Jimmy Stone's Ghost Town (11 page)

Responsibility is never
something I ever needed to handle. At least not until we found out
that my almost-sister wouldn't be living with us, and then my
mother left. When those two things happened, everything
changed.
Everything
.

Not only did I end up getting Trex, and then
having to take care of basically everything that Trex needed, but I
also started to get a lot more responsibility at home.

Dad wasn't dad anymore after Mom left and
everything kind of went to shit. Yeah, I said shit. Deal with
it.

Before everything happened, Mom used to make
my lunch for school. Every single night, she'd come into my room
and ask what I wanted to eat for lunch the next day.

"How about a bologna sandwich tomorrow,
Jimmy?" she'd say and smile at me. "I was thinking you haven't had
bologna in a few weeks so you might be in the mood for some."

"Sounds great, Mom! Thanks!"

"You got it, Jimmy. Bologna on white bread
with just a little bit of mayo."

"That's how I like it!"

"I know it is, Jimmy." Then she'd cross the
room and kiss me on the forehead before leaving. I remember
thinking that I was getting a little too old for those kisses right
before everything happened with Charlotte. I was thinking about
maybe talking to her about not kissing me anymore. It was just
starting to feel a little weird and I didn't think any of the other
boys in school had their mom kissing them on the foreheads so
much.

"You know your mom always knows how you like
your sandwiches." She'd smile again and ask me if I wanted the door
closed.

"Just leave it a little cracked," I'd always
say. I liked to hear the sounds of the house. I liked to hear her
and Dad chatting in the kitchen while she made my lunch.

What I wouldn't give now for another one of
those forehead kisses. What I wouldn't give for a bologna sandwich
made by my mother. And what I wouldn't give to hear the sounds of
my mom and dad chatting in the kitchen.

Every once in a while I'd open up my brown
paper bag, filled with the lunch my mom had prepared the night
before, and inside would be a little piece of paper. Yes, my mom
would leave me notes in my lunches. Not everyday, but every few
weeks or so, I'd open that bag and try to hide the little piece of
paper while I unfolded it in my lap.

"I love you, Jimmy," it would say. "I hope
you enjoy your lunch. It was made with lots o' love!"

At the time, I thought it
was
so
corny. I
thought I might be getting too old for that too. I always prayed
that none of the other guys (just imagine if I'd known those damn
Coogan Boys back then and they'd found it) would see my note. If
they did, I'd probably never hear the end of it. I mean, corny or
not, I definitely still liked getting them.

But now - today with her
gone - I
wish
I
could get another one of those notes. Every single time I open my
own little brown bag, holding the lunch that
I
had to prepare the night before
while Dad laid on the couch sucking down green bottles and watching
infomercials, I secretly hope there will be a tiny piece of paper
inside with a note from my mom. Just one more time.

The reality, however, is
that mom is gone, Charlotte never arrived, and the dad that I
remember from all those years of happiness is nowhere to be found.
So
responsibility
is something that I know pretty damn well by now.

"Take out the garbage, Jimmy."

"Clean up this mess, Jimmy."

"Turn down my TV, Jimmy."

"Take out that damn dog, Jimmy."

"Grab me another cold one, Jimmy."

Do this. Do that. All the
time. Every single day. Ever since Mom left. That's my life. Or at
least it
was
my
life before David, Trex, and I found that tree. Before we landed
here in Ghost Town. And, now, it seemed we were about to get
another lesson in responsibility.

Chapter Twenty Two

"Me?!" I said without even
putting my lips back together. My mouth was so wide open, you
probably could have driven your car in, performed a perfect K-turn,
and parallel parked between my back teeth. "The letters are all
addressed to
me
?"

"That's right," said Gasp. "Every single one
is addressed to you, Mr. Jimmy Stone."

I still couldn't believe it.

"Now do you understand why
we had no idea what to do about our problem? We had
no
idea who this Jimmy
Stone was or how he was going to help us if we've never even seen
the guy."

David was quiet, but I could tell he was
taking it all in. He was drinking in every single bit of
information he could, just like he did when we were in class. Not
asking questions. Not answering any either. Just sitting in the
back of the class, quiet and learning. He was preparing for
whatever we'd need to do. Just like he always does.

"That is," Gasp said and
smiled down at me, "until you showed up and I knew we could finally
stop these letters from coming every week. Or, we could at least do
something
about
them."

"But what--"

"I'll show you, Jimmy. Don't worry."

I nodded and looked toward David for some
kind of validation, who nodded back to me that we not only were
going to hear whatever it was Gasp had to say, but that we were
going to do whatever we needed to do to help the ghosts of Ghost
Town and go home.

Gasp stepped back from us and waved his arm
in the air a few times. He spread them both out like wings and made
what looked to us to be an invisible square in the air. It was as
if he was creating a frame in which to place the letter for us to
read.

"This is the letter," Gasp said and clapped
his hands quickly to make it appear and spread them back out
quickly to hold the frame.

The only problem was, no letter
appeared.

"
This
is the letter," he said and
repeated the same steps.

Still no letter.

Gasp was beginning not only to look worried,
but downright confused.

"This," he said. "I'm sorry. This has never
happened before."

"Try one more time," I said, giving Gasp the
benefit of the doubt. He'd brought us this far and he'd done
whatever I'd asked of him up to this point. Why not let him have
another shot at it.

"
This
is the
letter!
" he said and clapped his hands
quickly yet again.

