I ’ve been walking for hours, but I don’t dare go back to my room just yet. After dinnertime I will be stronger. I can say to the ghosts: go ahead; do your worst. 

It isn’t that I’m afraid of the ghosts; I’m not. I’ve gotten used to them. It’s just that they sit there, they sit there in my room, their mouths opening and shutting, opening and shutting, and the noise that comes out is a whirring, windy rattle, like dried leaves being shaken by the wind. Noise. No words that I can understand. 

I want to go out. 

Where is the front door? I have taken a wrong turn. “Oh, Miss,” I say to a young woman in a maroon smock and slacks. I disapprove of women in slacks, unless they are doing war work, of course. “Miss, can you direct me to the front entrance?” 

She takes my arm. I hate that. I pull my arm away. 

“You don’t want to go out,” she tells me. 

“Yes, I do,” I say. “I have to meet my husband. We’re going out to dinner. It’s my birthday.” 

No, wait; it’s— 

“It’s our anniversary. We’ve been married two years now,” I say, triumphantly. “His name is Gus. I haven’t seen him since last December. He’s in the Navy. But soon the war will be over, and he’ll come home for good.” 

“That’s just fine. You go on back, now.” She turns me around, gently, and gives me a little push—more of a nudge, really. “Go on. It’s almost dinnertime.” 

I resume my walk. 

Oh. There’s that woman again. I can see her coming, in the mirror on the wall. Now, what is her name? Florence, Hazel, Mildred, Doris? She is headed this way. I will have to say something pleasant to her, though I don’t like her very much. She looks dreadful—her hair is a mess, and her clothes are always rumpled and don’t match. 

She has nasty habits, too. You would not believe me if I told you. She sometimes urinates right on the floor. Just squats down and makes a puddle in front of everyone. Shameful. I hope she doesn’t do it when Gus is here. I’d hate for him to think that this is the kind of place that allows such goings-on. 

“Good evening,” I say to whatever-her-name-is, but she ignores me and walks right on past. No manners, just like most of them here. 

Now where was I going? Oh. Dinner. 

The smell of cooking makes my mouth water. I play a little game with myself, trying to guess what we will have. I hope it is not spaghetti again. We have spaghetti entirely too often for my taste. Not that I’m against Italian food, but the sauce dribbles down my front, no matter how careful I am. There is something wrong with the spoons and forks here. They wobble. I have tried to talk to the authorities, but no one listens. 

Here it is: the dining room. It is already filling up with people, even though it isn’t five o’clock yet. 

What are we having? Chicken? Beef stew? Pork roast? I hope there will be enough for seconds. Sometimes I wake up hungry and want a snack, but there isn’t any way to get food at night. They lock the kitchen up tight. 

I’ve tried taking rolls from dinner back to my room, but somebody always steals them. 

I like to eat; there’s nothing wrong with 

that. And Gus likes me a little bit plump. A woman should have some meat on her bones, he says, pinching me on the hip with a leer. This makes me blush and giggle. 

“Oh, you,” I say, and pretend to slap his hand away. 

Where is Gus, anyway? It occurs to me that he has been gone quite a long time. He said he was going to the hardware store. He wanted to fix the screen door latch. 

The weather has turned cold in the last few days. It’s almost time to put up the storm windows, and take down the screens. I’ll remind Gus, when he gets here. 

Yes, winter is coming. It’s cold, and I can’t find my pink cardigan, the one Gus gave me for my birthday, with the pink seed pearls in flower patterns on the front. It should be in my top drawer. I can’t imagine where it could have gone. 

Maybe I left it on the front porch last night. It got a little chilly, sitting there in the swing with Gus and watching the stars. 

Gus is taking me out for dinner tonight. Just the two of us. Ellery is spending the evening at Cub Scouts. We’ll pick him up on the way home. If it isn’t too late, I’ll ask Gus to stop at the A&W stand for ice cream. It’ll be closing soon, right after Labor Day. 

I ought to go and get dressed. 

What should I wear? 

I know I packed my navy gabardine suit and my favorite blouse, the peacock-blue-and-purple print with the floppy bow, and my navy pumps, but last time I looked in my closet they weren’t there. 

I bet that nasty woman stole them. Her and her old scuffed slippers and that housedress with the stain on the front and the third button missing. I notice things like that. And she hasn’t had her hair done in God knows how long. It looks like a rat’s nest. 

The girl from the beauty parlor did my hair right for once, last week. They come twice a month. She’s nice but not too bright. 

That seems to be the case with a lot of these young people. They can manage a simple task, but don’t ask for anything complicated. They get all flustered and they mutter under their breaths. I like people to speak up. 

I taught Ellery to speak up. No mumbling, I said to him. Your father never mumbled. 

