Day Twenty-two

"What the hell is this!" popped the old man. He stormed up out of his seat and zipped around the sofa, his wiry face twisted in a drunken mania. "What the hell do you think you're playing at boy?" He came directly at me, but Woody stood in front of me and shielded me with his body. It didn't make a difference. His father's frail limbs easily pushed Woody aside and before I knew it I was in his tight grip, his nose hairs threatening to puncture my face. "You don't get the right to bring that up in this house! Do you understand?!" His breath reeked so badly I held my breath. "Now, you take your little nigger ass and get the HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!" He pushed me back into the door with amazing strength. I looked over at Woody and realized all the times I thought I'd seen him scared, I hadn't. The face of fear was masked behind cold grey eyes that were tearing up in the face of the only family he had. That didn't stop him, however, from having the courage to confront him.

"YOU DON'T GET THE RIGHT TO TOUCH MY FRIENDS!" he yelled. And then he pushed his father and they struggled until his father punched him across the face. Woody may have been strong, but he was only fourteen and was nothing compared to his father who towered over 6 feet tall. He went flying over the sofa. I stood with my back to the door, petrified. The little blonde boy watched intently from the sofa, his little hands gripped onto the back edge of the torn seat, his mouth threatening to unleash his ocean of tears at any moment. Before Woody could even get up, his father was at him again.

"You don't have no goddamn friends, boy! Cause you're a freak! You're a goddamn freak of nature! You always have been and always will be!"

"SHUT UP!" he cried.

"What the hell have you been telling people? Huh! What the hell you been out there saying? What lies are you spreading now?"

"I ain't said nothing!"

"DON'T YOU LIE TO ME!" His father grabbed Woody by the hair and dragged him up to his feet. My friend grimaced in pain and was helpless to do anything about it. "What the hell did you tell this sissy boy?"

"Mr. Harris, he ain't told me nothing, I swear! I don't even know what you're talking about!" He threw Woody down to the floor and approached me, but not in rage this time. His empty eyes were suddenly full and his voice came out in strange eruptions. He was choked up.

"You're talking about my boy! You're talking about my son! And what I want to know right fucking now, is what the hell you know about it!" The noise from the TV sounded like the countdown before an explosion. I didn't know what this mad man would do to me if I didn't answer him, so I looked over at the frightening child and answered quite simply.

"I know he drowned ... and that's about all I know." Nothing moved except the shadows in the room from the television. He stood there, his chest heaving heavily up and down. Then, finally,

"Get out."

"Ok," I said. I looked over at Woody as I opened the door and prayed he would follow me. God heard me that day because he jumped up and grabbed his bag, but before he could get to the door, his father grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. Woody struggled to break free.

"Let go of me!"

But the more he struggled, the more useless it was.

"Did you tell your nigger friend how he died, boy? Did ya!"

"Stop it!"

"Did you tell him you killed him!" Woody reached up and smacked his father, which was not the wisest move. He recognized this immediately, but there was nothing to be done. His father's big hands circled around Woody's neck and Woody couldn't breathe.

"It should have been you! It SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU! You worthless piece of shit! You been a curse to me from the day you were fucking born. You and your fucking whore of a mother!"

"STOP IT!" I yelled. "STOP!" I ran over and tried to pull him off of Woody but he only reached around and slapped me down. I hit the floor with a thud, but it was enough to give Woody a chance to breathe and escape his grip. He ran to the kitchen but his father pulled him back. I jumped up again but that high pitched shriek stopped me dead. The water threw me back down and it stung like cold bee stings. The boy was standing there, his horrendous mouth open, and the water rushed out like never before. Woody and his father continued their struggle, oblivious to everything. I couldn't get up, the water was ferocious and pulling me under.

"HELP!" I yelled. His father looked back at me and I'm not sure what I must have looked like, gagging on the floor with my legs and arms being wisked about.

It looked like his father said, "What the hell?" I saw him staring at me, puzzled, with his mouth moving, only I couldn't hear him. That shriek was threatening to make me deaf. The icy water was invading my body through my nose and my mouth and my ears. I thought I was going to die. The water circle around the drunk man's thighs, but he stood there as if I were crazy. Suddenly I saw Woody running through the water. He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder and made a run for the front door. He grabbed his bag which went floating by him on a wave and he threw us into the bitter frost of the evening air. The shrieking stop, but Woody didn't stop running. He slipped on the very ice he had told me to be careful and we both hit the wood and fell down to the cold concrete. My jaw hit the ground last with a CRACK!

"OWWWW!" I screamed. At least the shrieking had stopped. The water was gone and I was amazingly dry.

"Come on," Woody said, helping me up. "Let's go!" I got up and we started to run. I looked back and I saw his father, lost in his own doorway, watching us go.

We ran until my legs could carry me no farther. I had to stop and cough. We were far enough away from the house now that his father wasn't a threat, unless he got behind the wheel of a car. Then he would have been a threat to all that crossed his path.

Woody came up to me, panting for air, and patted me on the back.

"You all right?"

"Fine," I coughed. We collapsed on the ground. There was no one else out. We had the entire neighborhood to ourselves. And it was still a three and a half mile hike to my grandmothers. I longed for the warmth of her welcome.

I looked over at my friend and he looked frozen. The tears made icycles at the corner of his eyes and the snot had smeared and turned to an icy stain upon his upper lip. He had himself a shiner on his cheek where his father had punched him. It was in the beginning stages, but it would be black and blue by nightfall.

Did I dare ask? He had already been through so much. I couldn't put him through anymore at the moment even though I had a million and one questions I was dying to ask him racing around my scattered mind.

He gazed at me, his breathing returning to normal, and said, "I'm sorry."

"Me too." I held out my hand and he took it. We walked together and made it to my grandmothers only an hour into the moonlight.

Day Twenty-one

His bedroom, in stark comparison to the rest of the house, was only a little messy and just a bit stale smelling. The dirty clothes littered the room as they would any normal teenager's room. He had an open centerfold magazine by his bed that he quickly snagged and put away. My mind raced at the thought of what he did with a magazine like that. He went to his dresser drawers and started throwing clothes into his book bag as if he was in a mad rush.

Wanting to break the silence, I asked, "what's your father's name?"

Without stopping for a moment he answered, "Asshole."

"No, really."

"I'm serious," he said as he moved over to his closet.

"Well, since you're a third, I figured he must have the same last name, only he must be a junior." He didn't respond.

I looked about his room and realized he didn't have any pictures or anything. It was surprisingly empty. His bed was a mess. While he was ravaging his closet, I figured I'd be of some use and make up his bed for him. I lifted the sheet up over the bed and as it floated down it revealed, standing on the other side of the bed facing me, the ghost of the drowned boy. I screamed and fell backwards because it startled me.

"Josh? What is it?"

I couldn't speak. I sat on the floor and couldn't speak because the little blonde boy, still dripping wet, was climbing over the bed coming towards me. I was horrified. Woody came and put his arms under mine and propped me up.

"What is it? What do you see?" I was about to answer when the boy stood directly in front of me and opened his giant mouth. Not only did the cold blue water come rushing out of him in rapids, but a loud ear piercing shriek came with it. I screamed and tried to cover myself up with Woody, but it was useless. The water was freezing and was drowning the both of us. Couldn't he feel it? Couldn't Woody hear it? I clung to him but the water kept threatening to pull me away and into the open mouth of the open corpse.

"Woody, please! Don't let it take me! Don't let it take me!" I screamed. He looked at me in horror as the entire room filled with angry water. The clothes were swirling around us, the bed started to float and the water began to devour my friend as well as he simply looked on with mortified eyes.

