Page 35 of The Most Unusual Haunting of Edgar Lovejoy

Edgar

“Can’t believe we forgot,” Edgar mumbled.

Next to him, Poe made a pained sound of agreement.

They were doing something that any New Orleans native knew better than to ever do: try to shop while a festival raged.

Southern Decadence, sometimes described as Gay Mardi Gras, descended on the French Quarter every Labor Day in a flurry of glitter, feathers, body paint, beads, and a lot of intoxicated queers.

When Edgar realized he’d forgotten Allie’s birthday in the chaos of Poe’s return, the baby, and Jamie, he’d rousted Poe from Allie’s couch and into the heat of the evening, hoping that because they were in the Irish Channel, they could avoid the hubbub.

Poe had run back inside for his leather jacket and sunglasses and glared at Edgar for the first few blocks down Magazine Street.

He’d softened a bit when a street cat had wound around his ankles, and Edgar thought he’d invite his brother to come to work with him next week to hang out with the cats.

Stores on Magazine Street were closing early in preparation for Labor Day, so, gritting their teeth against the inevitable onslaught, they caught a bus into the Quarter.

“What should we get her?” Edgar mused, staring out the window.

“Dude, she’s got a new baby. She wants a whole lot of something we can’t give her.”

“What? Help?”

“Her life back,” Poe said.

“I know you’re not Mister Baby. Neither am I. But she wanted a kid.”

“Big mistake.”

“Kids in general, or Allie’s specifically?”

They hopped off the bus when it terminated at Canal Street and headed downriver.

“Whatever, let’s just find something,” Poe said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Thought that counts, right?”

It was something their mother used to say, but Edgar thought Poe was missing the spirit of the expression.

“Books?” Edgar suggested as they passed Beckham’s, an orange and white tabby cat drowsing in the upstairs window.

“When will she have time to read?”

“A gift card for Sylvain’s?”

“She won’t be able to eat out for, like, twelve years.”

“Uh, maybe some fancy mixers for cocktails?”

“She’ll fall asleep immediately. Or drop her baby.”

“Bath stuff?”

“Drown her baby.”

“Well, could you offer some suggestions, please? Preferably something that won’t result in the immediate death of our sister or her offspring?”

Poe snickered at the word offspring , and Edgar decided he wouldn’t ask for his input anymore.

As they approached Jackson Square, the crowd thronged.

“Hey, I think that’s Carys and Teacup.”

In addition to her work as a tour guide, Carys was a math grad student by day and often set up in the square to perform calculations for the tourists and their money.

“Who the hell is Teacup?” Poe scoffed.

“Her miniature horse.”

“I sure am back in New Orleans,” he mumbled. “If you wanna say hi, I’m gonna wait here. Can’t deal with the tourist mob.”

But all thoughts of saying hello to Carys and Teacup fled Edgar’s mind when he saw something . Something that dripped cold between his shoulder blades and down the back of his neck and sent a tingling across his scalp like insects skittering through his hair.

Edgar’s breath came short. Surely it was just his eyes playing tricks on him in the heat?

“Poe,” Edgar croaked out. “Do you see that?” He pointed a shaking finger.

“I see a bunch of drunk gay dudes and sunburned tourists staring at them.”

Edgar shook his head, unable to swallow. He tugged on Poe’s sleeve, and his brother sighed.

“What?”

“B-behind the band,” Edgar said without looking away. “Antoine.”

“Antoine who—Wait, Antoine Antoine?”

Edgar tried to swallow again. Surely, if he just concentrated, he could make his throat close and then open again.

But it was as if all the systems that run him had shut down.

He shivered then and couldn’t stop. A mule-drawn carriage blocked his view for a moment, and when it passed, Antoine was gone.

Edgar staggered, trying to cross the street to the square. He was vaguely aware of Poe throwing an arm around his waist to keep him from falling, but he was already pushing toward the steps of St. Louis Cathedral.

He caught sight of Antoine again, drifting past a line of tourists clapping along to the brass band.

