Ghosts I Have Been Read online

  “And you just as well leave your veil up. You’re spooky enough lookin’ without it.”

  There was hardly enough air in the privy to get my candle going again. The atmosphere was close and unpleasant. I was reminded of mummies buried upright in their coffins before I heard the sure sounds of a gang of boys trying to be quiet. I drew my veil down.

  The boys crashed through the undergrowth behind the privy. I hoped they didn’t mean to tip from the back and flatten the door to the ground before I could float out of it. But they only lingered back there, egging one another on. A good example of cowardice is boys in a bunch. I had an idea this was their first privy of the evening. And with any luck at all, their last.

  Giving the sides a shove or two, they circled around and went to work on the front. They began to rock my hiding place, but its posts were well sunk. It started to give, though, just as I pushed back the door and stepped out, nearly into the straining arms of Alexander Armsworth.

  The candle flickered and guttered between my white veil and his suddenly white face. His arms fell from the door jamb, and he let out the high whinny of a fire-crazed horse. Bub and Champ were at work on the far side of the door and missed my entrance. But they couldn’t miss Alexander. He keeled backwards and fell flat on the ground. “A HAUNT! I AM CURSED!” he screamed and lay on his back like a turned turtle, with his fists jammed into his eyes.

  Bub and Champ were transfixed by this behavior. So was Les Dawson, who was standing farther off, supervising the job. I moved beyond the shadow of the door, pulled my veil tight at my throat, and held the candle directly beneath my chin. “Ohhhh! Woe to all here,” I moaned in a far-off, cultivated voice, rather like that of our teacher, Miss Mae Spaulding. Bub and Champ gave me one look and ran directly into each other’s arms. Then they stumbled forward, sprawling over Alexander, who was still on his back in the weeds. The three rolled together like puppies. Being farther off, Les held his ground. I raised a ghostly finger and pointed directly at him.

  This moved him. Just as he wheeled in the direction of a high wood fence along the side of the property, Old Man Leverette reared up from behind him and let out another of his war whoops. It would have curdled milk and blood alike.

  Already traveling, Les took a kind of skip in the air. The three on the ground were scuttling crab fashion toward the fence themselves, but they flattened when they heard the war cry.

  Old Man Leverette’s whoop had not died away before he aimed his shotgun in the air and fired off one barrel of rock salt. People later reported hearing the explosion as far away as the town square. There was a flash of flame from the muzzle, and for some seconds rock salt spattered like hail over the backyard and privy roof.

  Les Dawson had hit the fence at his top speed by then, but crumpled down into a summer-squash vine, evidently thinking he was killed. In the next second Bub, Champ, and Alexander were on the fence, clinging to it a moment, and then over the top. Les, being gangly, made two tries at the fence top before he could heave himself over; he was sobbing aloud. For a long moment his backside was high in the air as he tried to calculate the drop on the far side of the fence. Temptation overcame Old Man Leverette.

  He grabbed up his shotgun, jammed the butt into his shoulder, and squeezed off the other barrel of rock salt. His large target was Les Dawson’s behind.

  Of all the screams and whoops that rent the air that night, Les’s was the loudest. He seemed to take flight from the top of the fence, like an aeroplane fueled by rock salt, and he fell in an arc on the far side, howling all the way to the ground.

  Old Man Leverette whooped again, very nearly helpless with laughter. His shotgun clattered to earth. He gasped and called out, “Well, Letty, I reckon we showed ’em. You, Letty! You hear me?”

  But I’d put out my candle by then and was making tracks toward home. I faded away behind a stand of dry hollyhocks, grinning as I went at the notion of Letty Shambaugh putting in such a night’s work.

  2

  THE EVENTS of that busy Halloween night cast a lengthier shadow than I bargained for. In the long run many lives were changed, mine among them. But I little knew this the next morning. There’s nothing like a night’s work well done to set you up for the next day. I headed off for school with a cup of black coffee in me by way of breakfast and an apple in my skirt pocket for lunch.