That's when we both heard the front door creak open and awkward heavy steps hit the floor in the living room.

"Shit!" Woody said. And then it stopped. The shrieking stopped, the water disappeared, I was completely dry and had both my arms around Woody holding on to him for dear life. I looked behind me and the little boy was gone. "It's the old man," Woody said. "The bastard is home."

He got up quickly and zipped us his bag. "Come on, Peterson, let's get out of here." He slung his bag over his shoulder, grabbed me by the hand and tugged me along with him out of his room.

The TV came on as we approached the living room and I heard the refrigerator door open. Woody pulled me along into the living room and his father was standing there at the refirgerator, the door and his mouth open, looking at the TV as we passed. Before we could get to the door, however,

"Hey, boy! Where the hell'd you come from?"

Woody's hand squeezed mine and I could feel his whole soul sigh. Without even looking at him, he responded, "Nowhere. I was just leaving."

"Now wait a minute there. There's no beer here. Did you drink all the beer, boy?"

He cocked an eye at him and answered defiantly, "No."

"Well, somebody had to drink it! Seeing as there's only you and me here, it must have been you. I know I didn't drink it."

"I don't drink that shit. You were so drunk you probably drank it and forgot. I"m going now."

The mustached man slammed the refrigerator door shut. "Now, you hold up one goddamn minute!" He moved in a little closer to us, eyeing us up and down. "You seem to forget who's boss around here! You'd better watch your mouth if you know what's good for ya!" And then he turned to look solely at me. "Fact of business is I don't know who this here is! I don't recall inviting no black kid into my house!"

"Fact of business is you don't recall a lot of things!"

His father's brow frowned, his mustache burrowed in and his tone dropped an octave. He even spoke slower. "I told you to watch your tone with me! Don't go getting too big for your own britches."

Exasperated, Woody walked me back into the living room, as if to put me on display.

"Dad! This is Josh Peterson. This is the friend I told you about. Remember?! I'm staying with him all week. I just came home to get some clothes. I'll be out of your hair. So, can we go now?"

There was silence as he studied us carefully and my nose begin to sweat with the pungent scent of alcohol that was streaming out of his pores. Then he spoke, very softly, as if he had to struggle to find the right words. "Tomorrow's Christmas. I'm your family. You need to spend Christmas here with your family, boy. Not at some black kid's house I don't even know. I don't even know his parents. If he comes from a good home. I don't know nothing! Now, you send your friend here on home. Then you run down to the corner to Jackson's and pick me up a case of beer." With that, he scratched his crotch and proceeded to move to his moth infested sofa to watch the TV.

Woody's eyes were tearing in hatred of this man. He went to voice this hatred, but before he could even open his mouth, I screamed. They both turned to look at me, but what could I say? That I saw a little blonde dead boy peeking at me on the sofa, sitting beside Woody's father. I only saw his liquid blue eyes at first, but then he raised himself up and I saw his whole blistered face.

"What the hell is wrong with that negro boy?!"

"Will you shut the hell up! He's scared!" Woody turned to back to me and asked, "Josh, what's wrong? What do you see?" I pointed over at the boy who sat next to his father.

"It's him! He's back!"

"Who's back?" he asked.

"Goddamnit, I can't concentrate with all this noise! Son, I don't know who the hell you are, but kindly escort yourself off my property!"

"DAD, SHUT UP!" This shocked him so much that he actually did shut up for a moment, long enough for Woody to turn and ask me again, "Who's back?"

I attempted to put words to what I saw, but anything I said would have sounded ridiculous. I trembled because I thought at any moment the boy's mouth would fall apart and the flood would begin. So, I simply said, "It's a boy ... a little boy." It suddenly became deathly quiet. Both Woody and his father stared at me, dumbfounded, and Woody started to tremble.

Very carefully, he asked me, "A boy?" I nodded. "What does he look like?"

I wanted to say he looked dead. I wanted to say he looked emaciated. I wanted to say he looked like he was in pain. But I just said, "He looks like a little boy. Only 5 or 6. He's got blonde hair and bright blue eyes ..."

Day Twenty

Even though I was angry with him, it was still a relief to see him walk through the classroom door a week later. My existence was entirely different without him in it, from everything as mundane to having him sit next to me in Mzzzz. Banks' class to the monumental way he protected me from everything. Who would protect me from him, I wondered, as he strode into class, all eyes on him just like the first day he appeared. Ms. Banks had us so well trained that there was barely a murmer in the class, but everyone's eyes spoke entire conversations. People continued to come in behind him, all trying to make it before the bell, but they soon too were quiet and observed. Ms. Banks stood at the blackboard writing, the fat on her arms jiggling as she attacked the board fiercely.

I resolved myself to not even look at him as he took his seat next to mine. I would not acknowledge him. I was still furious.

"Hey," he said. I'm sure I pouted, like the adolescent I was, and folded my arms and turned away. There was no mistaking where I stood.

The bell sounded and Ms. Banks began her monotonous lecture. It wasn't long before Woody had his book open and was tearing out a piece of paper. He scribbled something furiously, though I wasn't sure what. The assignment had not been given yet. He took the piece of paper and slid it over towards me. Out of sheer curiosity, I peeked.

"I'M SORRY!" it said, in his chickenscratch handwriting. I couldn't help but start to smile, but then I remembered the way he pushed me away as if I meant nothing to him. So, I took the piece of paper and turned it around and in big letters wrote:

"I DON'T CARE!"

Scratttcchh! went the paper as I slid it cooly back over to him and pretended to give a damn about whatever jibberish was being vomited from the fat lady with the bad wig at the front of the class. I don't know what I expected. It's not like he could say anything. I heard him sigh and it was enough to melt me, but I held up the facade. I let my arms down and relaxed a little. Before I knew it, I felt his icy cold fingertips sliding in between mine under the desk as if to say, "Please, forgive me." In return, I squeezed his hand with all the strength I could muster until it was as warm as mine. It was my way of saying, "OK."

Behind us Corey Hines snickered. I guess he was spying on us. Woody abruptly let go of my hand. I could not blame him. He had just gotten back and already there was more fuel being thrown into the fire.

Forty minutes later we escaped the classroom and fled to the cafeteria. It was freezing outside, nobody in their right minds would have been caught eating out there. So, that's exactly where we went after we grabbed our lunch. We had to be alone and for one blessed moment we were.

"So," he started after he stuffed his face full of his sandwich, "can I come to your place after school? I packed some stuff. I'm sick of the old man."

"Yeah, I don't care ... but why did ..."

"Look, Peterson," he interrupted, "I don't want to talk about what happened last week. It was stupid, ok?"

"Yeah, I know, but why did you do that? Why can't you tell me?" He looked at me, the ominous sky above reflected in his gaze, a crumb on the edge of his lips.

"Because," he started carefully, "I didn't want you to see where I lived."

"Why not? You know where I live."

"Yeah, but it's different, Josh. You saw that. Where I live, it's ... it's cold. It's dark. And my father ... I just can't stand him is all. I don't want you to know him. You're better off."

"Well, that's just not fair. The way I see it, we're friends, right?" He looked at me as if that was the stupidest question I could have ever asked. "Well then, friends don't keep secrets. Do they?"

"Well, I don't know about that. I ain't never had a friend like you before."

The fact was I had never had a friend before. Period. I looked at him and he looked sadder than usual. I wondered what it was he wasn't telling me. Then in a flash I remembered the curious drowned boy I saw in front of his house that night.

