Ilwag

Later, when sorting through my memories in an attempt isolate the truth, three facts remain with me: Michael was standing at the gate. I shook his hand. And it was definitely Monday.

First, a little history. Anne and I first met Michael many years ago. I was a writer for a technical journal and Anne was developing a practice as a psychologist, downtown among the warrens of stockbrokers and executives. He and Claire had been what could best be described as the perfect couple - or at least a perfect coupling, which is not exactly the same thing. They were the metaphorical and literal blue-eyed pair to which we all aspired, poster children for Armani and Chanel, the arbiters of fashions and the instigators of trends. They were invited to every party, included on every list and mentioned in every conversation that counted. Just invoking their names - MichaelandClaire. ClaireandMike. EmandCee - was like some sort of incantation, conferring upon the speaker some measure of their access and good fortune. They exuded a quality and gravitas that made them the centre of everyone’s orbit, ourselves included.

As middle age towered before us however, Anne and I started to tire of the run on the hamster wheel that was life in the city. In an act of rebellion we became gripped by that desire for dislocation that makes the corporate lawyer become a painter, or the Harley Street surgeon move to a General Practice in the country. Specifically we bought and had restored an entropic, lonely old cottage out along the coast. On one hand it was only a few windows and floorboards away from being a ruin, but on the other it had a veranda that followed a full day's worth of sun, it shared the scene with a bit of beach, a narrow road and little else and, most importantly, it was a good hour’s drive from anything seriously urban. It was the perfect place to swap suits for jeans, where Anne could abandon her professional baggage and grow her hair long again, they way it had been when we met in college, and where I could nurture an expanded waistline and a week's worth of stubble without guilt. It was a bargain – though for reasons that didn’t become clear until later.
Soon after the paint was dry and the roof repaired we made plans to move. Our friends met this with equal parts amusement and distrust. Sly jokes about “becoming hayseed” and “the Tuscany syndrome” circulated. Among the less generous of our acquaintances, murmurs of betrayal and disloyalty quietly bubbled to the surface. However Michael and Claire were happy for us, and that was enough of an endorsement to obtain the respect or at least the forbearance of others. And so, when we said our goodbyes we told them both ‘If there’s ever anything we can do for you, you know where we are. Come down anytime.’ It was a polite formality, but we meant it genuinely enough. After all, Michael and Claire were good people.

The news first reached us perhaps three months ago. We heard it from four different sources, each laced with a sentiment appropriate to the teller: disbelief, dismay, scorn, or ghoulishness thinly disguised as concern. The details were sketchy and in some cases the events themselves seemed lost in the flurry of social cleaving and climbing that followed, but the essence of it was that Claire had betrayed Michael, and that it had been sordid and public. From Michael we had heard no word, not that we had expected to. He was a proud man, and we were loath to impose on him our curiosity.
However it seemed he now planned to take us up on our earlier offer.