  As a rule I followed the streetcar tracks halfway to school, which is the long way around. Since I had to wear the same outfit in all weather, I would not parade myself down the best streets, like Fairview Avenue, lined with the large homes of such well-off old-timers as Miss Gertrude Dabney and, farther along, the Shambaughs. I have my pride just like anybody else. That morning, though, I trespassed across the Armsworths’ property.

  My success as a ghost had backfired on me in one way. I’d scared Alexander into believing he could see ghosts again, at least for a brief period. This would remind him of a time him and me had shared. But my disguise kept him from knowing who had set him gibbering with fear and showed up the thugs he was running with as a bunch of crybabies. Especially Les Dawson. I like to see credit given where credit is due. And if the credit’s due me, so much the better.

  Also, confession is good for the soul, as the poet says; though I’d have to catch Alexander before I could confess to him. It might take some while, but I was willing to wait. Still, with Armsworths on my mind, I made a shortcut across their territory.

  Beyond the Ghost Barn their place rose up in all its glory. Autumn-red clinging vines twined over their many porches and towers. The morning sun caught the stained glass of their windows. The Armsworth place is the third largest house in Bluff City, with a lawn befitting it.

  Drawn up to the side stood a new Ford automobile. This meant that Alexander’s big sister, Lucille, was paying an early morning call. She’s quite stout, so I guess she’d come around for a second breakfast. Lucille’s the new bride of the newspaperman, Lowell Seaforth, who was soon to figure big in my fortunes. The Ford automobile was her paw’s wedding present to the happy couple. Lucille Armsworth Seaforth was a well-known hazard around town all summer while learning to drive the Ford. She is headstrong but easily distracted, making her a poor candidate for a license.

  While she was teaching herself to drive, the Ford got away from her and mowed down a line of shrubs on the Carnegie Library lawn. Veering the wrong way, she gunned the Ford up the front walk, and it tried to mount the library steps, destroying two stone urns. During this, Lucille rose in the seat and screamed “Whoa!” to the Ford.

  Her paw paid all damages and said publicly that as to wedding presents, a set of silverware would have been a better bet.

  Just beyond the Ford was a big dining-room window. From it came the sounds of the family at their breakfast. The smell of frying bacon drifted out, making me dizzy. The voices of Lucille and Mrs. Armsworth were raised in conversation. I took the sound of knives and forks to be Alexander and his paw silently putting their breakfast away. A hired girl was at their beck and call. Some people live high up on the hog and no mistake.

  * * *

  News travels fast in a schoolyard. There was considerable buzzing about the strange events and gunfire of the night before. As usual everybody had their own version of the story nowhere near the truth. But various parts of their tales were right enough; it would only need one intelligent person to put the puzzle pieces together.

  Our grade at Horace Mann School was taught by the principal, Miss Mae Spaulding. She left nothing to chance, taking it on herself to whip us into shape before we moved across the road to the high school. And whip is a word you don’t want to use lightly with Miss Spaulding. Though slender as a wand and ladylike, she has an arm on her like a bartender.

  Les Dawson did not come to school till noon. I have an idea that his kin spent many hours picking rock salt out of him. A morning recess without Les was as good as Christmas for the smaller kids, for Les never missed a day of stealing their pennies and putting their lunch buckets in tre
es. When he did come to school, he was in a meaner frame of mind than usual. Alexander was subdued throughout the day. As to Bub Timmons and Champ Ferguson, I did not know, because they are across the road in the high school.

  During Geography I noticed a worrisome thing. Miss Spaulding was saying, “And who can name me two principal exports of Egypt?”

  Letty Shambaugh’s hand flew up as usual. “Please, Miss Spaulding, sisal and jute!”

  “Very good, Letty,” Miss Spaulding said, and expanded on the answer.

  I noticed that Les shot Letty a look. There was murder in his eye. It came to me that I’d passed myself off as Letty the night before. Old Man Leverette had called out her name just as the boys were encouraged over the fence. There is only one girl in town by the name of Letty. One is plenty.