“There!” Edgar pointed, unconcerned about seeming rude.

The crowd surged around him in every direction—revelers drifting in from the parade, tourists wrangling children, teens yelling to their friends, tipsy partygoers calling from windows and balconies above.

The chaos scrambled his senses, but all he cared about was getting to Antoine.

Edgar had never run toward a ghost before.

But if Antoine was here, Edgar had to speak to him.

If Antoine was lost or scared or needed something, Edgar had to make sure he gave it to him.

Because for all that he wasn’t sure why ghosts were or how they were, he did know one thing: if his old friend was stuck here, in pain, Edgar would do anything to help him find peace.

Edgar reached blindly for Poe, intending to pull him along without losing sight of Antoine. But when his hand found Poe’s, his brother jerked it away.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Poe yelled.

Edgar was so startled by the violence of Poe’s reaction that he turned from Antoine and saw Poe cringing away from him. He had his collar turned up and was pulling his jacket around him like it was the only thing holding him together. He looked angry and scared and so, so tired.

“Are you okay?”

Poe set his jaw and glared. “I’m fucking fine . Now can we go?”

Edgar turned back to where Antoine had been. His friend was gone.

“No!” Edgar heard himself yell.

He rocketed through the crowd, shouldering aside a red-faced blond man and a woman with a triple-wide stroller. Antoine had been close to Pirate’s Alley, so that was where Edgar went. If he could just catch up to him. If he could just make Antoine talk to him.

He ran, dodging people, until he tripped on the drainage ditch next to the path and stumbled. Poe caught up with him.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Poe snapped.

Edgar wasn’t hurt. He’d scraped his palms a bit when he caught himself, but the sting only served to focus him. Antoine was close. He could feel it. Edgar got his feet under him, but when he moved to stand, Antoine was already there, no more than ten feet in front of him.

“Antoine,” Edgar mouthed. He grabbed Poe’s leather-clad arm, then dropped it like he’d been burned as he remembered Poe’s injunction.

They crouched there on the ground, Poe frozen at Edgar’s side.

“Antoine,” Edgar said again, his voice audible this time.

The ghost before them had been his best friend.

The person he’d spent the most time with, with the exception of Allie and Poe.

The boy who’d had the most infectious laugh Edgar had ever heard and the kindest heart he’d ever encountered.

The boy who had been his first love as well as his best friend.

The boy he’d watched drown and hadn’t been able to save.

Edgar’s cheeks were wet.

“Poe. Poe, it’s Antoine.”

He didn’t know what he expected from Poe, but his brother didn’t respond. He was looking from Edgar to Antoine and didn’t seem afraid. Then again, Antoine had been Poe’s friend too.

Edgar rose slowly, afraid that any sudden movement or lapse in attention and Antoine would disappear. But he was still there when Edgar took one step toward him, then another.

Antoine’s face was the gray waterlogged misery that Edgar remembered from when they had pulled his small body from the water.

Bits of bayou plants and the insects that lived in them were caught in his hair.

He was wearing the clothes he’d died in: blue jeans, an orange-and-blue-striped T-shirt, and his favorite red high tops.

They’d been the same height when Antoine died, but now Edgar towered over him.

“Antoine?” Edgar said softly. “Is that really you?”

He imagined Poe rolling his eyes at the foolish question. But he’d never spoken to a ghost before. Well, except occasionally to yell at them to get away.

Antoine—no, Antoine’s ghost—opened his mouth, and water poured out, evaporating before it hit the ground.

Edgar winced but didn’t look away. He stood just feet from the boy whose death he’d never really gotten over and watched the water that had killed him gush from his stomach and lungs and throat.

“What can I do? How can I help?”

The cloudy gray of Antoine’s eyes cleared to reveal the warm brown that Edgar remembered. As they focused on Edgar, his heart beat faster, and tears dripped down his nose.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and other foolish questions.

Antoine didn’t answer.

