At night, I begin to dream about the faces of our clients, their hopeful, tortured eyes just wanting peace. It makes me toss and turn, thinking about how happy they are when the noises stop, and all it takes is a new nail in a floorboard, the removal of a dead raccoon in the wall, the organization of a basement’s clutter, changing an old light bulb or straightening a step so it doesn’t creak.

These ghosts, these stupid, stupid ghosts, are easily disposed of by merely cutting back the branches on a tree or providing a little landscaping in the backyard. Most of our clients just need someone to look after them, to make sure there are no loose ends.

Afterwards, without fail, we walk around the house with our clients like good old friends, clasping hands, sometimes exchanging hugs. None of them ever ask for a refund, though they do wonder where the ghosts go after we’re done. Nowhere and everywhere, I want to say, because all the ghosts vanish once we leave the perimeters, disappearing into the ether. Like magic. Voilà.

2

2

I don’t want to go to the house on Maple Drive, but Jackson says if I bail, everyone will know we’re a sham. So, I go. I get in the car and we drive up into this polished neighborhood with perfect cars and perfect families. Except everything isn’t perfect. That’s the thing about death. It touches everyone. Even people with perfect lawns.

Elliot is checking all of the equipment beside me, while Jackson hums to the song on the radio, tapping his hands on the wheel. Even Beth is singing along. All I want to do is to crawl back into bed and not think about what we’re doing, but Jackson will never go for that. Especially since I’m the main attraction.

The car chugs up the hill, stopping at a red light. Then the engine coughs. The starter catches, rolls, and then completely dies.

Jackson curses and cranks the ignition. Next to us, there’s this polished lady in a SUV. She glances over at our dented Chevy Tahoe and brushes back her hair with perfectly manicured nails.

“Should’ve taken it in,” I say.

“Shut up, Ange,” Jackson replies. He cranks it again. The engine whirs pathetically.

“You’re gonna flood it,” Elliot says. For just a second I entertain the possibility that he’s standing up for me too.

“We’d already be there if someone wasn’t late…” Jackson glances back at Elliot.

“I told you. Need to build my creds at the firm. Besides, I can’t exactly put this on my resume.”

“Why the hell not?” Jackson counters.

“I don’t know. Some of us actually want to finish college?” Elliot replies.