The Complete Coffee and Ghosts

2. Giving Up The Ghosts-5

We’ve returned to Lasting Rest Mausoleum. Autumn chills the air. Although I’ve pulled on a pair of over-the-knee stockings, the strip of flesh between the wool and the bandages breaks out in goose bumps. But my feet are toasty in leather hiking boots, the rest of me in a leather jacket.

I’ve spent the entire drive here ignoring glances from Malcolm, but now in the parking lot, I spit out an annoyed, “What?”

“You look—” he begins.

“Like you’ve walked out of his dreams, my dear.”

It’s the voice from the phone, but where it comes from, and how it seems to echo both in my head and all around us, I can’t tell. It is yet another thing that defies logic and physics, like the floating bed sheet of the ghost from earlier.

“Is this what you meant by harassment?” I whisper. “He made it ... personal?”

Malcolm’s face contorts. He gives me one quick nod.

“I’m sorry.” I mean it, too. I suspect this first volley is merely a hint of what his brother can deliver.

The world around us has gone quiet. A breeze flutters my skirt, but I don’t hear the wind. No birds sing. It is nearly as quiet as I’m sure the inside of the mausoleum is. But this is where we need to be, if only because there are no ghosts here. My grandmother isn’t here. At least, I don’t sense her. Would she face off against this ghost eater if she thought he might hurt me?

I know the answer and decide not to think about it, not now.

“Why are we here again?” Malcolm asks.

“Because this is where it started, because when you have so many different people inside you, you probably need a quiet place. Isn’t that right, Nigel?”

Silence answers me. Malcolm eyes me. I want to protest that no, I have not suddenly lost my mind. Instead, I say:

“Let’s set up the camp stove.”

We are outside, in the parking lot. If someone protests, we can point out that there isn’t a sign that states: No brewing coffee. Or tea, for that matter. Malcolm sets up the stove on the tailgate of my truck. I unpack the percolator and the Kona blend. A job like this, with an untold number of ghosts? Well, we need the good stuff.

But his hands move slowly. His gaze darts to the bandages on my thighs. At last, he drops any pretext of starting the stove.

“I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t see you hurt again.”

“I won’t be hurt.”

He turns and c***s his head at me.

“How about, I probably won’t be hurt. I’ll jump out of the way. We know what to expect.”

“That’s just it, Katy. You don’t know him. I do. And he’ll go to any lengths—”

“Ah, poor baby brother.” The strange voice is back. “Always trying to play knight in shining armor. It’s too bad your damsel in distress doesn’t want to be rescued.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, since the metallic words send Malcolm into a frenzy of activity, and soon the camp stove is pumping propane and heat into the air. I set the percolator on it, and the aroma of coffee joins the heat. Then I pull three more percolators from the front seat of the truck.

Malcolm scowls at the sight. “Katy, what the—?”

“How many years has your brother been swallowing ghosts?”

His mouth draws into a thin, hard line. “I’m not certain. At least three, maybe more.”

I expect that strange, metallic voice to cackle, but all is still. “That’s a lot of ghosts, and they’re going to want some coffee.”

Malcolm blinks. “Or possibly some tea.”

“Or possibly some tea,” I echo. I want to hug him, but I’m not certain I should. That might only give Nigel more ammunition, and Malcolm is already skittish.

Wouldn’t I be? I scan the parking lot. If we can hear him, his brother must be close. “All those ghosts,” I say. “Do you think that helps him throw his voice?”

“Yes, actually, it does.”

I jump and whirl around, but no one is behind me. Malcolm stands next to the tailgate, clutching a samovar, one he’ll use to brew tea.

“Oh, you’re clever,” I say. “Isn’t he clever, Malcolm?”

Malcolm stares as if I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps I have. “But there’s a difference between clever and smart, and you’re not being very smart.”

A howl of protest goes up, but it’s all air and golden leaves and little more.

“Because it isn’t very smart to swallow ghosts.” When there’s no response, I continue. “How do you keep them all in check? Each one wants something, right? How do you manage? How do you keep them from leaving?” I return to the tailgate and the camp stove.

There, Malcolm sets out the cups. I pour. He adds sugar. I add cream. We work like my grandmother and I used to, our movements like a perfectly choreographed dance routine. I smile at him. Worry crinkles the lines around his eyes, but he gives me a small smile in return.

Scented steam fills the air. The parking lot is thick with the aroma, and combined with the cool autumn day, this could almost be paradise, or at least, a version of it. Barring Lasting Rest Mausoleum looming over everything, of course.

A cry rends the quiet, followed by a choking sound.

“They want out, don’t they?” I say. I get no response.

“Katy, look!” Malcolm points, then reaches for one of our Tupperware containers.

Above one of the cups of coffee, something swirls. It’s a puny thing, hardly more than a sprite, but its presence tinges the air, makes it glimmer in a way steam alone can’t. Malcolm traps it easily in the container. The thing doesn’t even put up a fight, but merely sinks to the bottom as if it needs a good rest.

He peers at the container and then at me. “It’s exhausted.”

I nod.

“Ghosts get tired?”

I shrug. “Maybe from being inside someone else, with so many others?”

Maybe. And maybe it simply doesn’t matter, not when a second, third, and fourth swirl above two cups of coffee and one of tea. We trap them, one by one, and place the containers in the back of my truck.

The stillness catches us off guard. We’ve been so busy catching ghosts that only now do I notice that the air is stale. The steam sinks into the cups as if it has acquired weight. The world is silent and devoid of everything—smells, sounds. I inch closer to Malcolm, but even his Ivory soap and nutmeg scent eludes me.

“It’s like the calm before the storm,” I say.

He nods toward my truck, not so much at it as the space beneath it. He taps his fingers against his thigh, a countdown.

Three … two … one.

We both dive beneath the tailgate. The asphalt tears at my stockings, scrapes my bare skin. Malcolm tugs me close while around the truck, coffee and tea rain down. It’s a storm and it’s unrelenting. The laugh that follows rings hollow and makes my heart squeeze tight.

“Bravo, bravo. But did you really think coffee would work?” That metallic voice is triumphant.

Malcolm eyes me. I’m afraid my expression must convey it all: yes, I really did think coffee would work.

“The ghosts are exhausted,” I whisper. “They really want to leave. They need a reason to break free.”

That’s when I feel the familiar and icy caress against my cheek. She must swoop in and nudge Malcolm as well, for his eyes go wide.

“Katy, that’s not—”

“It is,” I say. “That’s my grandmother.”

She continues to swoop and nudge, as if she could push me from beneath the truck. I flip over and low crawl my way from its shelter. I roll and miss most of the larger coffee puddles. They’ve lost all their scent, and the air above them is cold and stale, but as my grandmother whirls around the truck, a glimmer returns to the day.

Somewhere in the far-off tree line, a howl reverberates.

“More coffee,” I say. “And tea.”

Malcolm fires up the camp stove. I measure out the grounds. In the back of the truck, my grandmother swoops around the Tupperware containers, the ones with occupants. The ghosts rattle, then sink, rattle, sink. She darts back and forth before streaming across the parking lot. I catch the barest glimmer of her near the tree line.

I grip Malcolm’s wrist. “She’s using herself as bait.”

His face is stricken. He shakes me off, then, before I can say or do anything, he bolts across the parking lot, toward the tree line, his brother, and the ghost of my grandmother.