Barnes and Noble’s Best Ghost Stories In The World for $7.98 is not a bad collection, especially with a 30% discount, and that’s what I read before bed that night. Then I went over to Marieanne’s house to have dinner with her family. They had me wait in the living room while they finished cooking, but I got bored and lonely in there so I joined them in the kitchen. I saw Marieanne right away; as I entered, she slid onto a settee in the dining room and looked right at me. I was overjoyed to see her again, because I never got to say goodbye. As soon as I caught sight of her, I smiled and waved and started telling her how sorry I was and what a shock it had been. She interrupted and said “You’re turning it into something about you but it’s all about me!” I shut up and listened to her, because she was right, of course.
Marieanne was one of the few of us older women among the crew hired to open and run the bookstore, and also a breast cancer survivor. She was put in charge of the children’s department and was also a key figure in the union movement. Not long before her death she had helped me when I was desperate, and later we had enjoyed morning coffee in her sunny dining room, talking and admiring her cats. Then she croaked, and was apparently still in a snit about it. Her husband and sons hadn’t wanted me to come into the kitchen because they didn’t want Marieanne to interfere with dinner. No one had seen her, but things kept happening.
I was more interested in Marieanne than her family or dinner, and was determined to have a good talk with her given the opportunity. It wasn’t as if we were going to get to hold that garage sale we had been planning on, after all. If she wanted to vent, I would be happy to listen – and, as our conversation progressed, I did mainly that,. Marieanne was clearly very upset. Ostensibly this was because of how her family reacted to her death; they were stupid and disregarded her wishes (which I thought a little unfair). She was also still very angry with her husband, with whom she had not been on happy terms while alive. This was apparent not so much from what she said as from the way she kept following him as he moved around the room, trying to jostle or block him. If she could jostle him, he would jerk suddenly or drop what he was holding. If she blocked him, he’d act as if he had to force his way though an invisible resistance. Each time, he would say something cynical like “Old Marieanne’s acting up again!” or “Marieanne must be having an opinion about something!” We ignored him and kept talking.
Frankly, I was a little disturbed at how violent Marieanne was getting. Part of her frustration seemed to be provoked by the fact that she couldn’t really get satisfaction from taking out her frustrations. If she kept up at this rate she’d be little better than a poltergeist. I suppose that’s when I mentioned God the first time. I couldn’t remember if we had ever discussed religion, and Marieanne can be very stubborn, so I was very neutral and just said something like “Have you ever considered rejoining God?” At first she just kept up with her string of invisible tackles, accompanied by some story about her sons being inconsiderate in not realizing she hadn’t been pointing at the cabinet but the book inside of it. I could see this was getting her nowhere worthwhile so I interrupted again, this time saying something like, “Well, I’d like to invite you to accept Jesus Christ the Lord as your Savior” (which, believe you me, you will not find me saying to anyone anywhere outside of dreams). People who know Marieanne know that often her ranting and stubbornness is just a show, and that underneath she’s a listening, reasonable being. I could see that I had made a tiny dent in her awareness, but then she started to pummel her husband (or try to) again. And we all know that ghosts are not, after all, the most rational of people in the world. So I repeated for the third time, “It’s just that in my experience, God and Christ are waiting to welcome you . . .”
Marieanne started to walk into the kitchen, fell down on the floor and started to disappear. Without turning around from the sink her husband said sardonically, “Marieanne’s finally leaving.” Her body started to dissolve and then it turned into a half-empty pack of turkey bologna. I fell to my knees beside it because even though I couldn’t feel any presence I knew it was a sacred moment. I put my hands together to pray, and asked God and Christ to take charge of her soul. I asked Joan and Maria to welcome her too, because they were the ones she and I had talked about not long ago, and then added Charles because I tend to forget him. I don’t think I asked Nemo, but what’s the use in asking a cat to do anything anyway?. The bologna package slowly disappeared as I prayed. When the last trace of it was gone and no spirits lingered I was exhausted and asked the family if they would mind terribly if I didn’t stay for dinner and just went home. They were understanding. I went in the living room to get my shoes. As I was putting them on one of the kids came in carrying a lovely blue kitten which she offered to me as a thank-you present. I regretfully declined because I was already taking care of some strays who might be spooked by a new kitten. Then the alarm went off.
Then I was a work when a short stout wrinkle-faced old lady dressed all in white with white white hair came up to the customer service desk to ask where the Arctic section was. She showed me a list of books she wanted and I saw Barry Lopez so I showed her the Nature Writing section. On the way there I warned her that if it was exploration books she wanted, Shackleton and suchlike, that would be in History. She told me that Shackleton was South Pole. I felt stupid but she blew me a kiss.
She came back to the desk two more times, once to ask for books about finding Polar Bears and once to ask me to show her to the Exploration section. I wanted to warn her about polar bears that aren’t there, but I didn’t, and I forgot to mention the penguins’ eggs. But she probably already knew, because each time before she left she blew me a kiss.
S. Johnson, March 20, 2004