Chapter Five

“Mama? Who are we meeting today?” Ansel asked his mother. They had been walking forever and his feet were getting sore. If they kept on walking at the same hurried pace like this he was sure he’d have blisters to deal with later on. Though he kept these thoughts and concerns to himself. He knew better than to mention any of them aloud. His mama would have yelled at him if he had done so. She was still upset that his father hadn’t fixed the car yet. Ansel didn’t understand what was wrong with the car, or how hard it would have been to fix it. But he did know that they didn’t have the money to pay anyone to fix it. And that was all he felt that he needed to know. That and daddy would fix it soon. He was always fixing things for mama. Even if she had yelled at him about it, all the time.

“I told you before,” Mama’s voice was crisp and frustrated, as it always was when he asked her things, “You need to listen harder, Ansel. We’re going to see your grandfather. Grandpa Joseph. He’s going to watch you for a little while. While I go to my appointment. You’ll be fine. As long as you’re a good boy, I’m sure you’ll have a fine time with him,” his mother’s face remained stoic and focused.

When her face was like this it reminded Ansel of a ferret, or even of a small mean puppy dog. One of the little ones that always looked angry, even when it really wasn’t. The real difference between those things and his mother though, as Ansel suspected was that his mother really was and always has been unhappy. He couldn’t recall the last time she looked at him and had smiled brightly. Let alone the last time she had ever smiled for that matter. “You will be good, won’t you?” His mother’s eyes pierced through him, examining him, and he hoped, hadn’t found anything missing or out of place. He was more scared of her than of daddy. Daddy had at least smirked when Ansel said or did something foolish. Mama, she did not smile.

“Yes, ma’am” he murmured.

His mother looked away with disinterest in her expression, her pace quickened without releasing Ansel’s tiny hand from within her own. He staggered to keep up with her. A metal bracelet on her hand dragged itself mercilessly against his arm. He kept his mouth shut on the matter. Her long strides helped him ignore it. He walked faster instead.

The street and all of the houses along it zipped by as they raced along this part of the city. It had a name that he liked, sounded something like an apple. But he didn’t know what kind of apple it would have been. Something delicious and red if he had to bet on it. Ansel saw more and more people sitting on their front porches. Some of them were smoking from small, crumbling apart looking bits of cigarettes. Their eyes keenly watched Ansel and his mother as they both passed on by. Searching them both for something that little Ansel was sure they did not have with them. Though what it was he could not have guessed.

His mother kept her eyes locked straight ahead, keeping her face focused on some point in the distance, and not deigning the observations of the people on their crumbled front porches with even a cursory passing glance. A few had begun trying to get her attention, though Ansel’s mother also ignored these leery men with benign grace, and more than righteous fury written upon her scowling face. She ignored their catcalling and offers for other things that Ansel didn’t understand, yet knew he far better that he shouldn’t ask anything about them. That would only upset his Mama. And she looked right mad as it already was.

Little Ansel squeezed tightly at his mother’s hand. And soon they were safely past the scary houses and the scary men who had been watching them. The buildings now no longer had any men on their porches. The windows were no longer watching them with undisguised disdain and loathing. Yet Ansel was still afraid. He had never been here, and he had never met this person before. Not that he’d know of anyways.

“Is Grandpa Joseph, is he a nice man?” Ansel asked this with great caution, knowing the danger of his question he’d waited until they had paused at a crosswalk. His mother didn’t answer him right away; she remained busy, watching the crosswalk in front of them with more interest than what she normally would have given to him. Ansel wasn’t sure she had even heard him. She made no sign if she had or hadn’t at all. He didn’t ask again. He was too scared to do so.

The light changed and they began walking again. And once they had safely crossed the street, his mother sighed and turned towards Ansel, “Your Grandfather is old. He’s been alone for a long time now. Since your grandmother passed away. I don’t know if he is a good, or a bad man. And none of that matters today. Just be good for him and I’ll pick you up later tonight. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” and Ansel meant it, with all of his heart. He did his best to always mean what he said when talking to his mother. He’d hoped it made her feel less angry. Even just a little bit.

