake," Willie says.

  Oh, right. I put my foot on the brake and try again. The car turns on, and I feel a moment of pride, until I remember that I'm stealing an old man's car to run an errand for a ghost.

  * * *

  After a bit more instruction, we are on our way to Trucker. My hands hurt from clutching the steering wheel. The clank, clank, clank coming from under the hood is almost deafening, and there's an alarming burnt rubber smell coming from the air vents. I'm scared to push too hard on the gas pedal, convinced the car will explode along the curvy frontage road we're currently traveling on.

  Willie bounces his right leg and keeps checking his watch, even though I'm fairly certain it doesn't actually tell time anymore. "I drive faster than you, and I'm almost a hundred years old, woman."

  "Stop calling me woman."

  "Why? You are a woman. When I was your age, a woman was called a woman and that was that. People are too easily offended these days.”

  "When you were my age, Nazis occupied Germany and smoking was considered good for your health. I would appreciate it if you called me Zoe." I turn on the blinker.

  "The off-ramp isn't for another two miles, wo—" He adjusts his hat and takes a deep breath. "Person! Why are you using the blinker?"

  "Because I don't know how to drive!" I turn off the blinker and return my hands to the steering wheel. Maneuvering this land ark is more difficult than I anticipated, and my nerves aren't making anything any easier. All it will take is for one police officer to pull me over and I'm done—off to jail, or solitary confinement, or both.

  "How are you twenty-three years old and don't know how to drive?" Willie asks.

  "We can only afford the one car, and my parents drive me where I want to go.”

  "Speaking of crazy." He turns to face me and rests his elbow on the back of the seat. "Did they forget to cut the umbilical cord at birth?"

  "They're protective, that's all."

  "They made you weird."

  "You don't even know me or my parents."

  "They're suffocating. Don't you want to experience life? Get in the car and just drive. Backpack through Europe. Wake up in a beachside cabana in Tahiti. Fresh macarons in Paris …” his voice trails off, and he shifts in his seat. "I miss living already."

  In my periphery, I see him staring out the window with a distant look in his eyes. Perhaps this is why Willie came to me. It's my job to help him accept his death and peacefully transition to the next life.

  Except I have no idea how to do that. I'm not a psychologist. Nor am I particularly good with people—dead or alive, apparently. I wonder if there's a book at the library about how to help the deceased deal with death? I should look into that.

  In the meantime … "Willie, why do you think you came to me?"

  "I don’t know. One minute I'm alive, eating oatmeal and the next I'm watching you struggle through an interview for a job you're not qualified for."

  "It was an entry-level position," I say, not that it
matters, but still.

  "You dotted your I's on the application with swirls."

  "I was making it personal."

  "And you're sweet on that editor."

  "I am not," I say as convincingly as I can. "Anyway, this is not about me. This is about you. How can I help you deal with your death?"

  "Find out who killed me."

  I withhold a grunt and keep going. "Tell me more about yourself, Willie. How long have you lived in Trucker?”

  “Forty years.”

  “Where did you live before then?”

  Willie blows out a breath. “I was born in Fernn Valley. Moved to Houston after the war. Moved to Trucker when I retired,” he says in monotone.

  “Do you have kids?"

  "Had a vasectomy in fifty-five. Best decision I ever made—turn right!" He reaches for the steering wheel, but I've already turned the wheel so hard only two tires stay on the ground. The car swerves to the right … to the left … to the right. Willie has one hand on his hat and the other on the dashboard screaming at me to, "Pump the brakes!"

  I do as I’m told, and we spin around in two complete circles before coming to a stop. Willie floats through the door and does a walk around the car while I work through a panic attack.

  "Good news. No damage." Willie is back. "At least you're facing the right way. Two streets down, make a left, and I'll give you the gate code."

  My hands are white knuckled on the steering wheel, and I'm scared to blink.

  Willie snaps his fingers in front of my face, except they don't make the snap noise, which only makes the situation ten times worse. "Zoe?"

  I turn my head slowly.

  He gives me an encouraging smile. "Drive forward." He points. "That way."

  I nod and press the gas ever so lightly with my foot, and we inch forward. Eventually, we roll up to a tall iron gate with Lakeshore Estates engraved in the center in lovely script. Willie dictates the gate code, and I type it into the keypad. The gates part, and we're granted entrance. LeRoy's clunky old car couldn't be more out of place. Even the road looks expensive. There are no sidewalks or street lamps. Only houses that look more like hotels. We drive past mansion after mansion. Each one bigger than the next.