Apparently, I posted this story in 2015 but made it private. I’m not sure why I did that. I just gave it a once-over and made a few changes. The story’s better than I remembered.
I found him at the bottom of the pool, dead. I sat in a chair and smoked a cigarette, thinking about all the years I wasted with his sorry ass. 24 years. We were only a few months away from our 25th anniversary…he couldn’t have waited a little longer before he died? 25 is a nicer number, and it says more about my long-suffering. Yep, 25 years I spent with Walter, I could say. 25 years of his drinking, womanizing, lying, stealing, and all the other shit he got up to. It just sounds better than 24 years of his drinking, womanizing, and so on.
Marjorie wandered out from the house, sleep still in her eyes, wearing one of my extra bathrobes. I had four or five, all gifts from Walter. He thought I liked them when the truth is, I couldnt give a rat’s hairy ballsack about bathrobes. I’m always hot after a shower or bath and I liked to parade around naked. Walter used to like that, way back at the start of everything.
Marjorie bummed a smoke from me and stared in the pool. “That Walter?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Huh. He’s not floating.”
“Bodies don’t float for long.”
“And how do you know that, Miss Priss?”
“Saw it on a Law & Order or something. Or maybe I read it sometime. Does it matter?”
“No, I reckon not.” Marjorie plopped her fat self in the chair beside me. She still had her rollers in but she’d put on lipstick. The filter of her cigarette looked bloody. “Well, now what?”
I flicked my cigarette in the pool. It hissed when it hit the water. God knows the last time we’d had the thing cleaned. Walter had died in some nasty water, that’s for sure. “I guess we could call the police,” I said.
“You kill him?”
“No. I came out here and found him at the bottom of the pool. My guess is that he got drunk and tumbled in.”
“Like that Beach Boy.”
Lord, what was Marjorie yapping about? I knew better than to ignore her. Just like my youngest son, Nate, when he was four and he asked one of his endless questions. After what felt like the hundredth question, I’d ignore him, and he’d hitch his voice up a couple of octaves and say “Mama!” until I thought my damn head would burst.
I lit another cigarette. “What Beach Boy would that be?”
“The only good-looking one, Dennis. Remember, the drummer? He got drunk and fell off a boat and drowned. Did you know he was the only one who surfed?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That always rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, how can you call yourselves The Beach Boys when only one of you guys can even surf? That song ‘Surfin’ Safari’ is nothing but a pack of lies.”
I’d often imagined finding Walter dead–dead in his chair, dead in the driveway from a heart attack, and even dead where he slept all those years right beside me. But I didn’t ever imagine sitting here with my best friend talking about how The Beach Boys betrayed the public’s trust while Walter’s body lay at the bottom of the pool.
“Well, I guess I’ll make a little breakfast and put the rest of my face on,” Marjorie said, groaning as she lifted herself out of the chair. “Let me know what you decide to do.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’ll put on a pot of coffee?”
“You know it.”
“Sounds good.”
I sat by the pool for a little longer before going back in to get a cup of coffee. Marjorie made it extra-strong, which I liked. She’d been staying with us for about a week by that point. I remember Walter pulling me aside after two days and hissing, “Now just when is she gonna be on her merry little way?”
“Whenever the mood strikes her, I guess,” I said. “You know Marjorie. Free like the wind.”
“She’s not living here.”
“Who said anything about her living here? She’s got a nice place of her own in Waycross, you know that.”
“Well, I know women like Marjorie and you don’t,” Walter said, ignoring the obvious problem with his statement. Walter fancied himself knowledgeable about many things when in fact what he knew was limited to HVAC repair, cheap beer, and chasing ass. . So-called “women like Marjorie” scared the pants off him because they didn’t rely on a man and they mostly did what they damn well pleased. Like taking off on a whim and coming to visit me without a specific end date in mind.
Marjorie was thumbing through the newspaper when I sat down at the kitchen table with my coffee. She hadn’t put the rest of her face on; she was still just wearing lipstick, her curlers, and a bathrobe. Well, what was the hurry? It’s not like we had a dead body in the pool or anything. Ha ha.
“You gonna call Nate and tell him his daddy died?” she asked.
“That can wait. Nate and Walter haven’t talked in nearly five years. No reason to dump this on him so early in the morning. Maybe after lunch.”
Marjorie shook her head and her curlers did a little dance. I was always envious of her hair. I could do something with mine, but I never saw the point. I sure as hell wouldn’t put rollers in at night. I caught my reflection in the mirror the other day and thought I look like someone children would be frightened of.
“Well, this is your show,” Marjory said, “I’m just an audience member.” She put her plate and coffee mug in the sink and went back to the guest room.
I stayed at the table, thinking. Our 24 years together hadn’t been all bad. We’d been in love once. I remember how handsome Walter looked when he got out of basic training. I thought I was the luckiest girl on Earth as we walked through town, my arm in his. I lost my virginity to him before he shipped out and I promised to wait for him. And that’s what I did. We got married, and before long, Nate was born. I had a hysterectomy in 1976, so no more kids for us. That was fine with Walter, who never wanted kids anyway.
I could almost forgive Walter for losing interest in me, for letting himself go and drinking so much, but I had a harder time forgiving what he did to Nate. He didn’t rough him up or anything like that. He just never showed any interest in him. Nate was a weird kid, I’ll admit it, but every boy needs his father to support him. Hell, to at least take him fishing or show him how to shoot a gun or work on a car. Nate hung around Walter like a lost puppy, and Walter never paid him any mind. When I confronted him about it, Walter would just shake his head and say, “Everything’s fine between us. Leave it alone.”
Well, if everything had been fine, they wouldn’t have gone five years without talking. I looked over at the phone. I knew I should call Nate and the police. I glanced at the clock and noticed it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. For all the police knew, I slept every day until eleven. Nate knew better, though. He knew I still got up around six, after so many years of doing so and making Walter’s breakfast.
I walked back out to the pool and looked in the water, suddenly convinced that Walter would no longer be there. But there he was in the same position: face down, arms spread out. He was wearing his work jeans and a flannel shirt, tucked in as always, his graying hair spread out like a halo.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I told myself when I felt tears prick my eyes. But I couldn’t help it. My husband was dead.
Before I knew it, I was in the water. It was warm. I waded over toward the middle of the pool where Walter was and peered down. The image of him swirled and for a moment, I could pretend that he’d just dived down to the bottom for fun. Not that he was down there because he was a drunk and he’d drowned, just like that Beach Boy Marjorie talked about.
What was that Beach Boys song I always liked? Lord, I couldn’t remember anything anymore.
“Walter,” I said, and my voice scared me. It didn’t sound like me at all. I tried to say his name again, but nothing came out. I dipped my head under water. Walter looked peaceful, his body not completely touching the bottom of the pool.
“God Only Knows.” That was the name of the song. I took my head out of the water and tried to sing it: I may not always love you, but long as there are stars above you…
That’s as far as I could get.
Writing for Ghosts 