Suddenly, as if in the snapping of some fingers, they were there. He didn’t remember arriving at the house but there they were all the same, right on the faded blue wooden porch of the oldest house Ansel had ever seen in his short life. All of the building’s colors had nearly washed away, all that remained behind were both dark and grey looking. The blue on the wood of the porch was chipping off in sharp looking flakes. The front door was near enough in worse shape than the porch was. Though it even had a large faded bronze ring adorned on it for knocking.

His mother pounded on the door with her fist, “Dad, we’re here!”

Ansel noticed his mother’s face as it had remained all morning, unchanged and fierce. His mother looked upset. Ansel hoped that it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t done anything to be a burden to her. He’d even been able to keep up with how fast she had pulled him through the city streets. From his perspective, it had always ended up being something that he had done that add more to that look. Furthering her bad feelings towards him. He had walked as fast as he could. He didn’t slow her down, not even a little bit, honest. He hoped she knew he loved her for being his mama. He hoped that she-

The large door creaked inwards; the bottom of its warping edges scrapped against the floor inside with a sickening, dragging noise that Ansel did not like at all.

“Good morning, Maxine.”

A little old man was in the doorway, his face looked both cold and unwelcoming. Mama looked just like him. Ansel didn’t think that he looked anything like this old man. If anything Ansel though he looked more like his father than his mother.

“You look well.” Even the man’s voice sounded as old as he looked. Perhaps even older than that.

“Morning? Dad, it’s nearly two in the afternoon. Are you just now getting up? Whatever, anyways, I need to be getting going. I’m late as it is already. Remember what we talked about. I’ll be back by later on tonight to pick him up,” before the old man with the unpleasant looking face (a dried up apple, that’s what came to Ansel’s mind) could say anything else, Ansel’s mother had left. Leaving the two of them alone on the porch staring at one another.

Ansel ground his foot into the wooden floorboards, feeling the wood give out a little beneath him. He could see and feel the layer of paint peel away with little effort against his small shoes. He stopped grinding his heels when the man spoke.

“What’s your name, little boy?” This scary man that looked like his mother asked him.

Ansel had a hard time looking the man in the eye. He focused on the hooked and crooked nose to see if that helped. The eyes of the man pierced him like mama’s did, they even had the same off shade of blue that hers had. “I thought that she would have told you my name already?” Ansel chirped out. He was trying to be good and brave for his mama.

The old man, just at the corner of his mouth, smiled, and nowhere else on his face it seemed, reflected this fact. “Not to speak ill of your mother in front of you,” he paused, and nodded to himself, “She was never one for making introductions. And I need to make sure that you aren’t a vampire or something horrible like that. You’re not a vampire, are you?”

Ansel shook his head, “No, sir.”

“Good, good. You’d probably tell me if you were one. It’s in their rules. They need to tell you if they are a vampire if you ask them. I was worried I’d have to cook you a steak with some garlic in it or something like that if you ended up being a vampire. Do you like steak? No, I don’t think I could afford to do that today anyways. So darn expensive. Especially if I have to learn how to cook it.

“There we go, a little smile now. I guess you’re not a monster after all. At least not a vampire. Might be something else. Something worse…” The old man sighed, “Before I forget and we’re stuck out here forever, I’m you’re Grandpa Jo.” He bent down and extended a hand to Ansel. “Don’t pull me forward when you shake my hand. I’m old and fall over quite easily. And I doubt either of us could help me to get back up.”

Ansel smiled, “My name is Ansel. It is nice to meet you,” he shook his grandfather’s hand as well as any child could. The larger hand encompassing the small sticky and sweaty one.

“You can call me Lord grandpa. Or just Grandpa Jo. As long as you don’t call me Philis,” he gave a sharp frown, “never call me Philis. Do you want to know why?”

Ansel shook his head slowly. An emphatic ‘no’.

“Well I’ll tell you anyways. It may become important later on.”

His grandfather stood back up, his body creaked and crackled more than the floorboards had when the door opened. His grandfather was much taller than Ansel had realized. Much, much taller. Might have even been taller than Ansel’s father if they stood side by side. Though Ansel was sure he wouldn’t have been able to tell who ended up being the taller of the both of them, given that he couldn’t see that high.

His grandfather led Ansel inside and closed the door behind them. It made the same horrible noise, though softer then.

