When I told him I bought the gloves at an antique store in Reno, he told me that was where he was living when he got killed.
“That was in 1965.”
I was stunned after listening to Kid Pierpont tell his story. I couldn’t find any information on Wikepedia about Pierpont, and there was no mention of his name connected to a murder in the Reno newspapers from 1965. Maybe if he comes again I’ll ask him if Pierpont is his real name, I said to myself. But as the visits go, once the ghosts see their belongings, they usually don’t visit again.
I wished I could see them. I knew what Zerelda James looked like from biographies and books about her husband, but Kruger and Pierpont were mysteries.
Several nights after Pierpont’s visit, I had a gasping bout. I stood in my hallway instead of sitting on the edge of the bed. There were vapors at the ceiling, but as I looked at them, they appeared to be swiftly sucked into the living room. It was like a window or door suddenly opened, drawing the image away from me, and I felt compelled to follow it. I rushed to the living room, but whatever I’d seen—vapors or a ghost—was gone. Then I realized that this was not my living room. It was the living room of my childhood home. I was completely at ease with a tranquility similar to the feelings of serenity I’d felt in my hallway the night I got home from Disneyland. Sitting in front of me, in an easy chair, was my father. He was talking to a lady in a long black dress with a snood on her head. Next to her on the couch was a German soldier. In front of the fireplace a boxer was throwing punches and jabs in the air. My father, Zerelda James, Kruger and Kid Pierpont; all present and accounted for. The clang of a pot from the kitchen startled me. Was it my mother? I hoped so.
The clang turned out to be a garbage can lid falling to the ground next door and apparently it snapped me out of my childhood living room. Suddenly I was gasping for air again. I tried hard to settle my breathing and get myself calm. If I was seeing my father and the other ghosts, then maybe I was dying or close to dying? I’m not ready, I thought. But, if death meant being in my old living room with my folks, then maybe I’d have no fear after all.
These new dreams, about my father and the living room, seemed to occur every night. The gasping for air part was starting to bother me as much as the dreams. But the most frustrating thing was that I was never acknowledged by any of the spirits in the dream. They looked at me when I entered, but they said nothing, and I was mute. And, they all talked at the same time. Four conversations at once. Kruger jawing in German wasn’t a problem. The others answered him in English and it was clear they all understood each other.
I really wanted to talk with my father, but I couldn’t go farther into the room, and I wasn’t able to speak. It was maddening and I would wake up more anxious than ever.
Then it happened. One night I walked into the living room to see my father sitting with my mother and the others standing and smiling at me. “C’mon in, Clete,” my father said.
I couldn’t move. I thought if I moved I would lose this thread of the dialogue and maybe never get it back again.
“It’s fine, honey,” my mother said, seeing my hesitation.
“How come I can talk with you all of a sudden?” I asked.
There was a quiet pause and my parents looked at each other briefly before my father replied, “You’ve crossed over, son.”
“Do you mean I’m dead?”
“Well...yes, son.”
CHAPTER V
I watched my children, my dear Meg, and friends grieve. “If they only knew,” I thought. I had a fine funeral, just how I wanted it, more laughter than tears. Food, music and toasts to the dearly departed, me. My father said, “Clete, you did good. Your children and grandchildren are happy and successful.”
“They’re on stage now Clete,” my father said.
Mother, wearing her favorite apron, was standing off to the side smiling and nodding as we all—Kruger, Zerelda, Kid Pierpont, and my parents—watched the scenes, from what seemed like our balcony boxes, of my old life unfold.
We watched the family every day, even though there was no real concept of time. I never got tired of watching. I could see all the scenes on stage simultaneously. It didn’t matter if my daughter was working and her kids were at school; I could see everything happening at once. There was no judgment from us “spirits.” And any indiscretions we witnessed were ignored for the most part.
“You’ll know when to step in, dear,” my mother told me. “Do you remember that Sunday morning at the stop light? You remember. The light turned green and your foot slipped off the gas pedal just as that car crossed in front of you after running the red light?”
