the
TOE
A Ghost Story B a s e d O n A “ Tru e ” S t o r y
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here were no cold spots or odd smells. I didn’t turn around and “it was gone.” I didn’t catch a glimpse of a figure standing behind me in the mirror. She didn’t tell me her name. But I know I’ve seen a ghost. When I was six, we lived across the street from a large cemetery. That was the year my father had to take an ambulance to the hospital and my mother, in her panic, went with him and forgot I was home. I was in the bathroom making pictures with strands of hair on a bar of soap when I heard my mother clamoring to call 911. I remember her frantic voice talking on the telephone as my father called to her from the front lawn. I remember the sirens whining in the distance, but I was scared. I stayed hidden in the bathroom until they faded away. When it all went quiet I went outside. I saw my father’s bloody sandal on the sidewalk. The lawnmower he had been pushing was laying sideways on the half-finished lawn. Even though I was six, I was not afraid that my father could be dying or that I was all alone in an empty house. All I could think of was finding his toe. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through the grass. I got to the edge of the lawn next to the street that separated our house from the cemetery. I looked across. There was an elderly woman on the hill watching me, with her hands propped under her chin. She waved when I saw her and I waved back, and then she motioned for me to come over. I crossed the street and went through the iron gate that smelled like blood and found her sitting under the shade of a big cedar tree. I dusted off my green knees and stood in front of her. “Wew, you smell like grass! What were you doing?” she asked. She wore a pastel pink church hat and pearls. Her face was old, but not elderly. Her smile was youthful. I think it was her teeth. “I was looking for something,” I told her. “How old are you?” she asked. “Six. How old are you?” She sat up and
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adjusted her pink floral blouse. “How old do you think I am?” she replied. “100,” I said. I didn’t know. It just seemed like a nice round “old” number. “Nope, guess again.” “1000!” I said more enthusiastically. “Nope, I turned 120 today,” she said. I watched as her eyebrows narrowed and her eyes locked in on some blood I must have rubbed against on the lawn. “Are you bleeding?” she asked. “No. I was looking for my daddy’s toe. He ran it over with the lawn mower and I want to find it before he gets home so the doctor can put it back on,” I said. Her eyes became shiny. “Well of course!” she exclaimed, clearly amused. “What else? He can’t go back to work without that can he? Come sit next to me!” She patted the seat. I plopped down on the mossy cement bench and stirred up her scent. Was it gardenia? Jasmine? No, honeysuckle! There on that hot summer day, we sat side by side smelling like grass and honeysuckle. Across the street, we could see the lawnmower laying on its side like a fallen soldier. “When you find his toe,” she asked warmly, “what are you going to do with it?” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Now I imagined seeing the severed toe. What would I do with it? “I guess I’ll pick it up and take it inside. I might have to wash it off first. It’ll probably be dirty.” “You are a brave little boy, you know? Not many children could handle seeing something like that,” she encouraged. I swelled with pride. It’s amazing what a few kind words from a stranger can do for your sense of worth. Maybe even more than someone you know. For the first time, I noticed her staring at a rough marble headstone, resting just before us in the grass. “Who is that?” I pointed to the grave. “Why, that’s Barnaby H. Mullins. His birthday is today,” she said. “How can he have a birthday if he’s dead?” “Just because he died doesn’t mean he wasn’t born. A birthday is a celebration of someone’s birth. Death has nothing to do with a birthday,” she said. “Who was he?” I urged again as politely as I could. “We were in love,” she said delicately. “We were going to be married, but it wasn’t meant to be. He married someone else. 12
By Estella McLendon A friend of mine in fact.” She touched the spot of my father’s blood on my jeans and smiled without looking at me. “You won’t understand until you’re older, but I’m going to tell you something precious. People will come into your life and only time will reveal their significance. Take Barnaby and me for example. If I had known just how much he would come to mean to me I would have never parted with him. He was the boy next door when we met. I had always imagined I’d fall in love with a soldier or a sailor, not him.” “You wouldn’t get to spend much time with a soldier or a sailor,” I said.
SEPT EMBER -OCT OBER 2020