Oh. Poor Gus. He was never sick a day in his life. Then— 

His chair, falling over, crash. 

I couldn’t lift him. 

His eyes begged. 

The ambulance came. 

I waited for hours—the doctor came out of the operating room and said— 

Ellery got here as soon as he could. He’s a good son. He comes to visit me here. I wish he came more often. 

He’s in college, studying accounting. 

I wish he’d find a nice girl and get married. 

Gus and I have been married for, what is it, five years now? We got our house with a VA mortgage, after he came back from the war. Two bedrooms, kitchen, living room, den, and bath, and there’s a patio out back. Gus is going to build an outdoor barbecue out of cinder blocks. 

I like to look nice for Gus. A woman shouldn’t let herself go just because she’s found a husband. My mother never did. She always put her hair up in pincurlers after Daddy left for work and combed it out again before he came home, and put on perfume and lipstick. 

Well, since Gus isn’t here yet, I’ll go ahead and sit down. It’s almost time for them to bring in the food. 

I find my chair and put my napkin on my lap. They always check to see if you have your napkin in your lap, or tucked into your collar if you are a slob like some people here are. 

I am not a slob. 

I am wearing my pink dress and my pink 

sweater with the seed pearl design, the one Gus gave me. I look around at the others. Most of them look like slobs. More than a few are even wearing slacks. You’d think they’d take more care with their appearance. 

One of the helpers is putting out baskets of rolls and filling the water glasses. I drink some water and take a roll. The rolls are good here— they are always fresh and warm and yeasty, the way I like them. I spread some butter on mine and take a bite. 

The helper is saying something. I stop chewing and look at her. 

“You better not eat up all that bread before the rest of your food come,” she says. 

I do not care for her tone. “I will eat what I like,” I say, and reach for another roll. 

“You behave yourself, now,” she says, and takes the basket away before I can grab it. 

I will have to report her to the authorities. I would do so right this very minute, but another helper brings my plate: and oh! it’s ham! a lovely broiled ham steak, and mashed sweet potatoes with butter, and string beans, and a juicy pineapple slice on top of the ham, all nicely browned. My mother used to do ham steaks just this same way, with pineapple: so tasty. 

There are people filling up the chairs at all the tables now. My friends Celia and Dolores sit down and the first helper brings their plates. 

She brings back the bread basket, too, but she puts it between Celia and Dolores. Celia takes a roll and offers the basket to Dolores. 

“I would like a roll,” I say. 

“You have one already,” Celia says. She points to my plate. There is a roll, already buttered, sitting right next to the ham slice. 

“That isn’t my roll. I ate mine already.” Or was that yesterday? Are there any more rolls? Where’s Fredette?” 

“Two,” says Dolores, looking in the basket. “Fredette’s having dinner in her room. She don’t feel so good.” 

Dolores uses terrible grammar. She never had any advantages, poor thing. She worked in the mill all her life, just like her whole family, so one must make allowances. 

“Do you want your pineapple slice?” I ask Celia. She has taken it off her ham and put it to one side. 

“I dislike pineapple,” Celia says. “You can have it.” 

I reach over with my fork and take the pineapple slice and look over at Dolores’s plate. She snatches up her pineapple slice (in her fingers! how disgusting!) and eats it very quickly, with a disagreeable look in my direction. 

A helper comes around and collects our plates. Then she comes back with our coffee (it is always decaf here, though I ask over and over again for regular) and a plate with four cookies on it. 

“What kind of cookies?” Celia asks, squinting. She’s left her glasses in her room again. 

“Oatmeal raisin?” Dolores says hopefully. 

“Ginger snaps,” the woman says. 

She leaves, and I take a deep breath. Now it’s safe to ask the question I’ve been wanting to ask. 

“Do you have ghosts in your rooms?” I ask Celia and Dolores. 

“Certainly,” Celia says. 

“Do they sit there and make noises at you at night? Rustling noises? Like dry leaves in the wind?” 

“Of course,” Dolores says. “I don’t pay any attention to them, though.” 

“What do you do?” I ask. 

“I just tell them to take a hike,” she says. 

Celia nods vigorously. “I do the same thing,” she says. “I tell them, vamoose! And they do. You have to show them who’s boss.” 

“I’ll have to try that,” I say. 

“Give ‘em an inch, they’ll take a mile,” says Dolores. 

“I want a cookie,” Celia says. 

We each take a cookie. There is one cookie left on the plate. Dolores takes it and breaks it in half and gives half to Celia, giving me a triumphant look. 

“What about me?” I ask. 

Dolores gets up from her chair, not without a great deal of puffing and blowing. She is very fat. “You don’t need any more cookies. What you are is greedy,” she says. 

Celia nods. “You are a little pig, that’s what you are.” 