"Well, you're not liable to have another friend quite like me ever again, that's for sure." He laughed. I could always make him laugh ... though it was usually not intentional.

"You're flat right about that."

"You can tell me anything. All your secrets. I won't ever tell nobody. I'll always be your friend, the freak, and nothing won't ever change that, my hand on the Bible, it won't."

The wind was challenging us to stay but we were winning. He sat next to me all bundled up and looked at me full of laughter and love and the sun began to shine on everything that had been gray only a few precious moments earlier.

"I missed you," he said.

"Well, I hardly thought about you at all."

"Right!" he laughed. "Look at you shivering. You need a bigger jacket." He reached over and pulled me closer to him. I loved that he was so strong. He put his arm around me and pulled me tightly in. I guess he was trying to shield from the waves of cold that were crashing down on us. I lay my head very gently on his chest and wondered how in the hell the magic of this moment could be completely lost on him. Did he know why the other kids called us faggots? Sometimes I thought, I hoped ... but then I thought better. My granny always said that anything that seemed too good to be true was.

“Harris and Peterson sitting in a tree!” Corey sang-songed as he walked up behind us with his little gang of mindless punk friends. This was just what we needed, to be caught in an embrace. I knew what would happen and I couldn’t stand to see Woody suspended again, or even worse, expelled, because he couldn’t control his hot head.

I stood straight up and faced the oncoming boys and fired back, “Can’t think of nothing more original than that old shit?” They stopped for a moment, shocked, because I had never spoken to them in that tone before. Even though I hadn’t said anything threatening in the least, the threat was there, and they were stunned. So was Woody apparently. He shot up next to me and whispered in my ear, “what the hell are you doing?” I ignored him and walked up towards Corey. “What else you got to say? Huh? You gonna call us faggots again? Man, that shit is so old. Get a new insult! How about calling us sissies? Girls? Freaks? Homos? Or maybe just mos? Um … how about intellectually superior? Oh, I’m sorry, I realize you’re too stupid to even know what the hell that means, aren’t you!”

He pushed me and I almost fell on my ass, but I kept my legs as he advanced in on me.
“Faggot, you’re asking for an ass whooping, ain’t ya?! You’d like that shit, wouldn’t you?”

“Go ahead and hit me, asshole! I dare you! Then it will be your dumb ass that’s suspended for a week and personally I think we’d all be better off! So, go ahead and hit me! It’s for a good cause!”

Corey was baffled. If he hit me, then not only did he look stupid, but he also got suspended. If he didn't, then he'd be a chomp. He was in a no-win situation. And I was feeling pretty good about myself. Sensing his predicament, one of his friends, Tyrone Bentley, stepped in.

"Man, forget about it. It ain't even worth it. Let's go."

"Yeah, man," they all agreed. They all turned to leave, but Corey stood his ground, simmering. Finally he said, "this ain't over."

If he disliked me before, he hated me now. But I didn't care, as long as they left us alone at that moment. I couldn't take another week without Woody. It seemed like it was my turn to protect him.

After they left I turned around to find Woody with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. "What?" I asked.

He simply shrugged and said, "I didn't know you had it in you, Peterson."

I beamed. He was proud of me. It couldn't have been more perfect.

"But now you realize the whole school is really going to think we're gay."

"They already think that, man. You're late."

"Yeah, I s'pose I am," he confessed. Something about the way he said it let me know that he no longer cared what people thought. That was great, because if he did care, we'd have never known another moment's peace at that school. They would have hounded us relentlessly just to see him explode and beat somebody else to a pulp. Thankfully, that didn't happen.

I was halfway back to the cafeteria so that we could go to the next period when I realized he wasn't beside me. I looked back and he was just standing there, hands in his pocket, looking at me. I ran back to him, fearing I'd be late to my next class, but not really caring.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said. But I knew there was something. "It's just ... sometimes life's good, you know? Sometimes, life is really fucking good. " RIIINNNNGGGG!! "And then the goddamn bell rings and everything changes. Come on, Peterson. Let's go."

We walked together lazily and separated in the hall so we could each get to our next class and get yelled at for being irresponsible. I wondered what he meant by his words, though I felt I knew because I felt the same way. Life was great whenever I was with him and not so great whenever we were apart.

I sat in the darkness and waited for him to arrive. He was more than a little late. Predictable. Not that I blamed him. Something about the darkness soothed me. I couldn't see our apartment. I couldn't see any ghosts, should they decide to appear again. I did see, however, that woman's eyes. I imagined they were Woody's eyes looking back at me. I spent so many nights falling asleep looking into his eyes. They were my safe harbour. They were also my doom. I wondered how someone could damn you and save you all at once and it made me want to curse life, but then I thought about his words to me that chilly afternoon: "Sometimes, life is really fucking good."

The key entered the hole and turned the lock. The door came ajar and the light from the hall blinded me momentarily. I made out his figure as the door opened wider. He reached out for the light and was more than a little stunned to find me sitting on our black leather love seat waiting for him.

"You're late," I announced. He looked at me, as if I had the audacity to accuse him of anything, and tossed his keys to the counter and shut the door behind him. He ran his hand through his golden locks and proceeded to take off his very expensive London Fog coat.

"It was a long day. I had a lot of work to do."

"Bullshit. You're avoiding me."

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JOSH! Let me come home and unwind for just one fucking moment before I have to deal with another one of your crisis! I do have a life that doesn't involve you!"

"I'm sorry," I whimpered. "And you're right. You're right about everything." This seemed to soften the ice. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch. Again, predictable. He walked towards me with the glass in his hand, the ice cubes breaking the silence as they rubbed incessantly against one another. He bent down and put his cool Scotch flavored lips to mine. They were cool but comforting. He sat down next to me and said nothing. Not knowing what to say, I asked "are you hungry?"

"No. I ate at the office." Liar. "I'm so tired."

"Are you tired in general or tired of me?"

He looked at me, surprised by my bluntness. I guess he decided to be a bit bold himself.

"Both, I guess." And back the Scotch went to his lips.

"Rainer?"

"Yeah."

"I do love you. I'm sorry about earlier, about everything really. And you were right. I'm a little scared right now."

He put a comforting hand behind my head and asked, "scared of what?"

I wanted to say "I see dead people!", but I didn't think I could do it with a straight face. Plus, he'd think I was being a smart ass and probably leave me that very instant. How many times had I made him sit throught The Sixth Sense? I was fascinated by that movie and he never understood why.

"I'm scared of losing you," I said.

"I'm not going anywhere. Why do you think you would lose me?"

"I don't know. I know I'm hard to deal with sometimes. I know I don't always tell you everything that goes on in my head. But, my head is a strange place. There are some things about me, about my past, that I'd rather keep a secret, and I need you to understand that. It's just too painful for me to open up about it."

He studied me for a moment as if he were trying to understand a textbook or decipher some Egyptian heiroglyphics. He had to know by now that I was anything but logical.

"Ok," he said. "I understand."

I never expected him to say that, but I'm glad he did. I kissed him fervently, my tongue lapped up the sweetness of the liquor that was visiting his mouth. Our mouths always danced so wonderfully together. Kissing him was one of the better things in my life.

He finished his Scotch and asked me, "what do you want to do tonight? See a movie?"

"Sure," I said.

"Ok, just let me get into something more comfortable."

"Can I undress you?" I teased.

"Of course," he gushed.

He held out his hand and I grabbed hold. He wanted to make sure I didn't slip because the stairs to his porch were covered in ice.

"Watch your step," he said. This was the first time I'd been back to his place since my uninvited visit the month before. He was spending Christmas with me and Granny and we had to go back to his place so he could get some more clean clothes. I couldn't believe his dad was ok not spending Christmas with his son, but I had learned not to ask too many questions about his father.