And this time, we didn't see a letter
appear, but a whirlwind between his framed hands. Swirling fast and
hard. It was like a funnel flying backward through the air. Gasp
actually looked a little frightened.

"I can't!" he yelled. "I can't move my
hands!"

"What do you mean, you can't move your
hands?!"

"I can't move them!" Gasp
struggled against the whirling tornado. His face showed fear. This
was the first time I'd seen him scared since we'd been here in
Ghost Town. "I can't move
anything
."

I looked toward David and Trex who also
looked a bit scared. None of us knew what was happening. We just
wanted to read the damn letter!

"This is not what is supposed to happen!"
yelled Gasp. "This--"

And before he could get out the last few
words of whatever he was trying to tell us, we suddenly saw
something forming in the back of the swirling tornado. A dark
object coming closer and closer to breaking the seal of that
funnel. Coming ever so close to the surface of the frame until, all
of a sudden, the dark object emerged and flew from the frame.

Gasp's hands fell loose and he collapsed to
the floor.

As the dark object hovered in front of, and
above us, Gasp's face contorted into the same scared expression
that we all shared. He shoved back off the floor and moved toward
us, sitting just next to David as we all looked up at the
object.

Before we knew what had happened, that dark
object morphed into a flowing red dress with a tattered, shredded
train. A woman with no face floated in the air, right in front of
our stunned faces.

"I am the Oracle Essex and
I come from the Order of the Oracles. We're the ones who sent you
the letters addressed to this Jimmy Stone. And I'm here to tell
you
exactly
what
they said. No more. No less."

She continued to float above us as we all
trembled with fear. Not even Gasp, I think, had ever seen this
Oracle before. I'm pretty damn sure he'd never even knew they
existed, judging by the look on his face.

"Heed these words, Jimmy Stone," she
continued. "You will need to follow them closely if you want to
help your friends and make it home again."

Oh, trust me, I planned to heed them, but I
didn't think I needed to respond. I just sat there and listened as
she began reciting verbatim the words in the letter.

"Seven things you must find.

One thing for each day.

Seven things you must find.

Or else they
all
will pay!

Ghost Town be the first,

But not
nearly
the
worst.

A nose leads the way,

On your very first day.

When you find them all,

Your search, it will stall.

Find
her
and hear what she'll
say."

And with those words, the Oracle Essex
disappeared just as quickly as she'd arrived. She was gone.

Chapter Twenty Three

The first letter I ever received that was
addressed just to me was from my grandmother. It was something
about her being proud of me for something I'd done. I'll be honest
and say that I can't even remember now what it was about.

The
only
letter I ever received that I
truly remember is the one my father reluctantly handed over to me a
few weeks after Charlotte never came home and Mom ended up leaving
us for good.

"Your mother wanted me to give this to you,"
he'd said when he handed me the wrinkled envelope. It was already
torn open across the top and there were old water stains in circles
across the front of it. Dad had clearly used it for a coaster at
one point and the condensation from one of his cold green bottles
had left a ring of wetness on the front of the white envelope. "She
gave it to me that night at the hospital. The last one before I
came home."

This was, obviously,
before Dad really turned into someone I didn't recognize. He had
just started to stack up a lot of empty bottles and spend a lot of
time in front of the television. At that point, he was still making
dinner (on most nights) and taking out the garbage himself. This
was also before he
really
started yelling a lot.

"Why did you wait so long to give it to me?"
I asked. "Didn't she tell you to give it to me right away?"

"Does it matter, Jimmy?" he'd said. "Does it
really matter at this point, son?" Dad shook his head, looked down
at his shoes, and turned away from me. He began stumbling back down
the hall and toward the living room. "I gave it to you, didn't I?
That's all that should matter."

"You're right," I said, placating him. I
didn't need to make him angry at something so silly. I mean, Mom
wasn't coming back to him either. "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate
it."

Before I'd pulled the
letter out of the already-open envelope, I dropped it on the bed,
got myself up and closed my bedroom door. I didn't need Dad
stumbling back down the hallway and into my room while I read it. I
wanted it to be
mine
. Just mine and not his. He'd had his time. He sat by Mom's
bed in the hospital that night she left while I sat home with
Grandma and Trex. He had his chance to say whatever he needed to
say, hear whatever she needed to tell him. This letter, however,
was
mine
.

So it was just me and Trex
in my room as I pulled the letter from the stained white envelope,
unfolded the paper, and pushed it down flat on the bed. It was
short and sloppy. Mom must have either been in a hurry or her hands
had become so weak that the normal, flowing and beautiful
handwriting she'd always had was nowhere to be found. Or maybe she
was in a hurry
and
weak. I guess that could make sense.

I didn't care, though, about it being sloppy
or the envelope being wrinkled, stained, and already open. I didn't
care about what color pen she'd used (it was blue, by the way), or
what type of paper it was written on (it was thin and shiny, and
looked like it was the back of the table of contents page from the
Bible that was in her hospital room - probably the only thing she
could find to write on at the time).

The only thing that
mattered to me when that letter was pressed down flat on my bed and
ready for me to read was that my mother wrote it. She wrote it
herself, and she asked my dad to deliver it to me. Sure, it was
weeks later, but I didn't even care. It was
mine
and it was from
her
. That's all that
mattered.

My eyes burned a little and started to well
just slightly in the corners as I started to read the short letter.
I sat Indian-style on my bed as Trex sat right next to me, his head
resting lightly on my left leg. He was interested too. I could
tell.