“When I was a child, a little one mind you, I had a sister. And our mother would always have this nasty, hurtful, awful habit of having forgotten who was who. I know. I know! I know. I have such a beautiful face and figure about me that it makes sense she would get me, a boy at the time, and my ugly sister, who I hope was a girl, I never took the time to ask her if she was or wasn’t actually…But our mother would go about and always get us both mixed up and jumbled together.

“But, this was not the case. I was an ugly child. Looked like you, a bit, but I frowned more than you do, and I had far less teeth in my mouth. They had a fun habit of falling out whenever I was talking for too long. You understand, I’m sure. Anyways, she just called us both by both of our names until one of us reacted. This went on until we both got jobs and moved away from home. Oh, to be seven again! How old are you now? I see…and what was your name again? Frank, or something like that? Oh, I’m sorry. Ansel. Ansel. I need to remember that. Such a strong little boy name…perhaps too strong…”

Ansel sat down on the oldest looking couch he had ever seen; it actually had a storm of cobwebs that looked crusted over and dry beneath it. All of them had long since been forgotten by their spider weavers and left to drape around the legs of the furniture. Each individual thread was falling apart and waving in an unseen breeze as Ansel kicked his legs, back and forth, back and forth, watching at times as they would dangle above the floor.

Ansel hadn’t yet realized that he had not stopped smiling since he had shaken his grandfather’s hand. He enjoyed listening to this man, his grandfather, ramble on and on for hours. Entirely and completely enthralled with all the old man had to said. The more ridiculous the better.

Why he had never met Grandpa Jo would bother him later on. And the nagging feeling that there was a reason his mother had left him there so quickly, without saying so much of anything to the man as well. But Ansel, being such a little boy quickly forgot these grown up and mature things. All of these collected thoughts quickly fell away, and instead Ansel focused on how silly his grandfather was. And how easily he could jump from one thought to another without taking more than a breath to clear his mind first.

After they ate lunch his grandfather stood up and stretched himself out to his full length and height. He towered over the little boy, and most of the higher up things about the room.

“Now then,” his grandpa announced with a clap of his hands, “since we’ve had a quick little lunch and have so very little time to do things for the day. Would you, little busy man, please help me with a project?”

Ansel nodded without hesitation. Before thinking that he should have asked what the case was. Or what the word project meant.

His grandfather, clearly expecting more resistance out of the boy, was taken aback by the lack of hesitation. The disregard for whatever work was ahead was something he did not count on. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet. There is no possible way that I’ve won you over with a simple chicken sandwich and my silly little stories. My awful rambling tales of nothing had to have bored you down so you’d agree to just about anything would be my guess. My speculation as it were, my good man. All filled with pointless nonsensical things that rarely ever, ever, even reach a feasible point of clarity.”

“I love your stories though. They’re funny.” Ansel nodded as he said this. And he meant it too. His grandfather’s stories were interesting and made him laugh and smile.

Grandpa Jo warmly smiled at the boy. Then, he shook his head and wiped the tip of his nose. “You are a good man, little Ansel. Little small now, but you’ll be a great big man someday. Now then, would you be so gracious and kind enough as to help me organize the clutter in the attic of this fine dining establishment. No need for that face. I’m not making you do all of the cleaning and organizing all by your own lonesome.

“I just need a spare set of hands to put things into boxes with me. That, and, to listen to my ramblings for a bit longer. I, I tend to get lost in my stories, Ansel. When I’m up in the attic by myself the memories tend to get the better of me. It may happen, and it’ll help to have some else there who can remind me that I’m just a silly old man who needs to finish cleaning already. At least finish before the spiders come back and start paying the rent. And hey, who knows, I may even have a pirate hat or two you could take with you when you leave.”

Ansel looked down at his shoes, “Mother wouldn’t let me keep it. If it’s something like that, she says I need to stop being childish and to grow up.”

