As I shucked my jeans, I tried to convince myself that being almost naked—in nothing but my boxer briefs—wasn’t much worse than going to the pool or the lake. But it just wasn’t the same.
Time to speak up or I’d lose the opportunity, because it certainly wasn’t normal for me to give myself silent pep talks in the bathroom. Except I had no idea how to begin a polite conversation with this woman. A shame Clarence and I hadn’t rehearsed the “what to say” part of this plan.
“Ah, Ginny?”
The still, humid air in the bathroom rippled with what felt like a breeze. That had to be her.
“Ginny, I just had a few questions for you.” I heard a feminine gasp and quickly said, “It won’t take long, I promise, but it’s important.”
The silence in the small room felt heavy. Then a second stirring of air, and I suspected, though couldn’t be certain, that I was alone.
“Wait a second,” I called out.
“She’s doing a runner,” Clarence said from the other side of the door.
My only hope now was that she hadn’t immediately left the house. I paused long enough to pull on my jeans before joining Clarence in my bedroom. I knew this was a terrible plan. Why had I listened to that deranged feline?
The deranged feline who was lounging on my pillow while cleaning his nether regions.
The book I was currently reading, the one I’d picked up in an attempt to moderate my emotions when dealing with Clarence, mentioned the creation of boundaries and clearly communicating those boundaries. I don’t believe the author could possibly have imagined someone like Clarence, and I was beginning to doubt her advice. Violence seemed more appealing with each passing day I spent in his proximity.
One look at my face, and he jumped off and trotted down the hall. He called over his shoulder, “This way, Romeo.”
I jogged to catch up.
“What did you say to her?” he asked. “She booked it out of there like her wispy butt was on fire.”
Trotting after him, I said, “Nothing offensive. Maybe it was just a terrible idea. Maybe you should have asked for her help, since you know her.”
“Here’s the thing. She’s a little temperamental, and—”
The sound of glass breaking in the kitchen cut Clarence off and had me stopping in my tracks. It looked like our ghostly visitor had stuck around inside the house after all.
“Uh-oh.” Clarence’s fluffy rear disappeared around the corner to the living room. “You might have pissed her off, boss.”
“How? I said maybe a dozen words to her.”
Another loud crash preceded Clarence’s disembodied response. “Seems that was enough.”
When I rounded the corner and got a good look into the kitchen, I couldn’t believe it. She was smashing my condiments on the concrete floor. The refrigerator door hung open and a jar of pickles floated in the air.
The crashing of glass followed by the spray of pickle juice had me backing quietly out of the kitchen. “Clarence, is she saying anything?”
Clarence was frozen near the entry to the kitchen and didn’t respond.
“Ginny, I’m very sorry for any misunderstanding.” Though I wasn’t. She was a crazy woman. But an apology seemed a sensible sentiment to voice.
A small jar of mayo floated into the air, but this time she didn’t smash it on the floor.
Clarence’s girly squeal at the near miss when it shattered against the wall behind him would have been entertaining under other circumstances, but my kitchen was starting to look like a food fight gone horribly wrong.
“You don’t want to hurt Clarence, Ginny.”
Don’t I?
Finally, a response . . . except my brain was scrambling to find a reasonable reply. A difficult task, since I frequently wanted to clock Clarence myself. “I know he’s a pain—”
A jar of jam landed a few inches closer to Clarence. The bright red goo that splattered on his fur looked a little too like blood.
“Ginny, wait just a second. He’s a pain, but he has good intentions.” Probably. Maybe.
The rat, he snitched. You wanna squeal, little rat? How about this?
A glass pint of my favorite local milk—un-homogenized and only sold at one farmers market in town—smashed into the wall behind Clarence. Man, I liked that milk.
A glass jar of Dijon mustard floated out of the fridge.
“Ah, Clarence, it’s probably a good time to retreat, don’t you think?”
“Can’t.” He still hadn’t moved a muscle.
He moves, and I’ll smash his little rat brains into the wall.
This was going too far. Ginny had serious anger issues in addition to her unsavory peeping predilections. Either she’d been a nut job as a human, or she was going off as a ghost. Becoming a ghost didn’t make you angry or violent. Maybe frustrated if you lost some functionality, and that could definitely happen. Case in point, Bobby. But this much anger was either there to begin with, or Ginny wasn’t a particularly fresh specimen and she was losing it.
Just what we needed, two violent crazies in the neighborhood.
There was no subtle way to ask, so I dropped the bomb. “How long have you been a ghost, Ginny?”
The French mustard that she’d pulled from the fridge fell to the ground. I flinched then relaxed slightly when the plastic container bounced.
I’m not crazy.
A quick look around my kitchen said otherwise. “Okay, then tell me how long.”
A while . . . but I’m still all here. You know, as much as I ever was.
“Yeah?” Definite pre-death anger issues. “That’s good news. So what’s got you so upset?”
Ginny flickered into a semi-solid state in front of the open fridge. Semi-solid, several steps up from transparent, meant she was a powerful ghost. And if her clothes, makeup, and hair were anything to go by, she was original to the neighborhood, circa late seventies.
Her long, blonde hair fluttered as if moved by a breeze, and she pointed a finger at Clarence. “He promised me.”
“Ginny, sweetheart, I didn’t have a choice.” Clarence was feeling braver. Maybe it