The first we knew of this was Monday, one of those slow starts that we still relished, where breakfast lingered all the way through to lunch. Anne was detailing my chores for the rest of day, as was her wont, when she gasped ‘Pat, there’s someone out by the gate. It looks for all the world like Michael.’
‘Can't be.’ I replied and rose from the table to see for myself. There he stood, leaning against the gatepost like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be. There was a miasma of dust behind him, of the sort kicked up whenever a car passed by on the unsealed road.
‘How long has he been standing there?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Y’know the polite thing would be to invite him in, rather than just stare at him through the window.’
‘Damn. Of course.’ I ran outside. ‘Michael. How in the hell are you?’ I said, grabbing his hand in greeting.
‘Ok, Ok. Hope I’m not intruding.’
‘Of course not. Come inside. Come.’ and he followed me into the cool of the house where Anne was waiting.
‘Michael, my lord. So good to see you.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
‘What on earth are you doing all the way out here?’ I asked. ‘Is everything alright?’ Anne kicked me gently.
Michael looked about the room. ‘You two made the right choice moving here. It’s quite beautiful.’
He neatly avoided my question but Anne jumped in before I buried my foot any deeper in my mouth. ‘You look very tired Michael. Why don’t you go and freshen up a bit and we can catch up later?’
She showed him to one of the spare rooms. When she came back alone, she gave me an exasperated look. ‘Subtle, Pat. Really subtle.’
‘Well, I didn’t know what else to say.’ I replied.
‘Then don’t say anything.’ She said. ‘Look at him, look at his eyes. He seems…’
‘Seems what?’
‘I dunno. Frail, I guess. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. So just give him some space, Ok?’
I threw up my hands. 'Ok. Ok.'
That evening we took dinner al fresco on the veranda. That is to say Anne and I took dinner. Michael indulged our polite conversation but plate remained untouched. Afterwards I poured three large glasses of whisky and we sat in comfortable silence and watched the sky measure the shadows along the fence line and listened to the cicadas sing themselves to sleep. On closer inspection I had to agree with Anne. Michael had subtly changed. There seemed to be a slightly ragged edge to him now, and his hair slightly grey among the blonde. However he seemed more or less at peace, and that was good enough.
Every so often however, he would turn in his chair and stare down the passage into the house.
'Y'okay there Michael?' I asked.
'Sure. I just thought...' he twisted about again, frowning. 'Is there anyone else here right now?'
Anne and I glanced at each other. 'No.' Anne replied. 'Just us.'
'I could have sworn someone was talking down there.' he said. 'Can't you hear that?'
We shook our heads. 'Oh well.' Michael said. ' I guess I'm just overtired or something.'
Soon after that, we said our goodnights and went to bed. ‘You’re right about him.’ I said as we lay in the dark.
‘Hmm.’ Anne murmured. ‘I hope he’ll be OK. Maybe some time away is what he needs. Some rest and peace.’
'Yeah, well. Let's hope he gets that then. You heard what he said about...'
'I heard.' Anne said. 'Let's hope he was just hearing things.'

That night, both of us were roused by the echo of footsteps in the hall and kitchen and the rhythm of the front screen swinging, even though there was not a breath of wind. The bones of the house seemed to settle and moan in sympathy. ‘Oh dear.’ I mumbled, half asleep. ‘We'll have to tell him now, won't we?’
‘I'd hoped she had gone.’
‘Fat chance. We’ll have fun explaining that in the morning.‘

When we rose the next day, Michael was already at the kitchen table, coffee in hand. ‘Morning all.’
‘Morning.’ I replied. ‘I hope you slept well last night.’
He looked as though he hadn't slept at all, but he seemed content enough. Then from out of nowhere he asked. ‘Who is Rosemary?’
‘How in the hell do you know about...’ I shared a quick look with Anne. ‘OK then. Rosemary.' I sat down at the table while she pretended to concern herself with making the coffee. 'We learned about her about a month after we moved in. We had wondered why the place was so much of a bargain. It seemed the real estate agent sort of forgot to mention her at the time.
‘From what we’ve been able to find out, and people around here are rather vague on the details, she and her husband were the first to live here. Their story isn't very pretty though. They say he beat her. Not very pretty.’
‘They say a lot of things.’ Anne commented as she handed me my coffee. She sat down opposite me and watched Michael carefully. ‘They like to scare outsiders. We’re apparently the fourth lot to buy this place in six years. Nobody else lasted more than a few months.’
I continued. ‘Anyway the short version is, her husband is supposed to have left her for another woman. One day she woke up and he was gone. The next day, she killed herself.’
Now since we had settled we had heard this story told a number of times by a number of people, generally by the locals to credulous strangers who ventured into the tavern. And every time the teller would pause at the same point, knowing there would be the inevitable question.
When the tale had been told to us a year ago, my question had been How did she do it? Anne’s had asked Why did she do it? The question was always more or less the same, with minor variations depending on gender or predisposition. And that was what I expected Michael to ask. I was wrong.
‘Who buried her?’ he asked.
‘Well… Sorry?’
The fact and the details of her death seemed to be of little importance. He asked again. ‘Who buried her? Who took care of her after she was dead?’
‘I – I don’t really know. Never thought to ask that.’
He seemed lost in the moment, somehow disappointed in my reply. Then he took a sip from his cup. ‘And she’s been here ever since?’
‘So it would seem.’ I replied. ‘We hadn’t heard from her for a while though, ‘til last night.’
‘Hmm.’
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. ‘How did you know about Rosemary anyway?’ I asked.
‘I don’t really know. I thought I was having a dream last night. I just have this feeling of talking to her. To someone anyway, a lost soul. Then just when you walked in the name just came to me. Rosemary. Go figure.’
He drained his cup and placed it carefully but firmly on the table in such a manner that I got the impression that he was coming to some sort of decision. ‘Now, I know I've imposed myself on you without any warning.’ he said, and he waved aside our protestations. ‘No, no. Don’t be polite. It’s the truth. Anyway I don’t plan to stay under your feet. I'm going to go for a walk into town and let you get on with things, if that’s Ok.’
‘Well, I guess so.’ I said. ‘Town’s a good hour away on foot however. Let me drive you in.’
‘Not a chance.’ he replied. ‘Anyway. I’ve got nothing but time now.’