“Well then,” his grandfather scratched at the white stubble that marched over and around his jawline like ants, “I suppose you could keep that sort of nonsense here then. Saves on the postage it would take to send it out with you. And if we play things right. Maybe, just maybe, your mama will let you come back here and play with that sort of thing sometime. Maybe even soon too. But enough of hopeful thinkings. Now is the time for action, and adventure, but no-”, he dragged out the length of the ‘no’ for several seconds, letting it deflate like a large balloon, “-romance. I have no time for that. And I’m sure your arms are tired from beating the ladies off of you with a stick. You, you have no idea what I mean, do you? All the better then. You’re much too old to find any interest in silly things like that anyways. Now, off to the attic for the high seas of adventure and cleaning. High ho, and away!”

Ansel laughed and followed Grandpa Jo up the stairs and to a long hallway with a dangling rope hanging from a square section of the ceiling. The carpet felt squeaky beneath his shoes.

“I’m sorry, Ansel. But the entrance to the attic is a closely guarded secret. It isn’t that I don’t trust you or anything like that, you see,” his Grandfather kept looking around cautiously for any unseen overhearing snoops. “Would you please turn around? I don’t know if I can trust you with the secret just yet as I said. You might tell that dreaded mailman. Or any in his legions of meanies. Now, no peeking, please. This is really important to me. Stop giggling. It’s distracting. I need to remember the magic words before they slip away again. Pesky little bugger, magic words. They do all sorts of things but they just can’t stay still for me. These words have been in our family for at least forty years. So they’re important too. As well as being filled with magic and who knows what have you.”

He cleared his throat with a thunderous cough, then he shouted, “I’ll have a peanut butter sandwich!”

Ansel giggled. And behind him he heard something move and thud against the floor near where his grandfather was standing.

“Can I turn around now?”

“I’d hope so. Otherwise you’d have to climb up a ladder backwards. And, uh, that wouldn’t be fun for anyone. Least of all for me. Turn around already. And come on up. We’ve got adventuring and cleaning to get to,” his grandfather waited until Ansel was up in the attic before joining after him. It was Ansel’s first time climbing a ladder, let alone being in an attic. It felt like being in a snow globe, only warmer, and dustier than he would have expected it to have been. Though he realized, he’d never been in a snow globe either. And had quite no idea what that would have been like either.

The attic was unlike anything Ansel had seen before. An uncontrollable mess that spanned the length of all that he could see. A winter wonderland of boxes of all sizes and colors. There was a streak of light coming from the windows on the left side of the attic, cutting a swarth across the bits of dust that drifted around unhindered and unabated in the ocean that was the attic itself. The larger chunks of floating debris looked more like jellyfish to Ansel than broken bits of cobwebs covered in dust. He giggled when he thought about it. Little jellyfish that floated around, locked in an attic. How silly that would be to see.

His grandfather scoffed, “What’s so funny now? Can’t a man collect a lifetime of useless junk without being judged by little boys?”

“It looks like a sunken ship,” Ansel murmured. He stared at the window. The corners of the panels were chipping and breaking around the glass, leaving sharp streaks that cast odd shadows over the walls.

“Wait. You weren’t laughing at the things up here? Just how the room itself looked? Be honest now. I’m more than a dust mite sensitive about my things up here. It is after all everything I’ve ever collected and hoarded. Oh, you…What about jellyfish? Speak up. It’s so loud up here that I can’t hear you, Ansel.”

“Those stringy things looks like floating jellyfish! And the boxes look like treasure chests!” Ansel shouted so very, very loud to be heard over the staticky silence the attic covered everything with.

The old man smiled at Ansel, “Now, now. I can hear you just fine, Ansel. No need to shout so much. I’m sorry for being so sensitive. We are both men after all. As I said, we are also on an adventure up here. Over here I started going through these boxes the last time, I. Well. When I had the energy to go through things back then. Not so much strength now left in my body. Sifting through the past as it were is quite exhausting work. Hand me that little box, would you? The one over by the, ah, here we are. Thank you. This box here is filled with pictures and projects I did back in school when I was about your age. How old are you again? I forgot, honest. Leave more of an impression when you speak. I’m old and interesting. There is no excuse…I’m only teasing. No need for all of that now. I’m sorry…”

Ansel pouted and sat down on a sturdy box labeled ‘old chairs’, it was less comfortable than he had expected a sturdy box labeled ‘old chairs’ to have been. Given the label and all.