Before he entered, Woody peeped through the windows of the house. "He should be at work right now. Sometimes he's a lazy ass though. Just wanna make sure he's gone." After he was sufficiently confident the coast was clear, he opened the door and let me in.

The place was as I remembered it ... funky and a mess. The floor hadn't been scrubbed in about a century. The smell of cigarette smoke choked the air. It was frigidly cold. There were dirty dishes and beer bottles thrown about the kitchen in dissarray. He held me by the hand and we navigated our way through the aftermath of a small bomb until we got to his bedroom.

Day Eighteen Part Two

Without thinking I jolted. I rushed passed whoever stood in my way, I may have knocked someone over in the process, and I grabbed hold of the carriage just as it would have strolled into the street. I pulled the child to safety. I turned around to find the woman coming at me, her fragile gloved hands over her mouth, her astonished eyes frozen in horror.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" she kept repeating over and over again until she had the child, who remained amazingly silent through it all, firmly against her breasts, her chin nestled over the child's head. She was relieved. She opened her eyes and said, "thank you! Thank you so much!" I stood there, frozen, unable to respond, for I saw something I never expected to see. Two crystal tears managed to escape from her eyes, eyes that I had seen before. Magnificent stone grey eyes. His eyes. It came back to me in a flood and I felt for a moment as I did when I was a child and he looked at me with those stone eyes that seemed to crumble everything solid within me.

"Are you ok?" she asked me as I stared into her infinite space, not even seeing her anymore. "What's your name?"

"I ... I have to go." And I fled. So fast, in fact, the next thing I remember is a blaring car horn and tires screeching desperately to a halt. I looked at the oncoming car as it came so close to hitting me and I heard people gasping all around me. The fat old man driving looked hysterical, but I just stood there, willing for it to run me over. When the burgundy Cadillac stopped within an inch of my life, my shoes dug into the road and I took off. I couldn't look back. Why did I see him everywhere? Why did I dream of him? Why had he invaded my thoughts? Would I never know another moment's peace?

The faster I walked the more the memories assualted me. My head was suddenly a kaleidoscope and it was making me dizzy. I had to run. I ran until I was out of breath and I remembered as if I were in the moment again the last time I ran that way. I was running from him then too.

He had been suspended from school for a week and it was all my fault. I was used to being teased and called names, but apparently Woody wasn't. When we became friends, the gossip and the name calling got worse with each passing day. We were both loners and both outcasts, so when we teamed up, naturally there was going to be hell to pay. There wasn't much to do in our small rural town, not much in the way of entertainment. The most popular sport, it seemed to me, was making all the proclaimed losers feel like shit. Those kids seemed to get a real kick out of that. Well, Tony Samms made the huge mistake one afternoon of saying me and Woody looked like a bunch of faggots the way we were always together. He barely got a laugh out before his blood was flying through the air, landing on the kids that stood around and watched. Woody was on top of this coal black kid beating the living daylights out of him. Punch after punch after punch sounded through the hall like a gavel hitting concrete until some of the teachers came and, with several students' help, peeled him off of Tony. There wasn't much left of Tony - a few teeth and one eye that could barely open. His blood was splattered all over the floor and kids' tennis shoes. As they dragged him away, he didn't look at me. That was the last I saw him or heard from him that week and come the following Monday, I found out he was suspended. For a whole week no less. That was the longest I'd ever heard of anybody getting suspended. And that was one of the longest weeks I'd ever had to endure.

The winter was really starting to settle in and the holiday season drew near, but the cold winter air wasn't nearly as chilling as what I had to endure in Woody's absence. That first day alone I was tripped, hit and laughed at more than the entire first three months I'd been at this crazy new school. And of course, I had no lunch that day. Corey and his boys saw to that.

I had the bright idea mid-day to take Woody his homework. It would give me the chance to see him and I would finally get to see where he lived. He'd been to lmy house many times, spent the night many times even, but I'd never once stepped foot in his neighborhood. He always had some excuse to not tell me about his home or about his father.

It wasn't hard getting his address from the principal's office. Once I told them what I intended to do for him, taking him his work so he wouldn't get behind, they were downright impressed. Plus, everybody knew we were best friends. I took not a small amount of pride in that. I didn't care that some of the kids called us faggots. They could have called us whatever they liked, they couldn't rob me of my happiness. I only wished Woody would have felt the same way.

As I entered Woody's neighborhood, I could see why he might have been a little shy to let me see it. It was all black and mostly impoverished. I'm sure, being as pale as he was, he stood out some. Some of the houses were boarded up. Truth of the matter was, though, everyone of us in that area came from humble backgrounds. There couldn't be any snobs at our school, only those that acted like they were better than everyone else, because honestly didn't any of us have shit. This had to be the worst America had. I didn't see how it could get any worse.

I found his number, 3232. It was an old house with chipped sky blue paint. There were empty beer cans and cigarette butts all over the dirt where grass must have been at some point in time. There was an upside down bike with a missing wheel near the front of the steps that led to his porch. It was a gloomy day, but I didn't see how the sun shining on this place would make it seem any brighter.

I walked up and knocked on the door, smiling like a salesman. I hadn't seen him in three days. That was entirely too long for me. There was no answer. I knocked again. I heard movement inside, though the steps were clumsy and agitated. I knew it wasn't Woody. Suddenly, the door was flung open.

"And who the hell are you!" This man looked nothing like Woody. He was tall and lean and the skin on his face had been weathered by the blizzard of his life. His thick brown mustache covered nearly both his lips, he quite clearly didn't have all his teeth and the ones he did have were on their way to meet the fairy. He wore an oil stained cap and grease stained jeans, and the smell of him was enough to stain my nose. In fact, the smell coming out of the house wasn't at all a pleasant one. From the look of him, I guessed he was a mechanic. There was an old car with the hood up sittin out in front of his house. I wondered if all mechanics looked like that or if there was something that made this sad man special.

"Well, who are ya, kid?" His voice was as lazy and tired as he looked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Joshua Peterson. I'm here to give Woody his school work." He stared at me suspiciously for a moment and then walked away. Thank God. He gave me the creeps. No wonder Woody didn't want me to meet him.

Just then I heard very solid, very confident footseps coming in my direction. This was Woody. When he came from the dark hole that I could not see beyond, I thought he would be happy to see me. Instead, his face was intense and he was scowling. He came right at me, grabbed me by the shirt, shut the door behind him and shoved me hard into the wall of his house.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he said in a loud whisper.

I was so caught by surprise that I didn't know what to say. It took me a moment.

"Um, I brought you your schoolwork." He looked down at the books that I held up to him as a peace offering. He let me go and snatched the books from my hand and for a moment, a brief moment, I recognized my friend. As soon I began to relax, though, he became agitated again.

"Listen, don't came back here, you hear? I don't want to see you 'round here again!" He pushed me back into the wall and then stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him.

As was my nature, I took a moment to breathe in and absorb what had just happened. Why was he being so mean to me? All I wanted to do was help him. All I wanted to do was see him again. Did he not want to be my friend because Tony Samms called us faggots? My heart started falling. I felt like I was on a roller coaster drop. I was going to be sick. Then I got mad. I wanted to yell and scream and kick his door down and knock some sense into his thick head, but it wasn't in me to do that.

I sat there until night fall, trying to figure out what to do next, dreading to think that I would have to go a week, much less an eternity, without him in my life. After all I shared with him, why was he acting this way? I picked myself up and I started to run. I had to get away from there. I ran so fast that I tripped and scratched my knee through my pants. I didn't care. It had gotten so cold that the tears had dried to the skin beneath my eyes.