“I’m not,” I say. 

The two of them look at each other. Celia says, “Come on.” 

“I’m coming,” Dolores says. 

“Where are you two going?” I ask Celia and Dolores. 

“I want to watch television,” Celia says. She knows I hate television. 

“So do I,” says Dolores. “Let’s go.” 

“Well, I’m going to go to the library to read the newspaper while I wait for Gus,” I say. “Good night.” 

They don’t answer, but drift off together. Their heads are round and white, and they bob a little like balloons on strings. 

I drink the watery coffee and stare at the cookie crumbs on the plate. “I am not a greedy pig,” I say to the empty chairs. 

Everyone else is leaving the dining room too. The sound of scraping chairs and shuffling feet is loud; there is no rug in this room, only green and white linoleum, in squares. 

A helper comes over. “It’s time to go now,” she says, loudly. They all think you’re hard of hearing in this place. I’m not. My hearing is excellent and it always has been. 

Ellery says he can never sneak into the house late because I always hear him, no matter how quiet he tries to be. He tries to make a joke out of it. But I tell him he has no business staying out so late. 

Gus says, “Boys will be boys, Mother.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say. This makes them both laugh, and I always pretend to be insulted, but I know they are only teasing me. 

I pull myself out of my chair, getting a cramp in my right calf. Gus should be here soon. What if he wants to go dancing after dinner, and me with a cramp in my leg! Well, walking will help. 

I go out into the hallway and look at the bulletin board. 

Tomorrow is a shopping trip. The bus leaves at ten. I will call Gus and ask him if there is anything he’d like me to pick up. I know Ellery needs some new socks. 

In the parlor, the television set is on. Three or four people are lined up in front of it in the bluish light. More balloon heads. But these are tied to their chairs, I notice, so they can’t float away until the show is over. 

I walk on past. I am a little out of breath. I should not have eaten so much spaghetti. Italian food is very filling, and also indigestible. 

The library is empty, peaceful. I turn on a reading lamp and put my feet up on a hassock and unfold the newspaper. 

I read the comics to Ellery every morning while he has his breakfast. It is our little ritual. “Read me about Terry and the Pirates,” he says. “Read me about Steve Canyon! Read Dick Tracy and The Phantom!” 

Then, after he’s finished eating, I read to myself: Mary Worth and Brenda Starr, Gasoline Alley and Rex Morgan, M.D. 

This paper has different comics. No Snuffy Smith and Barney Google, no Nancy, no Li’l Abner and Daisy Mae, no Mark Trail. 

What a strange newspaper. There are pictures in color on the front page. The paper rustles as I unfold it and try to make sense of what it says. Yemen, Wuhan, Kabul. Where are these places? I must find a globe, or a map. 

Ellery and I put up a map of Asia and the 

Pacific up on the dining room wall. We stick colored drawing pins on all the places where Gus might be. 

The war will be over any day now. The radio said so. 

Chosin, Inchon, Seoul. Heartbreak Ridge; Triangle Hill. 

I make an attempt to say the names out loud, but my mouth feels like it is full of feathers. Pfff, pfff, pfff is all that comes out. 

The paper drifts to the floor and I sit with my hands folded in my lap, here in this small puddle of light. 

I’m very tired, and Gus hasn’t come. 

I should go to my room, where the ghosts wait with their toothy grins, mouths opening and shutting, opening and shutting. 

Will I still see them when I cross over to where they are, on the other side? 

Cross over. 

I remember that minister my mother liked. What was his name? The Reverend Mr Crawford. When he talked about someone who died, he said they had “ridden on ahead.” 

The newspaper needs to hire better proofreaders. Just look at the date on this page: June 5, 2020. 

Ellery is graduating high school this Saturday, June 9, 1966. I’ve had it marked on the calendar for months. We will go to Bookbinder’s to celebrate. Ellery loves their snapper soup. So does Gus. I prefer clam chowder. 

Is it dinnertime yet? I should go and see. But I’m not hungry. 

I’d better get to the front door so I can let Gus in . . . he’s awfully late tonight. 

I am so tired of all this walking. I never will get there. I’m tired, but I don’t want to go to my room because the ghosts will be there, waiting. 

Perhaps if I just go into some other room to sleep I may outwit them. 

Is there a room with an empty bed that I could creep into and rest for a while? Everything aches: my legs, my arms, my poor feet. All those years in heels. I love shoes, though. 

Gus always teases me about them. “How many pairs of shoes does one small woman need?” he says. “Want me to build an extra room onto the house? Seems like you need more than just a closet for all those shoes,” he says. 

When your feet hurt, everything hurts. I have to say, these sneakers are not stylish, but they are more comfortable than heels. Only, at night, my feet still hurt. 