“I really am sorry, Ansel. I tend to get mean when I talk. And it’s a little late in the game for me to change that now. But I will try to be nicer. Especially when I’m joking around. I promise, I pinky promise even. I’ll be nicer all around. You’ll see!”

“What’s a pinky promise?”

“What-” Grandpa Jo wore an incredulous look. He was clearly more than a little genuinely shocked at the question, let alone the person that had asked it, “-is a pinky, promise? Here, stick out your pinky like this. No, no. Like this now. There, then I do this with my own pinky finger.

“And now I make an unbreakable promise that I will try my best to sound less mean when I am attempting to joke around with you. I pinky promise it. Now that that is out of the way, bring that empty box over there closer, please. Boy, you’re pretty handy for a first mate,” his grandfather smiled at some of the framed pictures that were piled up around him, before placing them back down in the empty box. It wasn’t long before Ansel grabbed a second, then a third box to fill up with his grandfather’s old memories. There were so very many things to put away. And countless empty boxes to do just that with.

“Here, I had to be, oh, eight or so. Look at that horrible haircut. No wonder my mother couldn’t remember my name. I’d have forgotten it as well if I looked like that all the time.”

Ansel laughed and smiled. The child in the photograph did not look so ridiculous. If anything, they looked like a happy little child, just like Ansel tried to be. The child, in the photograph had the same expression mama wore when she was busy, or even when she was mad about anything at all really. Scrunched forehead and busy eyes. Ansel wondered if he looked like that at times.

“Were your parents nice people?” Ansel asked. They were not in any of the photographs, and as such he had naturally grown more than curious about what they were like. As a child is wont to do when something odd arises.

“Well,” his grandfather scratched the back of his neck, thinking it over. “They were fine. I suppose. Little caught up in their own ways. But, alright all the same. I, I don’t remember seeing my own father smile much. Funny, isn’t that? Does your dad smile, Ansel? Mine was always busy, and always tired, and by God he was always mad too. About anything that crossed over and into his path. Only person I saw that could get more mad than that man, was, well, I guess my mother.

“Boy, was she always mad too. One time me and the neighborhood boys were roaming around the streets. Just cruising the neighborhood for something to do. We would get bored easily then, as I am sure children, such as yourself, do nowadays as well. And we ended up stopping by the Mulligan house. Heh…” Grandpa Jo was quiet for a moment, a smile on his face as the memory played itself out began to grow. Though his eyes seemed to glaze over in a way, they took on a shine that Ansel didn’t understand. As if his grandfather stopped being in front of him, and instead was now very far away.

“What did you do at the Mulligan house?” Ansel asked as he looked over several pictures that were staring up at him from in his grandfather’s hands. Little Grandpa Jo in a little suit, oddly fitted and much too big around his shoulders. Grandpa Jo and another little kid, a girl that looked sort of like him were in it. They were on a beach, grinning in the afternoon sun that shined grey and bright behind them. A seagull off in the distance.

His grandfather shook his head until he had lost the odd shine from in his eyes, “We didn’t do anything worth being upset over. Nothing more than toss a few stones at the windows. That’s all. Nothing outrageous, or bad even as they would have thought we were capable of doing. My parents were always so very much serious and jumped to conclusions without giving me, or anyone else for that matter, a chance.” He shrugged and sighed, as older folk are wanting to do at the ghosts of memories passed. “But that was a long time ago. I should let myself forget things like that, for all they are worth.”

“What about the people who lived there?” Little Ansel was curious. His mother would never let him wander around like that. Especially not with other kids around his own age. Though there were none in their neighborhood, none that Ansel had known off anyways.

“Oh?” His grandfather squinted his eyes, “No one had lived there for a long time. You see, the family that lived there had left town after Molly and Joan died in that car accident. Terrible, just terrible business that was. It was such a sad time for all of us as well. What? Oh, they were the daughters. The Mulligan’s were a big family and after the accident, the one where the daughters had died, they then moved back up north where the grandparents had still lived. I believe that’s where they went anyways.