I ran through the dirt of his yard, rounded his gate and BAM!! Something hit me and I fell to the ground screaming. I looked up and it was a boy. A dead boy. He couldn't have been more than six or seven. He was wet, his skin dripping. He wasn't wearing anything but shorts and I could see the ribs protruding through his grey skin. His eyes were big and sad and filled with an ominious liquid blue. And he was blonde. A bright blonde dead boy who, had he not been dead already, would have surely been freezing to death.

"Who are you?" I asked? His gaunt face sunk in a hollow of sadness when suddenly he opened his mouth wider than should have been possible and a torrent of water came rushing out at me!

"Aaaaaggh!" I screamed, covering my face and mouth with my hands. The water was freezing! I felt like I was drowning. I didn't know how to swim and I felt as if I were being submerged in icy water right there on the pavement in front of Woody's house. Suddenly, I was just cold again. I brought my arms down and the boy was gone. The only thing I saw was a sliver of the moon in the sky and some onlookers from other houses scratching their heads trying to figure out what the hell my problem was.

I clumsily found my feet and began to run. I run like I'd never run before. I ran from the little boy ghost. I ran from Woody's harsh words, from his strange touch. I ran from the memories of the happiness we shared together. I ran from the ominous future that stretched out so bleakly in front of me. I ran from his father. I ran from Janissa and Corey and Tony. I ran from my Grandmother and her damned stories of curses. I ran and ran and ran until I found myself in my bedroom, sweating and freezing all at once. My mind was a kaleidoscope. As I undressed and put myself away safely in my bed, I prayed to God I'd never have to run like that again, because after all my energy was spent, I realized I simply had nowhere to run.

Day Eighteen

"Ouch!" I gasped.

"Careful there. The bowl is hot."

Stupid fucking blonde waitress. Yes, the bowl was hot. This much I knew. She could have warned me before I put both my hands around it.

She stared at me, the pink mess on her face threatening to carry her all the way to Barnums and Baileys. She smacked that gum so loudly I could have thrown my soup on her just to shut her up.

"Anything else I can get for you?" she asked. How about another waitress? A normal one?

"No, that will be all . Thank you."

Thank God she left me to my soup and my tea and my thoughts. My solitary thoughts. I was glad I sat next to the window. It was raining out. The overcast sky hung busily over the pedestrians as they marched through the slick city street in a mad rush to get their food and devour it with the part of the hour they had left. I, too, was in a mad rush. I had 35 minutes before I had to be back at the office, however, I could not will my limbs to move faster, my jaw to swallow quicker, my thoughts to stop slumbering about my lazy head. I ached at the memory of Woody.

As I sat there blowing the soup around in my spoon before putting it to my lips, I wanted to cry because it still made no sense. My life made no sense. All those answers we searched for, that ridiculous curse, the dead people that had always haunted me in my childhood, what the fuck did any of it mean anyway? My grandmother always said I was special, but I'm pretty sure she was the only one to ever think so. Whatever miracle I was supposed to have done, I thought I had done since the ghosts disappeared from my life. But now they were back ... and it terrified me more as an adult than it ever did as a child. But what did it mean?

I didn't want to go back to my cubicle. It reminded me of that cube in Hellraiser. Actually, I think I would have preferred the torture of those demons from Hell to my life as a cubicle employee.

I did not want to dissect my emotions with Rainer either. What would he say when he got home later? What would his audacious eyes accuse me of? How would I put my arms around this man and lie and tell him he's the only man I've ever loved? And why wasn't it true?

I really missed my grandmother. I wished I could retreat back to Mississippi, just for a day. I hadn't been there since her funeral three years ago. A precious few of us were in attendance. I wondered what ghosts still lived in that old house of hers. My house now as it turned out. While I was down there for her funeral, I could not bring myself to go near Woody's house. Those memories were still much too alive for me to visit. I could still smell the stink of his father's whiskey. Woody's father was the reason I didn't drink.

The tea carried a strange comfort as it met my lips. I remembered when my grandmother would make me tea when I was sick. I looked across the room and there was a man staring at me. Mid thirties, maybe early forties. White. Ordinary. Nothing spectacular. Only a year ago it would have only taken a gesture of his hand or nod of his head for me to follow him to the darkest of corners. What other retreat from my empty life did I have? He would have pumped the life back into me, recharging me like a battery. I did not miss it. Rainer changed everything for me, yet there I sat, sewering in my own pitiful despair.

"Can I get you anything else?" Blondie was back.

"No, just my check, please."

"Ok. Let me get that out of the way for you."

"Thank you."

And that was my interaction with most people lately. Brief. Impersonal. I missed the long conversations I would have about absolutely nothing with Woody. I longed for the spontaneous laughter that would seize us in the most extraordinary of instances. Rainer didn't laugh a whole lot. Niether did I anymore. He was always so serious. Life was logical and full of equations and action and consequence. Whatever happened to the brilliance of just letting things happen?

"Here you go," she said as she laid the check on my table. After the tip, I was $15 poorer, all for a fucking cup of soup and tea.

I grabbed my coat and made my way to the exit. As I passed the stranger he smiled at me. I knew that smile. He wanted me. I didn't care. I was ready to leave. As I pushed the glass door open and the cold breeze smacked me in the face, I realized I was ready to leave it all behind.

The rain had stopped, but the wetness clung to the air. Walking back to my hellhole of a job something suddenly struck me. A woman was walking directly ahead of me pushing a baby carriage. There was something about her - maybe the way her dusty blonde hair blew in the breeze behind her, maybe the way her coat drifted in the wind as she walked so freely, or maybe it was the way she seemed to smile at me even though I could not see her face. I walked faster. I had to catch up. I don't know why, but there was something in me insisting that I at least get a good look at her face. Then I had my chance. She had rolled her carriage to a stop in front of a greasy hot dog vendor. There were people walking in front of me, blocking my view. I think I muttered "excuse me" as I politely cut my way through the crowd. I had to see her. She was talking with the vendor. What was she buying? A pretzel? Some gum? No. The vendor handed her a snapple. Pink Lemonade. Then, without warning, she turned and glanced in my direction. Freckles. And absolutely beautiful. She looked so happy, only she didn't realize her carriage was drifting away and getting dangerously close to the curb that met the intersection of the street.

Day Seventeen Part Two

My grandfather was very still as he looked to the pile of ashes and his eyes began to fill. Esthra caught her breath and followed his stare and it was if the Earth herself opened up and let forth the most awful, most hysterical cry mankind has ever known. She threw herself from his arms and ran to the giant mound of burned ash where her babies lay. They were in there, somewhere, mixed along with the embers and the soot, those lives that meant more to her than her own. She fell to her knees and the sky went black. That's true. This story has come down through all these generations and it's a well known fact, the sky went from yellow to black when Esthra Harris fell to her knees that day so long ago."

As I sat and listened to my grandmother, more attentively than I had ever listened before, I felt a cold chill trickling though me. Somewhere in the house, something was moving. Someone was there.

"So, she blamed your grandfather? And that's when she cursed him?" Woody asked intently.

"I knew you'd understand. You see, Esthra had come from a line of witches. Some people say that witches aren't real, that evil isn't real. But if there is a god, there is a devil, son. You mark my words. Everyone on that plantation knew about Esthra's people. Esthra's mother had been known to make voodoo dolls before she died. They knew of the darkness that was in her blood. Before the dark sky passed over, Esthra rose to her feet on which she could barely stand at all, and she turned to my grandfather. Her face was full of rage and her eyes were as black as night. She said, "I BLAME YOU!"

