Adrift on Ethereal Seas

Chapter 3

"No one's there, Reverend," one said. "The house is empty," said the other.

"That's impossible!" I shouted, wrestling myself free. "We all heard what just happened!"

"That's right, Reverend." Jason tried to calm me, although he sounded anything but calm. "We heard it . . . just like the Del Vecchios heard it . . . just like what we heard the last two nights."

"Something happened here right now!" I insisted. "You know it as well as I do."

"No, it didn't, Reverend. What you just heard happened last October."

"Are you telling me this is just an audio haunting? No visuals?"

"Uh, it's not even audio, Reverend," Chris whispered solemnly as he approached his equipment and hit rewind. "This is a recording of every sound in this house over the last ten minutes."

Winter hit play, and we held our collective breath in anticipation of those terrible sounds.

Minutes passed and nothing came over the speakers until my own words after the house fell silent, "What are you doing? They might still be alive!"

A stunned hush fell upon the room, which was broken finally by Bart. "Ain't that the stripper's n*****s," he muttered.

2

Conflicting impulses ripped my heart, eliciting immediate attention. Bart's extraordinary exclamation begged for exegesis and a determined committal to memory. As a pulpit quotation this blessed phrase was useless, of course, but its boldness and originality demanded that it be oft employed. For a moment I considered writing a story so I could plug it in to the narrative.

The alternative tug quickly overwhelmed the first, however, the one that gave my life meaning and roped me in to a generally unsatisfying profession. I had fallen into a theological maelstrom. Everything I had just heard insulted the foundation of my faith, a faith that held God to be merciful and loving, much more eager to forgive and reward than to condemn and punish, but a God who had apparently consigned a disturbed man and three innocent women to a fate much worse than death - that of reliving the horrific final seconds of life on this earth over and over again.

My heart stormed though a gamut of emotions and finally fastened on one - anger.

This simply could not be. Yet we all heard the same thing - two of the ghost hunters and the Del Vecchios more than once. If nothing else, it confirmed the promise of a life after death, but, if the fate of the Lewises was representative of it, the nature of that life was not something to long for.

Heaven, hope and loving kindness fizzled like a dying sparkler.

No. Until all other explanations were eliminated, I refused to accept this. In my mind's eye I lit another sparkler.

After an hour of highly animated conversation, we finally drifted back into uneasy sleep. The sun's morning rays seemed to cleanse our spirits like a mud-covered toddler in a warm bath.

After a silent breakfast of Honey Nut Cheerios, I excused myself to fetch a morning paper. This was more a ploy to kill some time rather than simply to escape my somber companions or immerse myself in mind-numbingly boring local news - boring, except for the story about a court injunction to silence some local church bells. I figured it was only polite to wait until mid-morning before visiting the neighbors. Given the pulse-pounding volume of last night's events, someone nearby must have heard something, and I aimed to find out if it was the same thing I did.

With the assistance of the Internet, which I accessed at the local library two blocks away, I was able to ascertain the names and ages of those living closest to the Lewis residence. My first visit was to a neighbor diagonally across the back yard.

Her name was Stella Montana. On entering her home, I was half expecting memorabilia from the age of burlesque, but was pleasantly surprised to see family portraits and that familiar rendition of the Last Supper hanging on her walls. Actually, it wasn't Stella who admitted me. It was her granddaughter. I recognized this immediately, because Stella was eighty-six years old and the young woman before me seemed to be of college age. For once, stating my profession seemed to disarm the other, and when I described the reason for my visit, as the Lewis' former minister, Linda Butler pulled open the door and cordially waved me into the house. I had to wait several minutes after Linda called for Stella to appear. Bent and brittle as she was, and relegated to a walker, Ms. Montana was quite good natured and charming, a servant of her church, she was quick to inform me, and a former Sunday school teacher.

"You came just in time, Pastor Finchley, she said, "This is my last day here. I'm moving into an assisted living facility this afternoon."

When I began to apologize for that unhappy news, she interrupted me. "Oh, not at all," she said. "This is a great relief and a long time coming. Now I won't have to fix my own meals and worry about immediate medical attention, and all this lovely space you see here won't go to waste."

I smiled and nodded in understanding. Many seniors do not take this radical change in life quite so calmly. When Linda emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with a teapot and cups, I felt transported to a forgotten era of slower living and warm hospitality.

Taking a sip of herbal tea, I repeated the reason for my visit, and was immediately disappointed and confused by Stella's response.

"No, I didn't hear anything. Although I must admit to being quite agitated last night, it wasn't because of any unusual sounds. One of the blessings of living here is that this is a very quiet neighborhood. I will miss that." She drifted off, possibly anticipating shouts of dementia and unprovoked moans that intrude upon the stillness of most "rest homes" I have visited. A loving caress from Linda brought Stella back to the moment.