  This muddled my thoughts. Like the rest of the girls, Letty is no friend of mine. She’s stuck-up and with very little cause, though her paw owns the Select Dry Goods Company. Letty is a walking advertisement for it. She has more shirtwaists, skirts, and shoes, all well fitting, than any five or six girls in school. She’s also the president of a club of girls she founded herself. I knew nothing of it except for its name, The Sunny Thoughts and Busy Fingers Sisterhood. Only later did I learn how poorly it was named. For none of them had enough to do to keep their thoughts sunny or their fingers busy.

  It looked like Les thought it was Letty who’d scattered his gang and caused him to be fired on. Anybody with common sense would know that Letty’s not that enterprising. Besides, her people never let her out at night, let alone Halloween. But if Les had common sense, he’d be graduated from the high school by now.

  Whatever he planned for Letty might bring her down a peg or two. On the other hand, Letty was innocent of this. And I wondered if it was fair that she should suffer. A small amount of suffering would surely do her no harm, I reasoned. I put this problem aside in favor of Miss Spaulding’s Egypt lecture.

  At afternoon recess Les pounced. Letty was in a swing being pushed by one of her club members. Boys have gangs and girls have clubs, but they are much the same. Letty held her small feet close together. The lace of her many petticoats riffled in the breeze. Up and down she swooped, with a girl behind her straining to keep up the momentum. Letty’s gold ringlets stood out from her round pink face, and her little rosebud mouth was pursed in pleasure. I was nearby, as I often am.

  Les suddenly loomed up, snarling like a dog. She was swinging right into his ugly face before she saw him. He grabbed hold of her feet, and Letty’s swing fell back without her.

  She hit the dirt under a tent of collapsing petticoats, the wind knocked out of her. Les dropped her feet and set upon her, growling, “I’ll larn ya,” and several other words. Letty’s half-smothered squeaks brought a ring of onlookers but no aid. Les flipped her over and rubbed her pink face in the dirt. Then he yanked off her enormous satin hair ribbon and ripped it to shreds. All the Sunny Thoughts and Busy Fingers girls squealed and wrung their hands.

  To add to the confusion, up pounded Bub Timmons and Champ Ferguson, even though nobody from the high school is allowed into our schoolyard, especially boys. They stood by, half satisfied and half uncertain. From the corner of my eye, I saw Alexander playing kick-the-can at the far end of the yard. He was well out of this.

  Right then my better nature took command of the rest of me. Les was rubbing Letty’s face into the playground, and her head seemed to be sinking lower into the earth. This might have ended in untimely death if I hadn’t pushed through the crowd and come up behind Les. The big bruiser could have felled me with one blow. But who knew better than me how tender his rear must be, pocked with rock salt as it was? I kicked him hard where it would be most instructive.

  He turned nearly inside out and yelled. But he let go of Letty. Then he was up in a crouch and wheeling my way. When he saw me with my thin legs braced and both small fists clenched, he broke into an evil smirk, though his eyes were wet with pain. Letty scrambled in the other direction. People said later that she took a few tottering steps and fell into a faint in the arms of her club. I’d saved Letty, but who would save me? I threw a few punches, but Les Dawson’s hands closed around my throat and the world went dark.

  Though I was only truly out for a moment, I remained where I sprawled. Somewhere nearby was the whistle and thwack of the paddle Miss Spaulding keeps for hard cases. Les was getting it again, and this time a systematic thrashing from Miss Spaulding’s own arm. My mind drifted off then, for I was nearer strangled than I knew.

  I come to in Miss Spaulding’s private office, stretched out on a cot. Letty Shambaugh was on another cot just opposite. I let my eyes flutter shut again. If you must be in a principal’s office at all, it’s better to be unconscious.

  But I had a glimpse of Letty still looking dead to the world. What a sight she was. Now you could have buried me up to my neck in hogmash and not done much violence to my bib and tucker. But Letty looked like the Wreck of the Hesperus. She was bright yellow with playground dirt, and her petticoat lace was hanging in tatters. Half her collar was missing, and her rosebud lips were gray. I sensed activity in the room and stayed quiet.

  Time had passed, for school was out and Letty’s mother had been sent for. Nobody thought to send for my mama, but that was just as well.

  Evidently Miss Spaulding was trying to prepare Mrs. Shambaugh for her first sight of Letty. “Everything is under control now,” Miss Spaulding was saying, “and I have thrashed the culprit soundly and expelled him from school.”

