Smokey and the Smiling Ghost

I flinch as I limp across the living room floor, grabbing at my stiff leg. Arthritis makes it hard for me to do much else these days other than struggle from room to room, but it beats rolling around in a wheelchair. Most of my friends can’t even do that.

Sitting down at my office desk, I flip through a stack of washed-out, sixty-year-old photos, stopping to look at my seventh-grade class portrait. Brenda Dykeman, a tomboy with bobbed brunette hair, freckles, and a radiant smile, is in the center of the photo. My best friend, Freddie Hansen, sits next to me in the front row. Girls were already swooning over Freddie's dreamy eyes, silky black hair, and brooding personality. Brenda's best friend and my crush, Rendell Rousseau, a blonde-haired beauty with sparkling blue eyes, a buttery southern drawl, and a budding body, sits directly behind me. She wasn't as impressed with me as I was with her, but that didn't stop me from trying to impress her. Frowning threateningly, Kyle Dragic, the class bully, stands in the back row with the other oversized underachievers.

Brenda Dykeman died a horrible death on the first day of summer when she was twelve years old, but she never really left us because we saw her ghost every night.

Brenda was one of the happiest kids I've ever known. Her favorite color was green, and she always wore some shade of it. She always smelled of pachouli, long before it was the mystical scent of hippies. Brenda loved to play games, it didn't matter if it was baseball, jacks, or tag. She was especially fond of kickball.

She also liked to stick her head out the backseat window to enjoy the breeze. Brenda was doing just that on the first day of summer as her dad was driving her to day camp. He was thinking about the important meeting he was missing. He swerved around a stalled car, nearly riding up on the sidewalk.

Brenda was looking the other way and never saw the telephone pole that tore her head off.

***

Brenda had an unfulfilled crush on Freddie. Freddie’s only drawback was his size. All the other guys seemed to be experiencing a growth spurt. I was already five-foot-eight, but Freddie was still a squirt, maybe five-foot-five, making him fair game for Kyle. Brenda and Freddie met on the lunch line when Kyle tried to bully Freddie.

Kyle pushed himself onto the line in front of Freddie.

“Hey, don’t cut the line,” Freddie said boldly.

“Get outta the way, short stack, or you’ll spend lunch in the nurse’s office.”

Freddie’s burst of bravery dissipated.

Kyle looked down at Freddie’s tray.

“Mmm, Sloppy Joe’s,” he said, swirling his finger around in Freddie’s food. “I like Sloppy Joe’s.”

I was about to step in, but Brenda beat me to it, smacking Kyle on the back of his head.

“You got an appointment or something, Frankenstein?”

“Mind your own business, freckles.”

“So, you like Sloppy Joe’s, eh, jumbo?” Brenda asked.

“Yeah. What’s it to you?”

Brenda picked up Freddie’s plate, dumping it over Kyle’s head.

Kyle went ballistic. Balling up his fists, his words spewed from his mouth like bullets.

“Why you, skinny dalmatian… I oughtta…”

“You ought to do nothing. What? You’re gonna hit a girl? Listen closely, Moby Dick. If you so much as look at Freddie the wrong way, you’re gonna suffer the embarrassment of getting your tail kicked by a girl.”

From that moment on, Freddie and Brenda shared a brief and unrequited love for one another.

***

Brenda's parents, particularly her father, were devastated by her death. He never forgave himself, climbing into a bottle, while his soon-to-be ex-wife was comforted by his brother. Brenda was buried in Oakwood Cemetery, which happened to be across the street from Freddie's house.

Freddie spent the first few weeks of summer in a state of shock. I’d throw him the ball during warm-ups before our baseball games, and it would sail past him as if he weren’t there. He’d sit at the end of the bench, showing no inclination toward playing. He just stared straight ahead, looking as if he were going to cry. Once the coach put him in as a pinch hitter with the bases loaded and the game on the line. He never swung the bat. Fortunately, the opposing pitcher couldn’t throw a strike, so Freddie walked, and we won the game. He was oblivious to us carrying him around like a conquering emperor.

Freddie finally broke free from his grief when Brenda’s parents gave him a picture of her. He kept it by his bedside. Sometimes when he thought no one was listening, he’d speak to it.

