Miz Loretta's Ghost

My grandmother's summer schedule was as close to inviolate as you could get.

Monday was Wash Day. Tuesday she shopped and Wednesday she baked. Thursday was Visiting Day and each Friday was reserved for a trip to the mainland. Saturday was kept open for various alternating monthly chores - floor waxin' and window washin' and the like - and on Sundays, she put her feet up.

On Thursdays, we always stopped at Miz Loretta's last on account of Miz Loretta had been keepin' company with a ghost for 40 years and it kinda got on Nana's nerves to be in the same house with him. Miz Loretta never had gotten around to marryin' him seein' as he was kilt in the war but she stayed faithful all the same.

“Ain't never met a ghost,” my cousin Gilda who was staying with us for all of July announced - Gilda always went straight to the practical side of things - “What's his name?”

“Eugene,” I told her.

“Mr. Eugene,” Nana promptly corrected me, “And I expect you both to be respectful.”

Gilda didn't exactly specialize in respectful but she knew better than to risk my grandmother's temper. We obediently carried in the plastic containers of fresh bread, vegetables and sliced ham, the box of glossy magazines Nana had collected, a shabby but freshly laundered rag doll with blonde braids, and the second hand quilt she'd found at a jumble sale. Miz Loretta welcomed us with open arms but before we got to peek inside the cheerfully painted little bungalow, Nana had relieved us of our burdens and sent us off to gather kindling and fill the woodbox. That done, we got to go inside where an afternoon tea was neatly laid out in on a small table in front of the old stone fireplace.

“They's five places,” Gilda whispered to me, “We gon' have tea with a ghost!”

Nana shot her a dark look but Miz Loretta just poured tea and passed cream cakes.

“I always set a place for Eugene,” she whispered back with a conspiratorial wink, “but you know, he's so shy-minded 'bout company, he almost never comes.”

My grandmother sighed.

Gilda and I made short work of the cream cakes while Miz Loretta chattered on about the many facets and merits of various tea blends and how much sugar was necessary for a decent cookie.

“Eugene has such a sweet tooth,” she confessed, “I declare it's a wonder he can still wear his uniform.”

She asked after my mother and the state of the my grandfather's health, said next time we should bring the dogs with us (“Eugene does have such a way with animals!”), commented on how much she liked the new doctor and how she'd enjoyed the last Sunday sermon, and finally mentioned that she was learning bridge.

“I'll expect you to ask me to one of your card parties soon, Alice,” she said nonchalantly, “It's a mercy that Eugene is such a good teacher.”

Nana nodded and managed a weary smile.

“Time we was goin', Loretta,” she announced, “Help with the tea things, girls.”

Miz Loretta shook her head and waved the offer away.

“No need, no need,” she told us cheerfully, “I wash and Eugene dries. We get it done in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

Gilda was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride home and I couldn't help but think she was plotting some mischief. Knowing my irrepressibly reckless cousin, the thought made my stomach flutter some. Her silence didn't escape Nana's sharp eyes but even when pressed, all she would admit to was being disappointed at not having actually met a ghost. The conversation about it dried up until later at supper.

“You do know, Gilda,” my grandmother pointed out kindly, “They's no such thing as ghosts. Miz Loretta jist ain't never got over losin' Eugene.”

“Oh, yes'm,” Gilda agreed without hesitation, “I reckon she's jist got bats in her belfry.”

“Well, I 'spose that's one way of puttin' it,” Nana said and frowned, “But mebbe you might oughta look for a kinder way of sayin' so.”

This was such a mild rebuke that Gilda was barely ruffled and my grandmother's frown deepened.

“Sometimes,” she said thoughtfully, “Madness is more'n jist a misery. Sometimes it's the only way a body can go on.”

Much later that night as Gilda and I were lying in the big double bed with the moonlight sifting through the clouds and fiddle music from John Sullivan's drydocked boat playing in the background, Nana came in to hear our prayers and say goodnight. She sat on the edge of the bed and told us about Loretta and Eugene, about how they had been childhood sweethearts from the age of five, inseparable through their teenage years, and betrothed by their twenties. They'd been young and in love, more so than any couple anyone could remember, and full of happy plans. And then the war came and suddenly Eugene was gone and Loretta was alone except for a baby daughter who had been born far too early.

“She didn't survive,” Nana said gently, “and Eugene didn't come home. It was too much for Loretta. Memories was all she had left so she made up ghosts and she's lived with'em her whole life. So there'll be no more talk about it and no mischief. Do you understand?”

It was the first and only time I heard my cousin Gilda cry.