“That was you, mom?”
She nodded and whispered, “You’ll know when to intervene.”
My son had found me in my bed the morning after I died. It had to be him; he was tougher than the others. He felt for a pulse, but my purplish skin was cold and my body was stiff. He had trouble sleeping after that. Then one night I appeared in his dream; I was pink, warm and pliable. My message to him was, I’m okay, kid.
I watched as they went through my stuff. Things that were important to me when I was alive were of no interest to me now. The only thing that mattered was that I was with my parents and knew that eventually I’d be joined again with those still on stage.
“May I have this clock radio?” I heard Meg ask my daughter, who said, “Sure, but it doesn’t work.” It was a red and cream colored General Electric I’d received from my folks for my eleventh birthday. I wore that thing out listening to fifties rock-and-roll and the San Francisco Giants. It was part of my curio cabinet collection. By the way, Zee, Ludwig and Kid Pierpont were square with where their things ended up. “Our stuff is with yer kids, pally. We’re good.”
Meg had some tough moments too, and I needed to also let her know that things were okay and that I was happy. That General Electric radio seemed to be the most logical venue. Early one morning, while it was still dark, I visited Meg’s stage. I turned the radio on and Jackie Wilson blared out, “Hey, you! Come out here on the floor!”
I watched Meg scramble from her bed. God, I wanted to hold her again. She darted into her den and the music from the radio stopped. She turned the volume dial up and down and changed the tuner knob. She picked the radio up shook and it and then saw the loose plug dangling down onto the table. I watched her as her faced slowly changed.
“Clete?”
About Steve Sporleder
Steve Sporleder is a lifelong resident of Los Gatos, and the author of three books, From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats; A Fouled Nest, and Gallivanting in the City, all set in the town of Los Gatos, CA. Steve, a former firefighter in Saratoga, CA, for thirty-two years, draws on his experience as a fifth-generation Los Gatos resident to infuse his writing with local flavor and history. His grandfather, father, uncles and brothers were also in the fire service and his family has served the town of Los Gatos and surrounding areas for over 100 years.
His most recent novel, From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats was a Finalist in the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Awards.
In From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats, Steve recounts the saga of four generations of la familia Reyes in powerful, moving terms. Through his consummate storytelling and details of setting and place, we are transported to 1917 when newlyweds Ramon and Monica Reyes flee the Mexican Revolution in search of the “American Dream.” In a defining moment in the 1940s, Miguel “Mickey” Reyes, their teenage son, makes a life-altering decision late one night in the outskirts of the barrios of Los Angeles that forever shapes this family’s destiny—a tragedy that propels the Reyes family away from Sleepy Lagoon and north to the quiet and lush town of Los Gatos.
Gallivanting in the Gem City – Whether it’s the “Dirty Boys of Boo Gang”, when a bucolic 1933 summer day turns tragic at the town swimming hole along Los Gatos Creek, catapulting three young boys toward a decision that will have consequences over three generations, or any of his other
energetic stories, Gallivanting will leave you both longing for the gentler days of the past and eerily wary of the darkness hidden within innocence.
A Fouled Nest – Thirty years after fleeing Los Gatos, California, Venice Webb receives a call from his sister with the news that their father has died. In a startling mix of abrupt confessions, resurfacing memories, and disturbing clues, Venice is left to piece together the incidents that have forever marked his family. At once, the truth about his father’s erratic behavior and neglect closes in on Venice like a freight train at full speed.
Other Short Stories by Steve Sporleder:
Carrying Kerrie – In “Carrying Kerrie,” we revisit Venice Webb as he travels to the Pacific Northwest to reconnect with his ex-wife, Kerrie, who suffers from a terminal illness and wants Venice to help her locate her daughter, Mandy, from whom she has been estranged for over a decade. This quest puts all of Venice's investigative instincts to the test and underlying the search is the gnawing question: is Mandy my daughter?
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