The Ghost
They are focusing on the bright fountains of light pouring from their fingertips. They are focusing on the smell of sulfur, the popping sparks that land around their feet. They are trying to ignore Mommy and Daddy, the words that they are or are not saying swallowed by the smoke. Tonight, they are not yelling (there are people over) but are instead whispering in mean voices above their heads. Mommy and Daddy refuse to stand next to each other except in the stiff, awkward way that makes their bodies look like the rigid toy soldiers that the two of them love to play with.
Bright colors bloom across the sky, and the noises make them jump, each of them in turn, laughing it off. Since it is a party, they have dared one another to steal tastes from the adult’s drinks. The things that the grownups hold in their hands so tightly, the things that make the grown up’s faces look loose and young, their eyes wider, mouths softer. They sniff the can that Daddy has set on the table and what’s inside smells sour, but fizzes like soda and one of them slips a bit onto his tongue, bubbles foaming and bitter. The other one watches Mommy to see if she will notice if he sticks his fingers into her drink that reminds him of grape-flavored cough syrup, the way it sticks to the edges of the glass whenever she swirls it around as she talks. Neither of them is sure what is the grownups love so much about either of them.
Mommy and Daddy have forgotten about the dog, forgotten that he has been left outside. They are trying to coerce the dog to come out and see the explosions, talking soft and sweet to him as he hides in the bushes, tongue jutting out and out and out, panting like he’s been running around the yard. Crouched together, they remind each other of last year, before Mommy and Daddy were fighting, when Daddy put his arm around Mommy and said something in her ear that made her laugh. They remind each other of how pretty Mommy’s face looked when she smiled that night, neither of them admitting that they can barely remember it.
One of them mentions the ghost that they are both sure is living in their yard, how he heard at school that ghosts can change people, inhabit them, or something like that. The one who saw the ghost the first time, one night when everyone else was asleep, reminds the other one how it looked like a silhouette or a shadow lit from behind with a lamp. They both are certain that they have heard it whispering, rustling from the farthest corner of the backyard -- a spot they usually avoid.
They are both determined to make the ghost leave. They are trying to find their way around in the dark, tripping over tree roots and toy cars that they’ve left scattered and forgotten in the grass. They have stuffed their pockets full of snappers, surely enough to kill a ghost or at least enough to scare it into leaving. One of them hears a noise and grabs at the other one’s hand and they walk like that, hand in hand, towards the darkest corner where the trees block out all the light from the moon and stars, where the canopy of leaves hushes the booming roar of the fireworks popping off around them.
There, the air feels cooler, wetter, heavier. Feels like something lying across their shoulders, their chests. There, they squeeze each other’s hands more tightly, slowly shuffling their feet farther and farther into the darkness. It’s so quiet that they can hear each other breathe. One of them takes a deep breath and shouts for the ghost to come out and face the two of them. The other is certain he hears its whispering and starts throwing snappers towards the fence. And then they both are throwing snappers until their pockets are empty except for sawdust. They shout at each other and run back towards the patio. Both are breathless, one with giant broken leaves stuck in his hair, both panting and panting like the dog. They smile at one another because neither Mommy or Daddy has noticed that they were gone, and they are both certain that from now on, things will be different.