  “It seems to me,” came Mrs. Shambaugh’s voice, “that you’d have done better to expel him some while back. What Mr. Shambaugh will say when he—Saints in Heaven! Letty, honey, speak to me!”

  Mrs. Shambaugh must have got past Miss Spaulding for her first view of Letty. In my opinion Letty was fully conscious, but playing the role for all it was worth. I glimpsed her head turning from side to side. When her mother blocked my view, Letty burst into piteous tears.

  “Letty, precious, say something to Mommy!” Mrs. Shambaugh swooped down so that the furs hanging down her back swept across my nose. Letty had hysterics in earnest then, hiccuping and snuffling and carrying on. “Listen to me, Letty!” Mrs. Shambaugh yelled. “Can you move your arms and legs, and did that maniac of a boy get in under your skirts?”

  “Oh no, no, nothing like that,” Miss Spaulding moaned. “I checked her over myself.”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Shambaugh said bitterly, “you have been a tower of strength, Miss Spaulding, I have no doubt!” Mrs. Shambaugh continued on about the dangers lurking in a school run by such as Miss Spaulding.

  Never hearing a principal talked to like this, I forgot and left my eyes open. Clutching to Mrs. Shambaugh’s skirts was a small boy, Letty’s brother, who was dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy, though getting too big for it. He wore a sailor’s cap with ribbons and looked like he’d been carved out of lard.

  Mrs. Shambaugh scooped Letty up in both hands. She’s quite a large woman. She turned then and looked down at me over the head of Letty’s brother, who is named Newton. The office seemed littered with bodies. I returned her gaze with glazed eyes. “And who might this be? Do not tell me the savage struck twice!”

  Miss Spaulding cleared her throat. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. This is Blossom Culp, and the way I have it, she came to your daughter’s rescue. There is surely more to the story, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

  I believed Miss Spaulding and thought of Alexander. If she found out everything, his name would come up.

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. Shambaugh thundered. “Things have come to a pretty pass when two young girls can’t go out on recess without being beaten half to death and are left to defend themselves the best way they can! And look here at this poor child’s clothes. They are ruined too!”

  Here Mrs. Shambaugh was somewhat misguided. My clothes had been in a pretty ruinous state before Les worked me over. “I will have my husband send out a new outfit from
the store for this girl. She cannot go home looking like that! I would not like another mother seeing what I have seen!” Mrs. Shambaugh swept out then, cradling Letty, with Newton at her skirt-tails. “Though what Mr. Shambaugh will say, I do not know! Come along, Newton, and don’t dawdle.”

  When the door closed behind them, Miss Spaulding let out a sigh. Then she said, “All right, Blossom, start at the beginning, and do not omit a detail.”

  I omitted only a few details. Miss Spaulding drew her office chair up to my cot and stared holes in me. She wears pince-nez glasses that perch on the nose and connect on a chain to a button on the bosom. Miss Spaulding has no bosom, so the button was planted at random on her chest.

  The spectacles add years and dignity to her face, and she can look through you with them. She cares nothing for fiction. So I admitted most everything about dressing up as a ghost, and hiding in the privy, all to discourage Les Dawson’s mob from causing destruction.

  “This is all very interesting,” she interrupted, “but I fail to see how your nocturnal activities incited Les Dawson to set on Letty.”

  “Oh, that,” I replied. “Well, he seemed to confuse the two of us.”

  Miss Spaulding gave me a steady look. “Somehow I can’t picture that, Blossom.” So I had to own up to telling Old Man Leverette that I was Letty and how he called out her name in place of mine. I expected the worst from this. But Miss Spaulding’s mouth worked, and she looked away out the window. She seemed to be swallowing a smile.

  In any case, a delivery boy from the Select Dry Goods Company broke in on us about then, bearing a large box. My fingers faltered in getting through all the tissue paper. I’d never had a stitch of new clothes in my life. If it hadn’t been for the rummage sale at the Foursquare Tabernacle, I’d have been wrapped in newspaper. My entire wardrobe was not enough to wad a shotgun with.