“I remember Molly and Joan too; they went to the same school the rest of us went to. Pretty girls. Joan was a friend of my sister. And Molly was friend’s with some other kids that I knew. It wasn’t a large town that we lived in, and all of the kids knew one another. In any case, their house was something else. After everyone had left and moved away, the rest of us kids found out that it was, well, please don’t laugh now. Honest, it was haunted. Don’t give me that look. I’m being serious here. After all we were out adventuring and that’s why we ended up throwing rocks at it. The house I mean.” He paused and thought aloud, Ansel nearly jumped when he whispered, “I guess, to scare the ghost off?”

Ansel attempted to wave away some of the floating mites of dust from his face. A slight shiver walked along his spine, a shiver that his grandfather couldn’t help but to notice. And without saying anything about it, he pulled out a large coat from one of the boxes, and shook the years off of it, and covered Ansel with it. Ansel smiled, the fur coat was warm and comfortable. It even felt safe with how soft it was.

“We threw rocks, like I was saying,” Grandpa Jo started over, before continuing on, “Someone had told us, I don’t remember who anymore. They told us that if you toss rocks and stones at a haunted house, that it’ll scare the ghost away from the place and they can move on to someplace else.”

Ansel smiled, cozy in the old coat. He watched a beam of light moved across the room, a passing car in the street below most likely, “So they would go to heaven?”

“I’d like to believe so. Yes. But, it was bad luck to throw anything and break a window. You probably knew that. What am I saying? It’s still bad luck! Even you’d know that, I’m sure. What’s that? I said that already? Sorry. My mind is…Oh, I believe that it’s something between five and ten years of bad luck all together. All depends on how badly the glass shatters and breaks, I’d guess.

“I tossed three rocks. First one hit the door. Thump! Second had hit the railing along the porch. Ding! It was made of metal, I think? The third rock? Oh boy, the third rock had hit and went straight on through the big window on the side of the house. Crash, boom, pow, tingle! Tingling bits of all the little bits of glass fell and began breaking apart. You could hear it all from outside and by the road where we had stood.

“What are you smiling about? Glass makes those sounds. I promise you that it does. Now, don’t interrupt. I’m telling a ghost story here. And don’t go breaking any windows or anything like that. It’s bad luck. And it’ll follow you for the rest of your life if you aren’t careful about it. I’ve had enough bad luck since then to know better than to wish that sort of luck on anyone else. How old was I even when that window broke? Eight or so…” Grandpa Jo was silent again, his eyes took on that odd shine again as he mouthed out numbers before giving up on figuring it out. “Doesn’t matter anyways. However long ago it’s been since I threw that rock has been too long. And in any case, the window shattered apart, gloriously I may add. Glass shards falling down and breaking with fragile shattering tingling sounds. Honest, if it wasn’t for the shock of it all I would say even that it was beautiful. But there, up in the top corner window, on the edges by the attic window. I saw her. I don’t think the others did though. But, by God as my ultimate and final witness, I sure as hell saw her there. Watching over at all of us throw things at her house.”

“Who?” Ansel leaned forward, his breathe caught just outside of his throat from the excitement welling up inside. Despite the fur coat that enveloped warmly around him, the chill of the story seemed to seep its way deep into his little bones, with a tendril like viciousness that the cold was able to achieve. “Who, who did you see, in the window watching you?”

“Molly Mulligan. She was there! Just, watching us. Her strawberry blonde hair, curled up how she liked to have it kept. Honest. She really was there. I was like to have jumped out of my skin if I didn’t forget to breath. The others didn’t see her. But there she was all the same. Right as rain she looked. She just stood there. Watching us throw things at her house.

“It was, an odd feeling. I felt guilty and sad seeing her up there, staring down at everyone. And a little happy at the same time. She, or her ghost I guess it would have been, didn’t look all that sad. And it had been so long since she had… See she had died quite some time before then. I don’t recall now how long ago it had been before that day but…What now? Oh, this, just some dust in my eyes is all that is. Mites of dust up here are so large that they spin their own webs in the corners. You don’t even need to look so carefully to find them. Look over there, there’s one right in the rafters above you. Some of their webs could probably catch a cat or two. No need to worry though. You and I are much bigger than a few cats are,” Grandpa Jo smiled and went back to sorting the pictures in his hands. Once he had gone through another small stack, he set them aside into a box and stood up and stretched. “You about ready to get out of here. I’m a little done with ghosts for the day.” Ansel’s grandfather shook away a sudden chill. “I- I need a break from all of them. That’s the problem with ghost, Ansel. They never know when to properly tell people when it’s time to leave. Instead they are always haunting around somewhere and waiting around for more company to join them. I mean honestly, what sort of conversation could be had with someone that just says things like, ‘boo’, or whatever it would be that ghost like to say to one another.