***

It wasn't long after Brenda's funeral that kids started saying they'd seen her ghost in the cemetery. Freddie and I saw it one night too, from a safe distance near the gate. It wasn't lost on us that the only part of Brenda that anyone saw was her smiling, freckled face illuminated by a pale green light.

Most of the kids were too scared to try to find out why Brenda had chosen to haunt us. A couple of guys who thought they were tough tried to get to Brenda's grave, but they ran away screaming when Smokey confronted them. Smokey was the cemetery's German Shepard guard dog. He belonged to Conrad Bellinger, the fat, frowning caretaker. Bellinger didn't like people, especially kids. The way Belinger trained Smokey led us to believe he didn't like dogs much either. He kept Smokey tied to a thick metal chain during the day, letting him roam freely at night through the cemetery to kill squirrels, cats, and anything else with a pulse he could sink his teeth into.

All the kids thought that Smokey was more human than dog. Most dogs tend to avoid eye contact with people. Smokey dared you to look him in the eye - and when you did, you were the one who turned away.

Smokey's most unnerving trait was that he never barked. Instead, he had a low, sustained bear-like growl that left no doubt he intended to harm you. During the day, when he was chained up near Bellinger's cottage, he'd sit in the dirt outside of a doghouse that was too small for him, snarling at anyone who got too close. If you were cocky or stupid and moved closer, Smokey would stand up, grumbling as he stalked you. Having been held captive for a dozen years, Smokey knew the exact length of his chain and would stop before it choked him. Then he'd lock eyes with you, daring you to come closer.

***

Frankie Cincinnati thought he was brave enough to face Smokey. Frankie was as slick as his jet-black hair. He was a fast talker with a sly smile and was a peerless liar. Sometimes he believed too much of his own bull. He needed all of his skills the day Smokey stood on his hind legs, put his paws on Frankie's shoulders, and leaned forward until his sharp teeth were inches away from Frankie's face.

Smokey licked his chops ravenously. His steamy, hellish breath made Frankie wilt.

Frankie begged Smokey not to kill him. "It was a joke," he said, "I didn't mean to disrespect you. I know what it's like to be mistreated, to be beaten and told you're no good."

Frankie knew nothing of the sort. He came from a good family that treated their only son as if he had a hotline to the Vatican.

Frankie and Smokey stood staring at each other. The only sound we could hear was Frankie whimpering as he peed his pants. Then Smokey snapped at him. Frankie fell backward in the dirt as Smokey reverted to all fours.

Frankie saw his chance to escape. Rolling in the dirt, he sprang to his feet.

Frankie was still in Smokey's range, but Smokey didn't strike, allowing Frankie to scamper away. For a moment, I thought I saw empathy in Smokey's bloodshot eyes.

Freddie and I often joked that someday, we'd do better than Frankie, that we'd be the heroes who faced Brenda's ghost.

Kyle heard us bragging. "You two wimps don't have the guts to go into the cemetery at night, and there's no way you're gettin' by Smokey."

I knew Freddie would take the bait.

***

Standing at the cemetery gate at night with a dozen anxious classmates, Freddie and I began to have our doubts. Kyle reveled in our hesitation.

“That a yellow streak I see runnin' up your back, Hamilton?” he asked me.

Flapping his fat arms up and down, Kyle danced like a chicken.

“BAWK! BAWK!”

“They're not afraid!” Rendell insisted.

Turning to me, Rendell batted her long eyelashes, drawling, “You're not afraid, are you, Craig?”

“BAWK! BAWK!”

Grabbing me, Rendell pulled me into her grasp, kissing me on the cheek. I practically floated through the gate.

Crickets and cicadas chirped loudly, as if to say, “You fools!”

Freddie and I cautiously walked down the path leading to Brenda's grave.

“How come there's no streetlights in a graveyard?” Freddie asked nervously.

“I don't think the people here need them,” I replied.

I turned to look behind us. The silhouettes of the kids watching us faded into the darkness.

“You think we can sneak by Smokey?” Freddie asked.

We received an immediate answer. Smokey appeared in front of us, growling menacingly.

“I think he's telling us this is as far as he's going to let us go," Freddie said. “If you really think that trick you talked about before will work, now's the time to use it.”

I slowly pulled the backpack I'd been carrying off my shoulder.

