Page 4 of Miserable Marionette

“Did you hear about Bell Funeral Home?”

My head snaps up, my disturbed paper towel forgotten. “What happened?”

Jess raises a thin brow, her piercing reflecting the brutal summer sun. “Old man Jackson finally up and died yesterday. There’s nobody left to run the place. They’re probably shutting it down if they can’t find a replacement. Our mom said there’s not even a mortician on hand to take care of him.” She laughs, but my heart is thudding in my chest. Wispy and aching pictures of an awkward, intense boy fill my mind. My heart aches for Mr. Jackson for an all too short period before I rethink crashing at Jess and Bryan’s backyard shack for the third week in a row. Suddenly, I’m desperate for a glimpse of dark woods and chipped white paint. For a home that stopped feeling that way years ago.

3

Birthday Adventures with Ghosts

Audrey, Seven Years Old, 1975

Gnats flurry around in the sunbeams as they poke through the canopy. The frayed edges of the tree branches swaying in the cool fall wind, as I absently pick at the pumpkin insides still trapped under my nails. I carved our jack-o'-lanterns earlier with Mom, not that I did a lot of carving. My job was to scoop the guts out, picking out the seeds so she could roast them in the oven. I bet the house smells amazing by now, but I’d rather be here. My jack-o'-lantern even has a little birthday hat strapped to the top; it’s only a few days away now. The anticipation is buzzing nearly constantly in my chest, but no matter how many times I stare at the scenic landscape calendar in the kitchen, time never moves any faster.

“Are we friends, Gideon?” I ask, filling the silence.

I watch in my periphery as his head lifts off the ground to stare at me for a moment before plopping back down with a heavy thud. “I guess so.”

I frown, shifting my legs where they’re draped over his middle as we lie on the dying forest floor. It’s been months since he gave me my Krissy doll back. Months spent playing in the woods, yet I’m still not sure how Gideon feels about, well, anything really. “Do you want to be?”

There’s a long pause before he speaks. “I don’t have any other friends. They think I’m weird because I live in a funeral home.”

I giggle. “It’s not because you live in a funeral home. It’s because you are weird.”

A laugh tumbles free from my throat when he lightly pinches my leg, my Krissy doll propped up on my lap. I’m about to jolt up, running to escape his assault, but his hand snaps out to grip my calf when I go to move off him, keeping me there, a small flush filling my face as I smooth Krissy’s hair. Much of our time is just like this, quiet and thoughtful, until I make him play with me, which is definitely more fun, but the quiet is nice too.

It’s not nice anywhere else but with him.

“They’re going to start picking on you, Audrey.”

I scoff. “Nobody is picking on me.” Other than a few mean girls in my class, everyone is nice.

“They will, though.”

“So what?”

He takes a deep breath, shifting up on his elbows, with that odd look in his eyes. “Will it be worth it?”

“What?”

“Being my friend.”

I shoot up too, my heart kicking up to a sprint in my chest, making the forest turn on its axis. “Is that what you want then… to be best friends?” I know he didn’t specify best, but it seems like an important distinction.

“I want you to be my only friend.”

Heat flushes my cheeks now in full force as I beam down at him. “Then that’s what I want too! No matter what.”

Audrey, Nine Years Old, 1976

Mom beams at the growing crowd of kids all gathered around Dad as he tries to juggle balls from the huge bounce pad they rented. When her eyes swing to me, I smile back, letting her think I don’t know they didn’t all just come for the games and cake. Soon enough, my eyes are scanning the crowd again for Gideon, my chest dropping when I don’t find him.

He’ll be here. He wouldn’t miss it again.

But just like last year, we get through all the highlights without a sign of him. My cheeks are still damp after dunking for apples, making the cool breeze feel even colder. It’s been a staple in my birthday celebrations even before Dad could afford a big party like this. I sway and sing along in my head when Mom leads everyone in Happy Birthday, all eyes glued to me as I lean forward, making a wish I’m then sworn to secrecy about, one I’ve made every year since Uncle Rodney died. I keep it tucked tightly in my chest. Safekeeping it on the off-chance wishes are real, and one year it’ll come true.

The cake is really good, but I barely pay attention during pin the tail on the donkey. Not even bouncing on the bounce pad until my legs wobble keeps my eyes from scanning the Bell Funeral Home, waiting to see the only friend I wanted to celebrate with today. Gideon’s mom arrived home an hour ago, casting her sad eyes this way like she always does before trudging over and offering me a gift bag. Mom says it’s like she’s always waiting for something bad to happen. That her hovering and fussing is probably why Gideon is weird. The growing stack of presents by the porch is calling my name, but even that seems less exciting without him.

Soon enough, people stop trying to include me. Friend groups that were formed long before I moved here gather and play amongst themselves. My eyes are glued to the large number eight candle discarded on a paper plate, debating licking the icing off the end, when a soft whistle jolts me. My head slams up, my eyes canvassing everywhere until they land on Gideon, his back pressed against the far side of my house. I try and fail to dampen my smile as I jolt off the bench, running over to him.