Free Stones by William Bell Page B

manufactured excitement tittering over a Ouija board.
    “When we walk around,” she said, choosing her words, working things out, “we leave our scent behind. It’s — to us — invisible, odorless. We’re not even aware of it. But a dog can track a human through a forest days after he passed by. And I’ve read that female moths give off whatchamacallits, phonemes —”
    “Pheromones. Phonemes are —”
    “Whatever. A few parts per million of those — things — and male moths can pick up the smell, the message if you want to call it that, from miles away.”
    “But that’s a
physical
thing. You figure that, what, after we die something remains behind? What you call a presence?”
    “I can’t really explain it. But, well, I’ve never been to one of those Nazi concentration camps in Europe, the ones with the ovens, but I’m sure I’d feel the presence of the dead — the children and their parents and grandparents. They say that’s true of old battlefields, too.”
    “Not very scientific,” I said.
    “No, but that doesn’t mean much.”
    I got up from the table and put on the kettle for tea. Raphaella had brought me a fewboxes of herbal teas of different flavors and blends, some fruity, others medicinal.
    I glanced around my new place, at the stereo set in the living room, the little TV hooked up to a dish that pulled signals out of the air and descrambled them, at the telephone. Hightech, modern equipment. And here we were talking about spirits, whatever word we used.
    “Do you think everybody who passes that old church gets the shivers?” I asked, using one of my father’s old expressions.
    “No. Definitely not. Some people are more sensitive, the way a radio tunes in to a particular station. People like you and me,” she added, smiling.
    “Lucky us,” I said.

chapter     
    W e did the dishes and then I drove Raphaella home. Up until then, she would get out of the van a block or so away from where she lived, but to my surprise she directed me right to her house, a bungalow with a big silver birch on the front lawn. I got the impression she was making a statement, pushing things a little with her mother. When I pulled into the driveway I noticed a slender woman in the picture window, hands on her hips, looking at us. Even from that distance the scowl on her face was visible.
    “Uh-oh,” Raphaella said in mock alarm. “The riot squad is waiting.”
    “She looks peeved,” I said.
    “You don’t know the half of it.”
    “Is it me, or males in general?”
    “In general. She doesn’t want me to see anyone.”
    “She’s training you to be a nun?”
    “Dating isn’t part of the plan.”
    “So she’s been like this with all the boys you’ve —”
    “Yup.”
    She planted a quick kiss on my mouth and jumped out of the van. As she walked up the flagstone path to her front door I plastered a smile on my face and waved at her mother. Garnet the smoothie.
    She didn’t return the wave.
2
    Back at the trailer, I turned on the miniature TV in the bedroom and took a shower, banging my elbows on the walls of the cramped shower stall, before pulling on my PJs and crawling under the blankets. I flipped through the channels looking for a movie, but had to settle for a courtroom drama.
    On most evenings, before I fall asleep, I go over the day in my mind, reliving conversations, second-guessing things I had said or done, hoping I hadn’t made a fool of myself.But not tonight. I wanted no rehash of Raphaella’s speculations about the church. That whole topic was something to put aside, for a long time, if not for ever.
    At some time during the cross-examination of the hero, I fell asleep. I drowsed fitfully, then woke again. The tiny bedroom pulsed and flickered with bluish TV light. On the screen, two long-haired Spandex-clad women with sincere looks and too much make-up were pitching exercise equipment. I used the remote to turn off the set and got a glass of water at the kitchen sink. The