“You’re not young anymore, Mother,” Ellery said last time he was here, and I told him how my feet hurt. 

What a thing to say. And he should talk. He’s sixty-one and bald as an egg. 

It occurs to me that Ellery has not been to visit me for some time. He must be very busy with work—and with the boys. He coaches their Little League team and is assistant Scoutmaster too. 

I remember when Gus and Ellery made Ellery’s car for the Pinewood Derby. Ellery won. His picture was in the paper. Gus was so proud. 

Oh, for just one night of restful sleep. How long has it been? 

Sleep. I reach out and turn off the reading lamp. The library is dim and restful now. Perhaps I can sleep a bit, here in this comfy chair. 

I close my eyes and it’s quiet and dark. Oh, I could sleep for years! 

Sleep, the darkness whispers. Sleeeeeeep. 

The overhead light snaps on, and I blink in the sudden glare. 

“Mrs Greenbriar, you must go to bed now,” a woman’s voice says. 

It’s that girl in the maroon slacks and smock. She has a nametag on, but I can’t read it in this dim light. “It’s bedtime,” she says. 

“Come along, I’ll take you to your room.” 

“I don’t want to,” I say. 

“What’s that, dear?” and she lifts my feet off the hassock and hauls me upright. “Up we go.” 

“I don’t want to,” I say again. “I want to stay here. I’m waiting for my husband.” 

“You have to go to sleep,” she says, hustling me down the corridor. 

I try to explain to her that I was sleeping, but she doesn’t hear me. 

In my room the ghosts are standing along the wall. I have no roommate these days, which is just as well, for there isn’t room for another person. The ghosts take up a lot of space, standing there in a row like passengers waiting for a train. 

The maroon girl doesn’t see them. She helps me off with my sweater and dress and slip and underwear; she pulls my nightgown on over my head and yanks it down to my knees. She takes off my sneakers and socks. She puts my slippers on my feet. 

She leads me into the bathroom. It’s best just to go along with them; if you try to hang back and do things for yourself they get angry. 

She watches from the door with her arms folded in front of her while I pee and wash my hands and face and take out my dentures and put them in the plastic container with my name printed on it in black marker: GREENBRIAR. 

Sometimes I look at the letters too long and they lose their shapes. Perhaps I need new glasses. 

I look in the mirror and see that woman again, the dough-faced one with the pink scalp showing through her scanty white hair, the one with the raddled cheeks and the warty nose like the nose of the wicked witch in the fairy tales, the one whose eyes stare back at me in terror. 

Who is she, and what is she so frightened of?

The girl is still watching me. It’s hard to get used to being watched, but I pretend I am invisible. 

She leads me back into the bedroom. The ghosts watch as she levers me into the bed and covers me with the sheet and blanket and bedspread. “How’s that?” she says. 

She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She switches off the overhead light and pulls the door nearly shut—they always leave a gap about a foot wide—and she is gone. 

I look down at the two hands on top of the bedspread. 

Whose hands are these, all cords and veins, thin bluish spotted skin, swollen knuckles and heavy, ridged nails? I move my arms and the hands rise, then fall again. 

I study them for a few minutes while the dark seeps up around the bed and the edges of the room soften. Then I look up, and there they are. 

The ghosts. 

They see me looking, and they lean forward and begin their harangue. 

They do not stop and they do not take turns. I can’t explain how I know they are talking, but they are. The dry leaves rattle. Fssss, fssss, fssss. 

The bony faces gleam in the reflected light; the empty eye sockets stare at me. Fleshless jaws clamp and unclamp, opening and shutting, opening and shutting. Sticklike arms and legs show grayish-white through the thin ragged clothing, the scraps and shreds that drift around their forms like mist. 

“What do you want from me?” I ask. They never answer. 

In the morning when the girl comes to help me get dressed, I will complain about the ghosts and my ruined sleep. “You had a bad dream,” the girl will say. If I go to the office and try to tell the woman there, she will say the same thing. They are all in this together. 

“A bad dream, that’s all it was,” they say. Job’s comforters, all of them. 

The ghosts came here with me. I know that now. 

They have been here all the time. And I will take them with me when I go. 

I wish that I could tell them to take a hike, vamoose, the way Celia and Dolores claim they tell their ghosts. But I can’t: my ghosts need me. They don’t have anyone else but me. They don’t have anywhere else but here, where I am. 

There is no other where for them to be. 

I recognize them now. 

Mother, father, husband, son, I say, and there is a flicker in the caverns where their eyes would be. 

Though I cannot understand the words they hurl and gnash at me, I know what they have come to give me: oh, I say. 

Oh. That’s what you want. All right. All right. 

I lie back on my pillow. Shut my eyes. 

And feel myself, at last, drift upward into the voiceless air.