We did not see him again for the rest of the day. In fact it was late evening when he reappeared. His meal was again untouched and afterward he made his excuses early and went to bed.
‘Have we offended him somehow?’ Anne asked.
I shrugged. ‘If we did then I missed it.’
For two more days this routine continued. We would wake to the sound of Michael going through the front gate and down the road. We would not see him all day, and well after sunset he would return. And every evening he seemed more drawn, more ragged somehow. We would share a meal, then he would go to bed early and we would clear away his barely touched plate. Then Anne and I would sit in the cool night air and quietly try to figure out just exactly was going on.
On Thursday night we were roused again by Rosemary. ‘What is she doing now?’ Anne asked irritably.
I was still to far gone in sleep to hear. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ I replied. ‘She’s not bothering us, let’s not bother her.’
‘It’s not her I’m worried about.’

The next morning, Michael was sitting on the porch. The low angle and the sharpness of the morning sunlight threw deep shadows over his darkening eyes and his hollowing cheeks, but the expression on his face was almost beatific.
‘Did you sleep at all last night?’ I asked.
‘I’m fine. Never felt better.’
I let that slide. ‘Did Rosemary bother you at all?’
‘Nope, not at all.’
'Glad to hear it. She was quite noisy last night.'
'She's an interesting woman, isn't she?'
‘Sorry? I don't understand.'
‘Rosemary. She has an incredible story.’
I stiffened a little. 'Are you telling me she's talking to you Michael?'
'Of course. I thought you knew.'
'Michael. She’s a ghost. She doesn't talk. You don’t talk to ghosts.’
'Of course you do. We talk every night.' He stretched in his chair like a cat in the sun. ‘I can't understand how she put up with things when she was alive. I guess back then when you married, you stuck with what you were given. Least that's what she did. You know she was almost relieved when he left her. She didn't really miss him at all.' I thought I saw tears in his eyes as he spoke. 'You put me wrong about what happened next though. She had Tuberculosis. That’s why he left her, at least partly. And that’s why she… well, she did what she did.’
I had to interject. ‘You’re talking about a ghost, Michael. She just rattles pans in the kitchen and slams the front door every so often.’
I may as well not have spoken. ‘All this time has passed now. She wishes she had done things differently. In hindsight and all that. Didn't quite work out the way she thought it would.'
I started to fell like a broken record. ‘Michael. She. Is. A. Ghost.’
‘I heard you the first time, Pat. You really need to get over that.’
‘Get over…’
‘It’s a fine line, you know.' he sighed. 'Rosemary knows she is dead. She just doesn’t feel like she is. Can you imagine how that must be for someone? You're dead, and that's it. Nowhere to go, nobody to care for, or have care for you.'
‘Well. I’d say she’s had long enough to get over it.'
We sat in silence for a long moment as the sun warmed the veranda. Michael closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest. I decided I'd left it long enough, and touched on the subject we had avoided since he arrived.
'Michael, I guess you already know that Anne and I heard about what happened back in the city.'
He didn't open his eyes. 'Well, what's done is done.'
'Because if I'm being honest, you look like hell. And Anne and I are worried. Are you seeing anyone about it? A counsellor or anything?'
He laughed just once. 'Have you forgotten who you're talking to Pat?'
'Y'know Anne still has friends in the city. All it would take is a phone call.'
'That's Ok. There's no point in that.'
'I know it might seem that way now, but they're discreet..'
'There's no point Pat, because I'm not going back to the city.'
'What do you mean?'
'Bridges have been burned, and these last few days have given me some perspective. There's nothing for me back there anymore.'
'I'm sorry if I sound a bit thick here Michael, but where exactly were you thinking of going then?'
He smiled. 'I don't know. Isn't that great?'
I didn't know what to say to that, and I knew I need help if I was going to get any further. I patted him on the leg. 'Hang on. I'll be back in a minute.'
I caught up with Anne in the kitchen. ‘You’re the professional, love. Can you go have a talk with him? Maybe you can make some sense of it.’
‘Alright.’ She looked up through the window. ‘It’ll have to be later though.’ and she pointed out at the gate. Michael was walking off down the road.
'Oh, bloody hell, I asked him to wait.'
That afternoon I had cause to go into town using the road that passed by the cemetery. As I passed by I noticed a figure motionless among the headstones. I swore and braked but by the time I was able to stop it was gone. I ran over to where I was sure it had been. Looking around I came across a low concrete plinth, in which were inscribed two lines:

