Well, shit, she thought.

19

Manfred woke up the next morning thinking about Mamie. Since he was a great believer in taking a hint from his own brain, after he’d had his granola-bar breakfast he called Safe Harbor. He was connected to the room she shared with Suzie, and it was Suzie who answered the telephone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Manfred. How is Mamie?”

“Better,” Suzie said immediately. “She’s better! Your friend Fiji came, and she held Mamie’s hand and prayed over her or something. By that point, we wouldn’t have minded if she’d gotten out a feather headdress and danced around the bed with a rattle. But she closed her eyes and her lips moved, Fiji’s I mean, and Mamie’s sleep got better, more natural. Her legs quit moving, and she didn’t toss and turn any more. This morning she woke up and asked for breakfast!”

“I’m so glad. Has she walked any?”

“Just to the bathroom and back, but that was more than she’s done in days.”

“That’s great! That’s just . . . great.” Manfred couldn’t think of eloquent words.

“We’re so relieved. Maybe she’ll gain her ground back, now.”

“I hope so. I’ll be over to visit in a day or two.”

“Bring me a Hershey bar! With almonds!”

He smiled. Suzie had a sweet tooth, especially for chocolate. “I will,” he said. “Let me know if anything changes, okay?”

“Sure, kid. Thanks for getting that Fiji to come. It’s the weirdest thing, neither Tommy nor me can remember her leaving.”

“What?” Abruptly, Manfred was less happy.

“Yeah. I guess we were so tired watching over Mamie that we fell asleep. She must think we’re a couple of old farts. But that’s okay with me. She pulled the iron out of the fire.”

“I’m glad she could help.” Manfred hung up. He didn’t know what to make of Tommy and Suzie’s falling asleep. But he felt much better, on the whole, so he was inclined to dismiss it.

Manfred knew—in the grand scheme of things, as Xylda used to say—that Mamie couldn’t live many more years, or perhaps many more months or weeks, even. But if she could live and enjoy that time, he would be happy. She was such a sweetie. He couldn’t remember her ever saying a bad word about anyone.

Except Shorty Horowitz, one of the other seniors who had been at the Midnight Hotel. Mamie hadn’t been fond of Shorty.

And she’d said something less than flattering about Fiji, when they’d been eating at Home Cookin. In fact, she’d referred to Fiji as “lard butt,” and he’d had to remind Mamie that Fiji was his friend.

Manfred had forgotten that until now. He considered the irony, that it was Fiji who had saved Mamie from mental torment. And he was sure that Fiji would have done so even if she’d known of Mamie’s disparaging comment. Manfred postponed work to cross Witch Light Road and thank her.

He found Fiji sitting on her back porch, Mr. Snuggly at her side. She looked stern, an expression he’d never seen on Fiji’s face before— aside from the time she’d gotten so exasperated at a private detective named Shoshanna that she’d frozen in her in place. While Shoshanna had stood there, immobile, in Fiji’s driveway, Fiji had driven away. And her face had borne this same expression.

“Good morning,” Manfred said, approaching cautiously.

Her face lightened. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I hope your friend is better.”

“That’s what I came to tell you,” he said. “She is. She seems at peace, and she got up and walked a little today. And not in our direction.”

“Good to hear,” Fiji said. “Want a cup of tea? Got the time?”

Manfred glanced at his watch. “Sure, I have a few minutes.”

In no time at all, he was ensconced in the chair beside hers, with a cup of tea. He’d declined an English muffin.

“Does it bother you, what Chuy and Joe said?” he said, after a period of comfortable silence, broken only by the licking sounds of Mr. Snuggly cleaning his paws.

Fiji gave him a blank look.

“That they see ghosts. Did you know that?”

“No, it doesn’t exactly bother me,” Fiji said, though she looked uncomfortable. “I guess you mean, does it bother me that they see my greataunt.”

Manfred nodded.

“Maybe it should,” Fiji said. “That might indicate her spirit isn’t at rest. But I don’t know that’s actually what it means.” Her shoulders rose, fell. “Maybe she made such an impression on her surroundings that a simulacrum repeats her actions. Maybe it means she’s serving time in purgatory. I can’t determine why they see her. So it would be kind of silly to get all worked up over it. I think I’m more—maybe ‘concerned’ is the word?—that they’ve been seeing ghosts all this time, and this is the first I’ve known about it. Did they not trust me with the information?”

“I thought the same thing,” Manfred said.

“It would be interesting to know exactly what these ghosts are doing. Are they creating new actions and actually living some kind of life? Are they simply repeating patterns they established when they were alive? Are these the same kind of ghosts that show up at your séances?”

“I wondered all that, too,” Manfred said, relieved. “If they are the same, you’d think I could see them, right? After all, I’m kind of in the ghost business. Spirit business. Whatever. I guess I’m feeling some professional jealousy.”

“Would you want to see ghosts, like they do? All the time?” Fiji was very serious, and he gave the idea some thought.

“I don’t think I’d want to every day,” Manfred said finally. “But maybe if I could switch it on and off, it would be . . . interesting.”

“I would not want to see Price Eggleston stab himself every day,” Fiji said.

“God, no!”

“Or Aubrey.” She’d been Bobo’s girlfriend. “I didn’t like her when she was alive. And she looked pretty awful, dead. That’s another question I want to ask Chuy and Joe. Do the ghosts look like their living selves?”

“Maybe we can just ask them.”