“Watch your step now. It’s always easier going up than it is going back down. A good life lesson to remember. There you go. Climbing down ladders like a champion already. If I hadn’t known you for so long I would have guessed you’d been doing this sort of thing your entire life. Your mother should go and sign you up to climb ladders at a professional level. Well, maybe not. You’ll need to put in the work if you want to go professional. And that sounds like a lot of ups and downs to go through.”

“What would a professional ladder climber, person? What would they do?” Talking with Grandpa Jo made Ansel’s head spin. He talked so fast and fluidly. Each thought seemed to come with its own stories and ecosystem. All within its own world with his grandfather’s commentary on why it was whatever way it was that way, let alone what he would have different about it given the chance to change it.

His grandfather shrugged and patted Ansel on the head, “Probably clean gutters or change light bulbs for little old people. Anyone who couldn’t do it themselves.”

“Like you?” Ansel covered his mouth once the words had already escaped. But it was too late. They had already escaped, and his grandfather had heard him say them aloud.

Grandpa Jo froze in place, then he turned around slowly. He now stood below Ansel on the staircase and blocked the only way down with his large body. Ansel felt ready to jump out of his own skin and make a break for it, when his grandfather laughed at him.

Loudly and heartily he laughed and laughed. His hand fell to his chest and began rubbing the spot above his heart. “Yes, little, sweet, and direct Ansel. Little old people like me. Without a doubt on earth of that. Don’t you worry your head none now. I’m not mad at you for calling me ‘old’! No, honest I’m not. That was both funny, and sadly for me, very much true as well. I’m too old and frail to hold grudges. I won’t live long enough to see them through anyways. So I just don’t carry them anymore. I always tend to forget things like them before breakfast. Sometimes even before that.

“But on an entirely unrelated, and quite altogether different note with nothing to do with all of that. Can you help me change the gutters, or clean that lightbulb over there? It’s oh so, very much too high for me to reach. And I am, oh, quite so quite old,” Grandpa Jo smiled disarmingly towards Ansel and they sat in front of the single television in the house in the living room. “I promise you that I won’t shake the ladder once you’re on it. Pinky promise even!”

Ansel watched sesame street while his grandfather read a book next to him. Ansel knew he had no hope of attempting to pronounce the title of his grandfather’s book. It looked both complicated and entirely without any pictures from what he could see. Just rows and rows of endless words. And so that was how they quietly spent the remainder of the visit, both enjoying the easy last bit of daylight before everything darkened outside of the little old house. When it was entirely dark outside Ansel seemed to have been already very much asleep. Grandpa Jo covered him with a soft quilted blanket as he lay on the couch. Then he silently turned down the volume on the television set. Using the dials on the right side of the screen to do so. It was an older model with those large dials instead of the usual buttons that Ansel was accustomed to seeing. He had noted it as big bird was saying something earlier on.

“Grandpa?” Ansel murmured from under the blanket. He was losing the battle to keep his eyes awake. The count was what was doing the trick for him. Each little number was pulling him back into a dream. One, ah, ah, ah. Two…

“Yes, Ansel?” His grandfather stood in the doorway, his hand on the light switch, ready to blanket the room in rest filled darkness.

“Was that true? Earlier when you saw a ghost? Was that true?”

“Every word,” Grandpa Jo nodded, and turned out the light. Ansel heard his grandpa’s reassuring voice from the doorway, “Ghost can be real. They don’t mean anyone any harm to no one for any reason. Best I can tell, they only show themselves and haunt people. People that they like. Or just people they have something to say something to. But, Ansel, you shouldn’t be afraid of ghost. A ghost is just something that misses being able to tell someone hi. That’s all that they are. Now, go to bed. Sweet dreams…”

Ansel snuggled himself in the warmth of his blanket, “G’night…” and fell fast asleep.

Chapter Five

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