Edgar didn’t even know if ghosts could speak. All this time, he’d thought about what they might do to him and why they scared him, and he’d never realized that they might not be able to answer even if he could get up the courage to ask.

Edgar reached out a hand. Slowly, he let his fingers come within an inch of Antoine.

A chilly fug clung to him, like Edgar was reaching into a shaded cave or a cold spring, but it didn’t feel frightening this time.

It felt refreshing. He didn’t get the sour taste in the back of his throat that he often got when ghosts appeared either.

In fact, the fear he’d always felt—even of Antoine when he had first seen him—had drained away, leaving only longing.

“Antoine, what can I do for you? Do you have unfinished business?”

A derisive snort from behind him reminded Edgar that Poe was there. Edgar didn’t turn though. He kept his eyes on Antoine’s.

“Your sister’s doing great,” he told Antoine, not sure what else to say. “Cameron was Allie’s birthing partner. Oh, and Allie had a baby.”

He was catching Antoine up on his life as if he’d never drowned, never abandoned Edgar and all the plans they’d had: to draw a comic book, to sneak into the aquarium at night, to prank Cameron back. More. So much more.

“Poe finally came back to New Orleans. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t know. Poe left when he was sixteen and never came back. Until now. Because of Allie’s baby.”

He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like Antoine was listening to him. His eyes glowed, and his skin had lost a hint of its grayish-green tinge.

“You gotta help me out, man,” Edgar continued. “What are ghosts? What are you ? Have you been here all along? Ever since you…” Then a horrible thought occurred to him. “You know you’re dead, right?”

There was no gasp or heart-clutching from Antoine, so Edgar took that as a yes.

“Okay, back to the ‘What are ghosts?’ question, then.”

No response. Antoine drifted a bit in the air, moving like a kite with the breeze.

“I don’t know how you communicate,” Edgar said, desperate now. Antoine couldn’t disappear until he could figure things out. “Wait, please. Don’t go. Talk to me. What do I do? How can I help you? What do ghosts want from me?”

Antoine looked directly at Edgar. Once, when they were eight, Antoine had broken his arm.

He’d tried to be brave and pretend it didn’t hurt, but Edgar had known it did.

He’d distracted Antoine from the pain as Antoine’s father drove them to the hospital, telling him stories of ghosts that his mother had told him.

Antoine had stared into his eyes the whole time, like it was only Edgar’s presence in the back seat keeping him from fear.

“I met someone,” Edgar continued. “Their name’s Jamie, and they’re…

Well, you’d really like them. They’re pretty great.

I think I might…” He shook his head and bit his lip.

“We were too young, before. But I—I really loved you. Did you know that? Like, I loved you as a friend and a brother. But you were the first person I fell for. And there hasn’t been anyone since you. Not ’til Jamie. If I don’t fuck it up.”

Antoine’s eyes were still fixed on Edgar’s, but he’d begun to list more dramatically with the breeze. Now he floated close to the fence separating Pirate’s Alley from Place de Henriette Delille.

Edgar was afraid he was going to blow away, like a child’s let-go balloon. He reached out a hand, the same as he’d done all those years ago, when the water had closed over Antoine’s head. He reached out, and this time— this time —he caught Antoine’s hand.

A shock shot through him like cold electricity, leaving him shuddering in the twilight. For a moment, Antoine shimmered into solidity, and Edgar felt the brush of his fingers, his hand in Edgar’s so small now.

Then, definitively, he was gone.

The sounds of the evening rushed back in, and the heat settled once again on his skin.

Edgar’s cheeks were wet with tears. He swallowed a thick sob and tasted apples.

They had been Antoine’s favorite food. His parents kept a bowl full, and Antoine would always grab one on his way out of the house.

At some point during their adventures, he’d pull the apple out of his pocket and look at it with delight.

And always, he would hand the apple to Edgar first, encouraging his best friend to share his favorite treat.

Edgar sank to the ground, back pressed to the unforgiving chain-link fence, and wept.