"But why?" he asked. "Why'd she blame him? Was it his fault the fire started?" My grandmother took a moment and then replied,

"There's more to what happened that night, child. More than I can tell you while you're still so fresh and new to the horrors in this world. But yes, he was partially to blame. But Esthra blamed him most. She cursed him that day. She said, "Your seed shall not flourish! Your offspring are as dead as mine! Do you hear me?! They are as dead as mine!"

I felt a presence around me. Oh, it was so thick I could barely breathe. I didn't know what to do. My grandmother and Woody were so involved in her story, it was as if I were all alone. I looked all around and still saw nothing. Was I imagining things?

"And that's how we came to be cursed. Each generation there has only been one to survive, one left to carry on the family name and to carry on the curse. I had six daughters. They all died rather young except my Dorothea, who was the youngest. I thought she was the one who would live, but to my surprise, she wasn't. It's this one." She pointed to me and all of a sudden I was the focus of their attention. In the darkness that sat between them I saw two horrible eyes staring directly at me.

"I think the reason my Joshua can see ghosts, son, is that he's meant to put an end to all this death. Somehow, he is the one who is supposed to end the curse. I just don't know how."

In that moment I would have loved to have said, "Yeah, I'm gonna end it cause I can't have no children." I already knew there would be no women for me and at that precise moment, looking into Woody's eyes, I knew that all the love I would ever need in my life was a flower waiting to bloom inside this wonderful boy, but I couldn't dwell on that for too long as two ancient black hands with sores on them gripped Woody's shoulders.

"Woody, no!" I screamed as I kicked my chair back. I didn't give them time to say anything. I ran around the table, threw my arms around him and threw him to the floor.

"Jesus, Peterson! What are you doing?"

"Joshua, what's going on!"

I only looked up and shielded my friend from this horrific ghost of a woman. She was the most horrific ghost I had ever seen in my life and now that she was in full view, I was scared, terrified in fact. Her face was aged and wrinkled, her hiar was pure white and her eyes filled me with a dread I cannot even describe.

"Please!" I cried. "Don't hurt us! What do you want?"

"Peterson ..."

"Silence, child!" my grandmother commanded. She came towards us on the floor. She walked right through the old woman and grabbed herself as if she felt a chill.

"What is it, Josh? What do you see? Who do you see? Whoever it is can't hurt you. You know that by now, baby."

"Josh, you're hurting me!" came Woody from beneath me. I didn't think it was possible that skinny little me could hurt this boy, but then I realized just how tight I had a hold of him. Before I even had a chance to relish the way he felt in my arms, my grandmother was pulling me up.

"Come on, baby, it's alright." The old woman had vanished and the warmth began to seep back into the room as if a fire had been lit. Woody scrambled to his feet. I'd never seen him really shaken before, but he was. He looked at me gravely.

"What happened," he asked, his hick voice more stern than usual.

"I don't know. There was someone here. An old lady. I thought ... I thought she was going to hurt you."

"An old lady?" he asked with a sneer. "And what exactly is an old lady going to do me?" Did he joke about it beause he didn't see her? Or did he joke about it because it was the only way he knew how to handle his fear? I wondered.

"Well, baby, is she still here?" my grandmother asked.

"No," I answered, my gaze never leaving Woody's. "She's gone."

"Well then it's all better. You gave us quite a start there!"

"I'm sorry, Granny." Woody went and picked up the chairs from off the floor.

"Ma'am" he spoke, "I want to thank you. I think I understand now why he sees ghost. Well, not really understand as much as ... I guess I get it ... kind of."

"Mmmm hmmm," is all that she said.

"And thank you very much for the food. It was real nice meeting you."

"You're headed home now?"

"Yeah, it's late. My father is probably wondering where I am now."

"Well, you're welcome back anytime, child. And you be sure you bring an empty stomach!" He smiled and offered her another hug. I grimaced because my grandmother was getting more love than I was from him!

He opened the door letting in all the bugs that had been waiting to follow us in ever since we arrived. He stood at the doorstep of the night and all her mystery, the crickets still chattering. He hesitated, then turned and looked at my grandmother queerly.

"Ma'am, I live pretty far. You reckon I can stay the night?"

She pointed to our old rotary telephone, the only one still in existence as far as I knew, and said, "I 'spect your father will be wondering where you are. I'll grab an extra pillow for you, dear."

"I have to use the bathroom!" I announced. I didn't know what else to do, I had to escape. There was way too much happening way too fast. I had to get away and sort it all out.

Woody gave me all knowing glance and said, "Yeah. I guess you been holding that all night now." At first I wondered where what he meant, then I remembered I had announced earlier that I had to pee real bad. That's what started our trek to my house, that little white lie. All I could do, besides stand there in that moment like a visitor in my own home, was turn away and walk down the hall to the bathroom. And that's just what I did.

After I closed the door behind me I stared in the mirror and breathed. Then I realized with startling clarity that Woody was spending the night with me. Woody was spending the night with me! "Oh, my God!" I said aloud to myself. Suddenly the ghost I had seen, my grandmother's history lesson, it all seemed meaningless and irrelevant in the face of this shocking revelation. Woody was spending the night with me!! This astoundingly beautiful boy for whom I had just a tad bit more than affection for, was going to spend the night in my room, possibly in my bed even. Wait a minute. In my bed?! This was just too good to be true! This was more than I could have ever dreamed of! This was going to be ... absolute hell!

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Peterson, what are you doing in there. You through yet?"

"Uh, just a minute!" I looked in the mirror and silently coached myself through the next few moments. Breathe, Josh, breathe! Just take it easy. Don't do anything stupid. Don't give yourself away. He can't find out. He absolutely can't find out. Just ... be cool. Be like a normal boy, for once in your pathetic life. You can do this. Just ... be cool. Be cool!

I opened the door to reveal Woody standing there, arms crossed, with a smirk. "Is it safe to enter," he asked, sarcasm biting his every syllable. I nearly nodded my head and he moved past me and shut the door. I looked down the hall and my light was on. My grandmother's door was shut, she had already tucked herself in for the night. How long had I been in there? It must have been a lot longer than I realized. And the worst part of it was at that moment I really did have to pee. I'd wait until the middle of the night. I'd get up while he was sleeping ... sleeping next to me hopefully. Stop, Joshua!

I walked to my bedroom and it was a mess. I hoped Woody wouldn't mind, but judging from the haphazard way he normally dressed, I'm sure he didn't. There were two pillows on my bed, on opposite ends of the bed.

I heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. Before I knew it he was walking through my door and shutting it behind him. We were alone.

He yawned and, using only his feet, slipped out of one shoe, and then the other. He walked to the bed and moved the pillows side by side. "There's no way you're kicking me in the face all night."

He casually took off his shirt and threw it to the floor. Then he stopped and asked, "what's wrong with you?"

"Huh?" I asked and then suddnely realized I had been standing there like a statue, soaking in his every move. "Oh, nothing," I lied. God, how I wished that ghost would reappear so that I had a reason to throw my arms around him again. Only this time I would feel him, I mean really feel him. His smooth pale white naked skin looked so different than mine. I wanted to touch it, lick it. Oh no. There was something growing down the side of my leg. I took off my shoes and ran and hopped into my bed immediately. I didn't want him to see the boner that I had sprouted on the account of his bare chest.

"Good night!" I said.

"Are you gonna sleep with all your clothes on?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Jesus, Peterson, you really are a freak!"

