Dad’s famous with
farmers across the state for having perfect
timing, everything from the first frost
to the last, never mind matters of real
estate and merger with ConAgra. Trading
up, he says, Now that’s what takes Vermont
forward.
“You didn’t pick
me up. I materialized.”
“Peachy. So you’re
a ghost.”
“A wave, actually,
a complex combination. Consider the talk
radio.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Would I lie to
you?”
Out the window a
sign for White River Junction. “My talk
radio does.”
“Then consider this
a trade up.”
No. No way. “You
did not just turn my car pink.”
“I did nothing.”
“Of course not.
You’re an apparition, an irresponsible
one, completely blameless in supernatural
matters obviously under my own control.”
“I am a product
of the mind.”
“Some mind.”
“Yours.”
“Whatever. You’re
getting off at the junction of I-91.
I don’t care if you sit in a Dunkin Donuts
all day. We’re done, you spooky piece
of shit.”
“Spooky piece of
your shit.”
“I’ve seen you in
Halloween movies and Poe stories. You’re
a cliché.”
“Name calling is
never productive.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“It should.”
“You told him that
when you were a girl, a young woman,
years ago, before the hormones, the surgery,
the paperwork. Told him that before all
those things, before the day that he
reached into his file cabinet and ripped
up his will—which as you know now was
no piece of empty dramatics. All because
of one letter.”
Cell phone dead,
no choice remains but to walk to town
to call AAA. Forgotten: the expired membership.
“Hey mister, can
we stop this conversation?”
“It will stop instead
for you.”