Smokey took several threatening steps forward.

I reached inside the backpack. Pulling out a slab of slightly cooked steak I'd swiped from the house, I tossed it aside.

Smokey watched where it landed but continued to study us.

“I think he knows he can kill us first and still have the meat,” Freddie said.

Dismissing us with a huff, Smokey padded off, gorging himself on the steak.

Freddie and I continued down the path.

A green light flickered on ahead of us. Brenda Dykeman's smiling face appeared.

Freddie and I grabbed each other. Realizing that's not how heroes act, we quickly pushed each other away.

“You scared?”

“Definitely,” I replied.

We turned to retreat. Smokey blocked our exit.

“I hope you brought more than just one piece of steak, Craig.”

I threw Smokey another hunk of meat. He seemed to nod as if granting us permission to go ahead.

Freddie and I inched toward Brenda's grave.

Wide-eyed and no longer feeling like heroes, we looked down at her smiling face.

No lightning. No demons. No boogieman. Brenda just looked at us, smiling.

“Something's not right,” I said.

“She hasn't blinked,” Freddie noted.

“Yeah. It's like she's staring right through us.”

I moved to the side of the grave. Freddie slowly followed.

“She hasn't turned her head,” Freddie remarked. “She's still looking straight ahead. It's like she can't see us.”

“She can't,” I replied, pointing at the ground.

A life-sized image of Brenda's face had been etched into her tombstone. A fluorescent pale green light that was partially embedded in the ground illuminated the photo.

“Our ghost is a picture,” Freddie said in an almost disappointed tone.

“Yeah. When it gets dark, the light comes on,” I said.

“You think the other kids are still watching us?”

“Yeah, especially Rendell and Kyle.”

“This has to be a secret just between you and me, Craig... It's too bad. I really wanted to see Brenda again, to talk to her.”

Freddie sniffed the air.

“You smell that?”

“What?”

“Pachouli.”

A green mist poured from the light. Both of us stepped back as it enveloped the grave.

Brenda appeared in front of us dressed in green, just as we'd known her in life.

“Hi...Hi Brenda.”

“Hello, Craig. Hi Freddie. You guys wanna play kickball?”

“We...We didn't bring a ball with us,” Freddie stammered.

“Let's play something. I've been so lonely.”

“Where have you been, Brenda?” I asked.

“I dunno.”

“Is it a place? A room?”

“I guess. It's always green here. I used to love green, but now, I dunno. There's always a green light around me except for a white light ahead of me.”

“You should go to that light,” I said.

“I don't want to. I'm scared.”

Freddie's tone became soft and soothing. “You, scared? Never. You put fat Kyle in his place… There are kids on the other side of that light, kids like us. Kids you can play with.”

“Will you come with me, Freddie?”

“Someday, Brenda. We'll all be there someday.”

“We need you to go ahead of us, to be our leader,” I said.

Brenda gave us a radiant smile.

“I'll be waiting.”

The fluorescent light sizzled, burning out. Brenda's image dissolved, and the pale green fog surrounding her grave began to fade.

***

I force myself to stand, but the numbing pain in my knee makes me plop back down in the chair.

“Atta boy, killer. You’re sure not twelve anymore.”

Giving the faded class picture a last look, a wave of melancholy washes over me as I recall the fate of my classmates.

As we got older, Kyle stopped bullying others, abusing himself instead. An addict, he lived a useless life and died a pointless death, shot at the age of twenty-six after welching on a bet.

Smokey broke loose from his chain one afternoon, mauling Bellinger so hideously he had to wear a mask to cover the claw marks on his face. Smokey attacked everyone he came across - everyone except Frankie Cincinnati. Frankie later claimed that Smokey had gazed at him apologetically. The cop who put Smokey down said Smokey looked him in the eye as if he was begging him to shoot.

All my efforts to impress Rendell couldn't prevent her family from moving to Texas a year later. I met my true love in college, built homes for a living, and still thrill my grandkids with slightly embellished tales about Smokey and the smiling ghost.

I went to Freddie's funeral today. He was a month shy of seventy-two. He used to say, even after three sons, a daughter, four grandkids, and 50 years of wedded bliss, that he still wondered what life would have been like with Brenda.

Wherever they are, I bet they're playing kickball.