"I know."

He walked to the edge of my room, bare foot and bare chested, wearing only his pants. He looked so comfortable in my room, much more comfortable than I was. He reached to the wall and turned out the light. I closed my eyes so he wouldn't catch me staring again. I felt him climb into the bed beside me and settle in. The rhythm of his breathing was so much more relaxed than mine. My boner was still raging. I couldn't turn over to face him.

"Peterson?"

"Mmmm=hmmmm?"

"Don't you worry. We're gonna figure this out."

"Figure what out?"

"What it is you have to do exactly to end the curse." Oh no. We had to talk about this. There was going to be no talk at school of any curse, in fact I never even wanted to hear him bring it up again. We definitely had to talk. I figured if I got under the covers, I could turn around and face him without fearing he would look down and see that I had grown considerably. What I didn't count on was that as I pulled myself under the covers, he would do the same. My entire body was struggling to resist his magnetic pull. I turned around and looked at him. He looked at me. Did he not realize how breathtakingly romantic this moment was with the moon laughing at us through my bedroom window? Or maybe the moon was just laughing at me. The fucker.

"Look, Woody, what you have to understand is that my grandmother's old, really really old and sometimes she..."

"She's fantastic! You're so lucky you have a grandma like that." Well, that pretty much ended my objection. He could talk about anything he wanted as long as I could look at him like that for the rest of my life. I could feel his body's warmth. I felt so connected, like if I reached out and put my hand on his arm, it would be ok. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I wouldn't do anything to risk our friendship.

'Woody, ..."

"Yes?" he asked after I didn't say anything else. What did I want to say? So much that I didn't have the words for it. So, all I said was,

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being my friend." His eyes smiled. I'd never seen him this happy. I had the sudden urge to kiss him, to wrap myself up inside him endlessly, to fulfill in one simple moment every desire of my heart. He opened his mouth to speak and I thought he would say, "you're welcome." But no. He didn't say that.

"Peterson, you're a mess. Just like me." And with that he turned around, his back to my face, and went to sleep. I too turned around, my heart shattering into a million pieces, the tears welling up in my eyes. It was worse than if he'd never ever talked to me. Worse than if he hated me. It was so much worse to be so close to having everything you'd ever dreamed of, to literally be able to reach out and touch it, but know that you would never have it. I knew then at that moment without a doubt that he could never love me the way that I loved him. That hurt more than any other pain I'd felt in my life up to that point. But I didn't realize yet what pain was. I had no idea.

Day Seventeen

"Joshua Peterson, mind your manners!"

"Yes, Granny." Woody seemed to enjoy me being chided. I didn't think it was funny one little bit. I also didn't really find his interest in my ghosts amusing at this particular moment for I knew what would follow. True to form, my ancient grandmother adjusted her blue cotton shawl, shifted aimlessly between her feet while looking for a place about my friend's magnificent dirty face to settle her gaze and, once finding it, his stone eyes no doubt, made up her mind to fill him in on just why she thought I could see ghosts.

"You have a strong character, boy, a unique aura about ya, like you can understand things," she said as her massively inflated behind found its seat. Woody sat in rapt attention. I, on the other hand, rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. It's a good thing my Granny didn't see this move, she was too focused on Woody's stone eyes to see much else.

"And it seems to me," she continued, "that my grandson more than trusts you, that he invests all of himself into that faith he has in you. Yes, I sense that very very strongly. And it's for that reason that I'm about to tell you this. "

There was a sudden stillness in the room, as if time stopped for a moment. The heat seemed to slowly creak from beneath the door frames, wispy fingers entering into our house, grabbing hold to the secrets that were to be revealed. I was not frightened, but I sensed that Woody suddenly began to feel it, that feeling that I had sensed my whole life, that feeling that we were not alone.

"Joshua stormed into this world something fierce!" She shook when she spoke as if reliving the memory, and the entire frame of the wood splintered table rattled with her. "A month before his time he showed up. His mother, my baby girl Dorothea, was the last of my surviving children. She had been having wicked dreams near the end. Said she saw death. Saw it like a man from the city with gold on his hands. She said when she dreamed she saw this man and he would come around, smiling that guile smile, showing his pearly whites, like was all good and clean. But my Dorothea knew better. I always told her, 'when you don't know no better, trust the dirt. You know that's real, that's of the earth. When you don't see nothing you recognize, run!' So she knew that this clean black man with pearly whites wasn't from around here, even in her dreams she knew this. With his tailored jacket and his shiny shoes, she knew he meant no good. She didn't know it was death at the times, until one night he came around in her dreams and instead of coming to her, she said it was something different. He'd always show up, smiling from here to Sunday, hat in his hand, and ask if he could come in. Being as he was something charming alright, and being as this was a dream, she really couldn't help herself none. Her legs trembled so much when he came in, she could barely stand. He'd put his big hot hand on the side of her face and look into her eyes real close, and that's when she would see it. His eyes would glaze over and become pure black and she could see the end of her life. But this night, this one dream, this last dream, it was different. He came in and her legs trembled, just like all those times before, she told me. He came in and he didn't put his hand on her face. He put his hand on her stomach. And she looked down and her belly was full and bleeding and his hand was pushing through her. And he laughed. She said he laughed so horribly it would make even the dead turn frigid. That's when I woke her up. See I was over there, down yonder," she pointed down the hall, "sleeping in my room when I heard her scream. I thought the end of the world had come and she had had a vision of it, she screamed so! Like there was shards of glass cutting her every vein, her screamed pierced me so! But when I shook her woke, she told me of her dream. I had to rock her for a mighty long time to calm her down some, cuz she knew then death meant to come for her unborn child. I had always told her it was a sin to have conceived that child, but Lord knows I would have done anything in this world to make sure that child was alright. I rocked her in my arms, my Dorothea, this last child of mine, and when she had finally calmed down some, she looked up at me and she said 'mama?' She said it so wearily. I said, 'yeah, baby?' And she looked at me real hard and then she said, 'it hurts!' I was holding her so tightly that I hadn't felt it, but something caused me to look down at that moment and I saw that blood was pouring all down her legs and I knew that was no good. I called the ambulance right away. When we got to the hospital, she was screaming louder than I'd ever heard anybody scream. The doctor and all the nurses could barely work around all that noise. They gave her some needles but she kept on screaming. The baby, they said, was breech. And it was coming. Whether it was his time or not, he was coming. They had to cut her open. They put her to sleep so that they could cut her open and rescue her dying child. They put her to sleep ... and she never woke up again. That's how Joshua came into this world, on the entrails of his mother's life. This child that came into the world so savagely, was so small, so small he fit in the palms of the doctors hands, so small and so gentle ... and so deathly quiet. They didn't think he would see the light of day. But this baby here? Oh no, he saw the light. Somehow, he saw the light and the dark."

"And that's why he can see the ghosts? Because he was born in death?" Woody asked suddenly, scratching the timbre of the record my grandmother's voice had become.

"Yes, child. I knew you would understand. But there's more to the story!" And this was the part that made me cringe. "You see, our family has always been cursed."

"Cursed?" Woody asked, intrigued. "Cursed by who?"

