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“Com’on, Jane,” Richie yelled. “Com’on or I’ll beat you to the beach again!” He was laughing hysterically even as he ran, his towel flagging behind him like a super hero’s cape. I don’t know how he did it. I had enough trouble just keeping up and keeping my lungs pumping. He always beat me to the beach. But I didn’t mind that the least bit.
“You’re just jealous that I get to wear heels,” I answered, as our feet paddled through the first flat of that horribly hot sand. And no, of course, I wasn’t wearing heels.
“Janie! Sallersby! Is so pretty! She has to pee!” Richie cooed.
“If my Dad heard you yellin’ that, why, you’d be on the next train to trouble!”
And so it went, Richie and me spent the day building sand mountains and tearing them down. We fought with waves that always got the better of us. Our skin went pruney with ocean water; our noses burned from the salt. And we laughed the afternoon into evening.
For the most part, we had the beach to ourselves. We had a special little spot. It was hidden on the north side by a patch of jagged, toothy rocks. It was hidden on the south side by a clump of intrepid, brushy bushes. Our lick of beach — we found out only later that it wasn’t only ours — wasn’t very big, maybe a hundred feet across, but it was enough. Yes, I suppose it was more than enough.
“You believe in,” Richie started, “well, um, strange occurrences?” The letter “o” in “occurrences” had been drawn out and rounded. The whole word sounded like “O-cure-en-says.”
I laughed at the question. After spending a whole day laughing, the face gets used to that position. “I believe that you are strange, Richie Callahan.”
Richie frowned. “I bet you would. But that’s not what I mean, Jane. I mean, do you believe in…” His face contorted into sort of a spitting scrunch. “Ghosts? I mean, ghosts and things like that.”
“Sure, I do, Richie,” I said. “That wasn’t too bad a question. Why didn’t you just ask it? For a second there I thought you were gonna ask me to kiss you!”
Richie blushed, his cheeks glowing like hot embers.
“Sure, I believe in ghosts. In fact, my Dad heard one outside just yesterday,” I said.
Now Richie’s ruddy complexion snapped into drawn-back, pasty-white surprise.
“Dad went out onto our porch and heard this far-off scratching sound. You know, almost like the sound of the radio when it’s not tuned just right. He was so scared. I was, too. You know what it was?”
Richie shook his head, digging his fingers into the cooling sand for support.
“Turns out a worm had died on our sidewalk. And the worm’s otherworldly being came back to take its revenge on the cement!”
I burst out laughing. Richie didn’t laugh, though. His eyes grew all tight and squinty. And he brandished a finger at me.
“Oh, geez. I hate it when you make fun! I hate it!”
“I know,” I squeaked through the gusts of laughter. “And I love you for it, Richie. You know I do.”
“Get out of here! Jeepers to Jesus, have you kids lost your minds?” The voice slid into my ears as if from the belly of the humid air. I had no idea what the strange man was talking about. “Why just yesterday — ” The young man cut himself off. “And now today you’re already — ” Again, he cut himself off. It was the oddest thing. “Get on home now, before your parents find you here!”
I didn’t realize until later what the connection was. But looking back, I think that Richie knew. Yes, I think he knew right away. And we didn’t go swimming at that spot for the rest of the summer.
Only later that evening, when he was walking me back home, did I think it strange that he should get all riled up like that about ghosts. Maybe it was just one too many comic books, I told myself. But what a strange question. Why would he ask?
Do you believe in ghosts?
About Tony Dvorak