"I remember Charly and Cyndi - that's what their mother called them - I thought it was so cute - I remember them coming to my door to trick or treat, one dressed as a princess and the other a hobo, and then they'd switch, you know, year by year - to keep things fair, I guess. Last Halloween was an especially sad one, after that . . . dreadful night. Lacey was always so pleasant - she came to visit me in the hospital - Mike was, too, occasionally . . . God! I can hear those awful sounds even now. I woke up last night thinking about them . . ."

Linda placed a gentle hand on Stella's arm, and I took that as my cue to leave. No sense upsetting the old gal any further before her big move.

She heard those "awful sounds" last October, but she heard nothing last night. Very strange.

Next, I visited the home of Iris and Irving Markowitz, also well into their senior years, who lived adjacent to the Lewises on the north side. Iris yanked open the door and prepared to let me have it, waiting just long enough to hear my introduction. Surprisingly, her plump, cherubic face softened into a warm smile. I say surprising because I never know how Jewish people will respond on hearing my profession. Most are pleasantly indifferent, some openly disdainful, and a few, like Iris and Irving, deferential. (P.S. I knew they were Jewish by the little Torah on the door jamb.) Iris, whose overly made-up face and brightly dyed red hair made her look like a toy doll, pulled me into the living room and practically slammed the door behind me.

It took several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. All the shades were drawn and a small television provided the only light in the room. Opposite it, leaning forward on a fraying sofa and wearing an oxygen mask was Irving Markowitz, a shockingly thin man who could have been a hundred years old, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt, black slacks and slippers. When Iris introduced me, he nodded and waved in greeting.

"Irving has lung cancer," Iris whispered. "He doesn't have much time."

Irving pulled off his mask and stifled a cough. "You can say it out loud, Peachy," he announced with unexpected strength. "It's not a secret. So what, I'm dying. Everybody dies. Isn't that right, Reverend?"

I took the seat where Iris motioned me with a sigh. "Yes, Irving that's right," I answered.

"Everybody gets something. Am I right . . . should I call you Reverend?"

"My friends all call me Walt, Irving."

"And my friends don't call me at all, Walt." He pressed the mask to his face and inhaled. "I mean you'd think I had something contagious. Even if I did, you can't catch it over the phone."

Iris took her place next to him. "Nobody knows what to say, Marko . . ."

"It's just cancer, Peachy. Cancer-schmancer. I'm not the only one who has it, you know." He looked at me for validation. "I mean there's colon cancer, bone cancer, brain cancer, skin cancer, pancreatic cancer, to name just a few. It's one of the most commonplace ailments in the world. But to my friends," he made the sign of quotation marks, "you'd think I had bubonic plague . . ."

"It's because you're dying, Marko . . ."

"Like I said, everybody dies, Peachy. That's the one thing we all have in common. Nobody outruns mortality. Am I right, Reverend . . . er, Walt?" Before I could answer, he added, "Although sometimes it catches us unfairly, like those pretty ladies next door."

Openly troubled now, Irving lost his breath and stopped talking. He pressed the mask to his face for more than a minute. Iris, or Peachy, continued his thought. "They were such lovely girls. The daughters used to come into our yard to play with Dipsy our dog - she died last spring . . ." Iris took a second to compose herself. The loss of a beloved pet and now the imminent passing of her husband must have weighed terribly on her heart. After a few seconds she bravely continued. "Sometimes they'd bring her treats, and once, when I told them it was Dipsy's birthday, they begged their mom Lacey to buy a chew toy, so they could give Dipsy a present . . ." This time the tears did flow, but she quickly brushed them away. "What could make a man do that to his family and then to himself? What did it accomplish?"

"People get sick in the mind, too," Irving observed.

"And in the spirit," I added, wondering immediately if they would find this concept offensive. But Iris and Irving nodded in thoughtful agreement.

"When I heard his car screech to a halt in front of their house, I knew something bad was about to happen . . . the way he slammed that door. He must have left the front door open because we could hear everything, right up to the . . . shots." Irving put his arms around Iris' shoulders and they both wept. Although hundreds of people have cried in front of me, I felt their grief deeply and fought the urge to join them.

When I finally learned that they, too, heard nothing the night before, I struggled to conceal my perplexity, The purpose of my visit now fulfilled, I stood to take my leave. Iris rose with me, but before heading to the door, I made one last offer. "Irving, I'd be pleased to be your friend, if you want me."

He looked up, met my eyes for the first time, and nodded. "I'd be honored, Walt," he said.

"I will pray for you both."

When Iris closed the door behind me, I knew I had seen the last of Irving Markowitz. That finality was driven home when an ambulance pulled up outside their house later that afternoon. I attended his funeral two days later.