American Ghost by Janis Owens Read Free Book Online

Vic had warned, taking Lena’s departure deeply, her expression one of profound, yet accustomed, loss, as if used to carrying such a weight. She seemed curiously diminished in the poverty of the old kitchen, which was jarringly ill-kempt to his city eyes—the screen door so torn it was almost bare, the countertop cheap, peeling linoleum, as was the floor. Student fieldworkers were warned that rural life could be primitive, and that’s what it seemed to him, of the sort more easily digested when in old photos of a different generation; not someone as young and vulnerable as Jolie appeared, standing at the stove, frowning at the steam.
    He hesitated a moment, then tapped on the glass. She left the stove to peer through the window, and when she recognized him, her face brightened so sharply it lifted the entire room, the air of stale despondency replaced by an all-embracing welcome.
    â€œHey—come in,” she said. “Did you knock? I can’t hear people back here.”
    She said it all in one welcoming burst, but he was hesitant as he stepped in the sloped-ceilinged little room, which smelled of old coffee and damp cypress and was muffled by an ancient window air-conditioning unit thatroared like a jet engine. His reticence had less to do with her welcome than the zippered terry robe she was wearing, of the sort worn by old Cuban women in Miami, when they watered their hibiscus. It hit her at midthigh and was partially unzipped, revealed an intriguing inch or so of what appeared to be transparent white lace on pink, slightly sunburnt skin, making this housecoat a considerably more complex garment.
    He stood there, taking it all in, till it occurred to him that, being the visitor, the onus of explanation was on him. “No—that’s fine. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Is your father home?”
    She returned to the stove, oblivious of the robe and her casual dress, as if he were a cousin who’d dropped by for supper. “Yeah. Around back. He doesn’t come in till dark, usually. Want some tea?”
    Here on her own territory she talked much more quickly than she had in town; so quickly and country that he passed on the tea (because he didn’t understand what she was offering) and hesitated at the door. “Well, do I need to talk to him?” he asked. “Get permission?”
    â€œPermission for what ?”
    â€œTo enter. Lena said he’s a little strict. I believe the word she used was medieval .”
    Jolie dismissed it with a comforting ease, gesturing him to the front of the house and explaining, “She’s just feeding you the Hendrix Scare. Daddy’s all right. He’s got a bad eye, which makes him kind of scary. But he’s a teddy bear. Been a preacher for, like, fifty years.”
    Sam was not reassured by the assessment and followed along with his head up, through a high-ceilinged dining room to a mirror-size parlor—a sitting room, settlers used to call them—hardly bigger than the porch. It was outfitted with the same worn care as the kitchen, though there was some sense of decoration, the walls a soothing mint green, adorned with an assortment of family photos in identical flat-black frames. The monotone frames gave them a curious unity, as there was no rhyme or reason to their selection. Historical sepia photos hung in identical frames with a color studio shot of Jolie in her high school graduation gown, so generic it might have been taken at Palmetto High in Miami.
    Sam was instantly drawn to the wall, which, Jolie explained, was a brainchild of Lena’s. “The black frames—we collected them all summer and painted them. It took forever . She calls it the Rogues’ Gallery.”
    â€œInteresting,” he murmured, pausing next to a photo nearly identical to that of Jolie, only black-and-white, maybe thirty years older, of a somber, dark-haired woman, obviously closely related to Jolie, as if she were her