Elizabeth
Elizabeth
The Plumber . . .
It was my father’s miserly refusal to pay the tradesman for his work that brought upon the curse. William Pinto, a self-proclaimed “native,” installed new copper piping in the basement; the old plumbing system had been leaking in several places, you see, creating puddles and adding to the increasing dankness down there. After months of non-payment, Mr. Pinto, a respectful and patient man, finally burst himself and inflicted upon our entire household an irrevocable curse: leaky faucets. Every faucet in the damn house developed a slow drip. Adding to the annoyance, each fixture’s drip was randomly assigned to fall with a plop or a ping, and with such an irregularity, you didn’t have a chance to lull yourself into a rhythmic pattern so you could fall asleep. Not me, of course. I was already dead and buried in the backyard.
Mother . . .
I wish I received a penny for each time my mother gave me a supportive nod or an encouraging embrace, maybe a kiss goodnight with a conspiratorial pinch on my cheek, or even a wish of good luck before the school bus arrived, but alas, I’d be penniless.
Father . . .
My father was an excellent actor—not the Shakespearean type but more of the lying-through-your-teeth variety. Whenever the police or the myriad reporters materialized at our front entrance, he would exude such grief over his daughter’s disappearance that even the heartiest of the men had trouble maintaining a dryness to their eyes commensurate with their uncordial profession. In reality, the head of our drippy household was a clandestine misdoer: a person so vile, he was capable of squeezing the last breath out of his only child and incorporating her into the soil beneath a garden bed out back.
Elizabeth . . .
When I was in middle school, another girl named Elizabeth—two years older and four inches taller than me—kissed me on the corners of my mouth while squeezing my shoulders. It was hardly a passionate or romantic event but one of exploration and surprising earthiness. She was not someone I had admired or even thought of much, but she did smell of lilacs and bubblegum. I shut my eyes when she kissed me, and she gently ran her thumb over my lips when she was finished. I knew my complete self from that moment on.
The Reporter . . .
I suppose I’ve always been attracted to strong, intelligent older women. This particular person of whom I speak—the reporter—wandered our property without permission, but with an abundance of gumption, and walked out with my heart. Her employer was the New City Herald, a paper of high repute, I understand. (I’ve never read it myself; they don’t include a Sunday funnies section.) I escorted her as she walked the grounds. I was there when she penciled her ideas into her miniature notebook. I was so close I could hear her breathing—close enough to touch, which I knew would be unrequited. She sat on the rear steps; I sat alongside her. I was captivated by her movements, charmed by her thoughts. Am I now able to know someone’s thoughts? That’s a new one. I hadn’t been issued a guidebook when I assumed this state of… intangibility.
The House . . .
The property at 811 Massanutten Lane has been in my family for generations. The house and the surrounding two acres are all I’ve known as a home from the time I started to walk until my recent demise. And now, it may be my permanent residence in this beyond-state I find myself within. The dripping faucets notwithstanding, the house has been in good repair for as long as I can remember. There’s a grand covered porch in front and an expansive flagstone patio in the back. The lawn is finely manicured, and the weed-free garden beds surrounding much of the property are bountiful with the flowers and shrubs of my mother’s choosing. There’s even an automobile tire, recently flattened from a miscreant’s blade, which my father turned into a planter—now painted green and garnished with Shasta daisies—in one of those garden plots. Did he find it amusing, or perhaps even touching, to situate the tire directly above his daughter’s final resting place?
The Law . . .
There was something erroneous with my father’s story concerning the events leading up to my “disappearance.” This ultimately led to more visits from the police investigators for clarification of the facts, but it was also the beginning of the breakdown of my father’s fabricated account. (Or maybe it was from lack of sleep, courtesy of William Pinto!) Whenever the doorbell rang, it was usually an officer of the law or a plainclothes inspector trying to dig up the truth. My mother’s continuous alcoholic haze wasn’t of any help to the police in the matter, seeing she probably couldn’t even recall my name unless it was part of a multiple-choice question.
Rachel . . .
Reports of the inconsistencies in my father’s story were leaked, and the house was yet again deluged by members of the press. The reporter, with whom I’ve become increasingly enamored, returned, and I spent every moment by her side as she undertook her usual illicit walk around the property. I heard one of her cohorts call her Rachel, and I now have a name for my new love. I caressed her shoulders when she headed in the right direction, kissed her cheek when she looked at my daisies, and held her closely when she imagined my brutal misfortune.
Yours Truly . . .
My father was not a kind man—the violet handprints around my neck are sufficient verification. When I brought my companion Tracy home as my prom date and as an announcement of my spirit, never would I have realized the vitriol it would create in my father’s so-called Christian mind. Weeks of rageful tirades and threats of unspeakable punishment commenced, culminating in his sweaty and murderous act and the subsequent burial of my body. So, I was undeniably joyful when I heard my lovely Rachel suggest to the police that they bring their canines and shovels to the back gardens. She had a strong notion they might unearth a thing or two.
Nicely done - the narrators voice is well done - not too emotional very matter of fact, but real
I enjoyed this story. Loved the ending where the ghost follows Rachel and she is the one that will eventually turn the father in. Fantastic ending!