"My grandfather worked for a man, a white man, tending to his fields. Right here in Mississippi in fact. See, these were newly free times back then and my grandfather was a free man. He got paid a wage to tend those fields and it was a respectable work for him to be doing. The white man of that plantation, he had himself a real nice family. Lovely wife and five beautiful children. But he also had a secret. There was a rumor among the workers that he had a mistress too, a black mistress, which in those times was something that happened rather regular, but it was not something you wanted known. He had four children by her, and they was rumored to be living on the grounds and working for him. Now this was the workers rumors mind you. They were all rather light complected negro children, so most of the free men found these rumors could be true. Well, one night my grandfather and his friends, after a long hot day of working in the sun for this white man, had themselves a good ole time at the workers' house. The lady of the house, her name was Esthra, she was so beautiful that all the men wanted her. But none of them could have her. She was never seen with any of those men and it was largely believed it was because she was the white man's property. Now, son, you're too young to hear all the details of what went on that night, I don't want your mind to be filled with such things. But in the end, the house burned down to the ground. Everybody got out alright - my grandfather, his friends and Esthra who had passed out. They were so drunk it was all they could do to stumble out of their alive themselves. When Esthra came around, she was in my grandfathers arms. She saw the ashes of her house and turned to my granddaddy and asked him where her children were. Where were her babies, her four babies who had been asleep in the upper room.

Day Eleven

A million things ran though my mind as we approached my house. What would he think about where I lived? I lived on a country road in a very old and very small house. It wasn't a dump, but it wasn't anything fancy either. What would he think of my old granny? God, I hoped she wouldn't embarrass me with one of her stories. She loved to tell stories. And I'd heard them all before. What did he think about me? We had stopped talking. It wasn't uncomfortable in the least, still I studied every nuance of his movement beside me trying to figure out thoughts as they jetted through his mind. We walked very close together as it was pitch black now. Towering limber trees lined the dirt road on either side of us, giving us safe passage while taking in the sound of our every footfall. Far off there was a creature howling while all around us lived a constant hum of crickets and locusts. We were both sticky and dirty and belonged in the hot night air like two refugees. I dreamed of bathing with him, seeing his naked body, cleaning him of anything grimy, all things dirty or shameful; cleansing him of anything that might cause him pain.

"I hope she's not mad at me, " I said. "I don't think I've been out this late before."

"You can tell her it was my fault. That way she'll be mad at me."

"That won't work. She knows when I'm lying. So I don't lie."

"You never lie?"

"Not to her I don't." We spoke very lowly to one another, as if we didn't want to disturb the cacophony of nature that surrounded us.

"Would you lie to me if I asked you something?" I stopped walking. What did he want to ask? My heart pounded inside my chest because I didn't want him to know the secret feelings I harbored for him. Still, I lied and said,

"No. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Good." He started walking again towards the house which was now in view. There was a yellow light on the porch beckoning us in.

"Well, what do you wanna ask me?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just good to know in case I wanna ask you something important sometime. I wanna know you're gonna tell me the truth." I was relieved.

"Ok. But same goes for you, too. No lies."

"No lies," he said. And I knew he meant it. I hoped and prayed he thought I meant it, too.

We stepped onto the steps that led to my door and the weeping wood announced our arrival. There was always an odor about the place. I had grown up with it, so naturally it didn't bother me. It was the smell of oldness, of stasis. I thought it smelled like stale bread. It didn't smell bad, it just wasn't very inviting. I hoped he didn't smell it the way I did. I knew when we entered the house it would smell of old grease. Surely she had fried something earlier that afternoon and painted the walls and the furniture, even the old black and white tv, with the unmistakable smell of Crisco.

"Well," I said. "It ain't much. But it's home." I opened the door to reveal a small but quaint living room. Furniture the color of vomit, that had obviously survived the Depression, in my humble opinion, draped with old quilts that Grandma had knitted, greeted us when we walked in. I shut the door and I heard Granny's tired footsteps coming down the hall ahead of us.

"Grandma? It's me."

"Well, I wasn't figurin' it'd be anybody else. Lord help me if I had a stranger in my house!" When she stepped foot into the hallway, she realized she did have a stranger in her house. "Oh! Well, now, who the hell is this?"

"Granny, this is my friend, the one I told you about."

"Ohh! That woody boy! Oh, well my goodness, how nice to meet you young man! Don't just stand there like you deaf and dumb! Come on over here and say hello!"

"Oh, uh sorry," he stuttered as he clumsily approaced my grandmother. My grandmother was old. Really old. Yet she intimidated Woody, it was obvious. She made him nervous. He twitched his fingers at his side and he gazed at her. I imagined how it would be if I were seeing this odd old person for the first time. He studied her old silver hair that was haphazardly pulled back into a falling bun, her blue sweater with lint balls stuck all over it that she had wrapped around herself as if it were a shawl like she was cold even though it was hot as shit, the creased but surprisingly tight brown skin that showed a life of hardship yet shined with vibrant energy, and her magnanimous eyes that engulfed you as soon as you looked upon her. My grandmother was quirky, that was for sure, but so kind and so wise, you could not help but be humbled by her. And Woody was. He extended his hand to her.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"No, that's just not gonna do. You're a friend of my baby's, so you gonna have to come give Granny a hug so I can feel your spirit, young man." She opened her arms wide for him like an angel disguised as a tired old woman, the yellow lamp behind her casting a glow around her slightly bent body. Woody looked back at me briefly, shocked, and then obliged. He wrapped his well defined arms around her tightly and she returned the gesture. It was a beautiful sight to behold. My grandmother, who I knew didn't have a kind place in her heart for anybody with a fair skin tone, welcomed this "woogie" boy into her home and into her heart.

"There, there child. If you're here with my Josh then God knows you must be somebody special." When Woody was able to pull away from that eternal hug, he had the biggest smile on his face. I pictured myself offering him my bloody beating heart on a platter of fried potatoes for that smile.

"I'm sorry Josh is gettin' in late, ma'am." He called me Josh. "It's all my fault."

"Oh, I don't worry myself none about my baby," she said as she slowly made her way to the kitchen, which was basically the same room as the living room, only there was dirty tile, a delapidated old refrigerator that barely worked and a surprisingly clean stove. Looking at it all in that moment I wondered whether or not I lived in poverty. I'd never really thought about it before. "No, no, no. He's special. The Lord has something for Josh to do, so I don't worry myself none over him. He's a good boy. A very good boy!" Oh my God, I wanted her to shut up! "You boys hungry? I fixed some Pork Chops and some mac and cheese and some cabbage." Woody looked over at me with voracious eyes and I knew she just offered him the world. It was that simple, huh?

"Yeah, Granny. We can eat." And with that said, Woody and I made our way to the table and she fixed our plates. I had never seen someone eat so fast in all my life. From the look on my grandmother's face, neither had she. And she'd been around a lot longer than I had. Imagine our surprise when after nearly licking his plate clean, he let out a giant belch that easily spanned the time frame of thirty seconds. And all he had to say was,

"Excuse me."

"Indeed!" my grandmother replied. "I'd offer you some more young man, but I'm afraid you've eaten all I had!"

"Thank you very much, ma'am, " he said with glee. "It was very good."

"Yes, I suppose it was," she said as she collected our plates. She went over to the sink and Woody was staring at me with absolute happiness. He kicked me under the table. Was he playing footsies or tying to tell me something?

"Granny, can I ask you a question?" He'd known her for all of five minutes and already he was calling her Granny?

"Uh-huh," she said without batting an eye.

"Why is it you think Josh sees ghosts?" Clank! She broke a perfectly good dish. She grabbed hold of her dirty blue sweater and swiveled on her dust stained slippers to look me dead in the eye. I couldn't do it. I covered my head. I thought she would embarass me, but no. It was Woody who was embarassing me.

"So, he told you about the ghosts? Josh, you didn't tell me you told him about the ghosts."

"Well, no offense, ma'am. But everybody knows. It's just I'm the only one who believes him. That's all."

"Woody, shut up!"