Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 12 Read Online Free Page A

can't let go.’ Flicking the channels, stopping at infomercials, the Iron Chef , rap videos—stopping for anything that will inject a little noise into the room. ‘Are your folks still looking for you? Do you need someone to tell them that you've, um, bought your ticket? Are they dead, too, but you don't know where to find them? Are you waiting in a ditch somewhere, waiting for a proper burial? Or are you in a shallow grave, broken and . . . and alone ?'
    "The guy spends a lot of nights like that, flicking the channels, petting the dog and asking questions. Sometimes he goes for hours without even thinking about it, the questions pouring out of his mouth like rain out of a downspout. Other times the questions come as slow and hard as passing a kidney stone. A lot of the time he cries, thinking about the boy's corpse, cold and alone and forgotten, trapped in a junkyard fridge, dumped at the bottom of a ravine, stuffed into a hot, dry crawlspace.
    "'Are you sad? Are you lost? Were you wronged? Do you have a message?'
    "But the kid just sits there, eyes down, petting the dog. Until, one night, the kid finally turns to the guy and says: ‘Jesus, mister, shut up. Can't you just shut up and leave me alone.'
    "The guy is flabbergasted.
    "'When did you start hearing me?'
    "'I always heard you. I don't want nuthin'. Shut up.'
    "'But, what can I—how can I make you go away?’ The guy leans forward, not breathing, not even thinking. Just waiting."
    He turned to me, held me in his gaze, “And the kid tells him: ‘You can't.’”
    We sat there, staring at each other, and I waited for him to go on. But he didn't. He turned around, looking into the crowd, and picked up his gloves as if to go.
    I almost reached out and grabbed him. Almost. “Wait,” I was nearly yelling. “What kinda ghost story is this?"
    He glanced over his shoulder. “It's a true one, Pops."
    "That's the end?"
    "Yeah, that's it. Stick a fork in me, I'm done."
    "You can't do that! Stories don't end that way—the ghost has got to want something, and then the guy—"
    "Listen,” he said, sitting back down, “I already told you: this isn't a fake ghost story, this isn't a campfire ghost story. This is a true ghost story."
    I sputtered, “But—"
    "Danny Boy, don't ‘but’ me. Those ghost stories you always hear, those are a load of crap. In real life, it isn't like folks wander the earth on some big ole quest. I mean, come on ."
    "But, then why'd the kid come back? What'd he want? "
    "He didn't want nuthin',” the kid snapped, “I mean, what do you want right now? Why are you talking to me? Why'd the beagle bay and weep over being alone? We're just two guys sitting at a bar, taking advantage of the Happy Hour Specials. You don't know me from Adam, I don't know you from Cain. Just two guys, but we're talking, right? We're doing what people do, we're passing the time together, we're pushing away the dark and cold, the Alone, just like those old Vikings in their longhouses, with the face-freezing blast knocking at the walls, with monsters skulking in under the clouds to tear them apart. That's what people do: we clump together to chase away the cold of being alone."
    He was so angry —it was scary. And, as I looked at him, something in his face changed, hardened , and I knew that he knew that I didn't believe him, didn't believe him about any of it.
    "Touch me,” he said.
    "What?"
    " Touch me. "
    "Listen, fella, I don't know who you are—"
    "Jesus! I'm not asking you to grab my johnson, Dan! Just here, just touch my hand."
    "Son, I don't—"
    "Touch it, touch my hand, you old puss. It's my hand, it's nothing. Touch it."
    "Fine,” I reached out and grabbed him, awkwardly, around the right hand, “There. Happy?” And my God, it was cold.
    He didn't answer, just looked at me, watching.
    "So what? So your hand's cold. My kid brother, he had hands and feet as cold as blocks of ice, even in the summer. Just bad circulation."
    "Yeah, OK. Touch me here then, on