Rosemary Atkins
Died 15 March

When I got back to the house I wasted no time in finding Anne. ‘Any sign of Michael?’ I asked.
Anne shook her head.
‘I swear I saw him down at the graveyard. One minute he was there and then he was gone. Just like that.’
‘Gone where?’ Anne asked. ‘There’s nowhere to go.’
‘I know that.’ I retorted.
‘Maybe you should be getting some rest. You’re seeing things.’
‘No I’m bloody not.’ I said. ‘It was him. And what’s more, I checked in town. Nobody knew who the hell I was talking about. He hasn’t been seen anywhere. They thought I was crazy too.’
‘Well where on earth has he been then?'
‘I’m dying to know that myself.’
We never got a chance to ask him however. He did not return that night, at least not while we waited up. Then, well after midnight when we had given up and retired to bed, we heard familiar noises in the hall: the footsteps, the door, the sighing of the beams. This time though, there was an underlying murmur of voices.
‘Is she talking this time?’ I asked.
Anne was bolt upright in bed. 'Not just her. Listen.’
There were two voices, one male, one female. ‘Bloody hell. That's Michael.’
We were both out of bed in a second and padding down the hallway. Even though there was a full moon outside the house was completely dark. That was except for the light issuing from under the door to Michael’s room.
We pressed our ears to the wood. Neither of us could make out what they were saying but we could tell they were speaking in low, comfortable tones with the sort of familiarity shared by those who are close - such as partners or lovers. ‘What do we do now?’ I whispered.
Anne shrugged. I shrugged too, and placed my hand on the door handle.
At that instant, the voices were stilled and when I opened the door it was to darkness. We switched on the light and found the room empty. Not just empty, but exactly as it had been before Michael had arrived. The blankets were folded square and set with the pillows at the foot, the way Anne always left them. The boxes we had moved into the hall closet were piled against the far wall. The lamp was unplugged from the wall socket. There was no sign of Michael or his bag. It was as if he had never been there.

The next morning, as soon as was practical, I placed a call to one of our friends in the city. The phone was picked up almost as soon as it rang.
‘Aaron, it’s Pat here, look, I’ve got a question to ask and I hope I don’t come across as crazy or anything…’
‘Pat, thank Christ it’s you. We’ve been trying to get hold of you guys the whole week.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It’s Michael. Look, I'm sorry to have to tell you Pat but there's been an accident. You know that part of the highway where it narrows and goes around Signal Hill?'
‘Yeah. Yeah of course.’
‘Well he came off the road. He was killed instantly.’
‘Jesus. I don’t understand. He seemed to be…' then the detail of what he said sank in. 'Hang on... Did you say you’ve been trying to get hold of us all week?’
‘That's right. Your phone’s been out.’
‘Aaron, when did this happen?’
‘Monday morning. He was heading out of the city. No-one knows where he...'

'Oh my God.' I breathed, and dropped the phone.