“It’s Harlen White, Mags. Mark my words. It’s Harlen White, looking for his Mae,” Cora mused.
Everly started a fresh pot of coffee and joined the women. “Who is Harlen White?”
Agnes clucked her tongue. “Damn out-of-towners,” she muttered. “Always having to explain things everybody already knows. Tsk, tsk.”
“Hush, Agnes. We like Everly,” Maggie answered. She patted the bench next to her. “Sit with us for a minute.”
No new customers waited, so she slid into the offered seat. “Who is Harlen White?”
Maggie leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “You know about Mae White, right?”
“It sounds familiar.”
“The local, roaming spirit?” Cora said.
“Oh, right. Caleb told me all about her legend the other day,” Everly remembered.
Maggie leaned in again. “Did he tell you the whole story?”
“Probably not,” Everly laughed. “His story was based on his mother’s refusal to let him leave town.”
“As she should! As she should!” Agnes covered her chest with her hand and took deep breaths. She was an excitable woman who got carried away too fast and often lost her breath. Her asthma didn’t help.
“Harlan White is her husband.”
And just like that, a chill settled over the small cafe. The old ladies paused to let their theory sink in.
“How can that be?” Everly finally said, pulling her sweater tighter around her. “Wouldn’t he be a really old man?”
“A really old dead one,” Cora answered.
“He always comes back first,” Agnes added.
Everly’s eyebrows rose as her eyes widened. “It’s just an urban legend, right?”
Maggie clicked her tongue this time. “Tsk. Legend, yes. Fable? No. It’s very real.”
Agnes nodded vehemently. “Very real, and on a full moon, too.”
They were pranking her. They had to be. “And what makes you think this drifter is Harlan White reincarnated? Why would he come back?” Everly asked.
Cora’s chin dropped. “To find Mae, of course. He always finds Mae in the end. So sad about their boys, too.”
“Their boys?”
The bell over the door tinkled, and as much as she didn’t want to, Everly had to get back to work. Cora grabbed her hand as she passed.
“It’s Harlan. Mark my word. I said it first.”
Everly said nothing, but Cora didn’t mind. The old lady just returned to the cards in her hand and slapped one down on the table.
Later, after the women had left, and the cafe slowed down, Everly found a note on a napkin, written in shaky handwriting.
Harlan White killed his wife and made it look like suicide. That’s why she cries for her babies. She knew they were next.
“Hey, Garvey,” Everly called, carrying the note with her. “What do you think of this?”
Garvey read the note. “Who left that?”
“One of those old ladies.”
“Maybe they know something we don’t know. But the whole situation with Mae White was never really resolved. No suspects, no motive, so they let the suicide stand. The old folks around here always say her husband did it, but no one knows why.” He handed the note back to her. “Or if they do, they’ve kept it a secret for sixty years. We probably won’t ever know the truth.”
“Interesting, but why are those old ladies telling me all this? I’m not a detective.”
Garvey laughed. “No, but you’re a good listener. They love to listen to themselves talk. I wouldn’t put much truth behind what they say, but if you want to know everybody’s business, they’re definitely the ones to ask.”
“Good to know. I didn’t see Caleb come in today. That’s unusual. He’s always here, even on his days off.”
“Billy said he wasn’t at the shop, either. Mentioned an accident or something. His momma must’ve shackled him down at her place.” Garvey laughed. He knew Caleb’s mom well enough, and like Caleb, considered her a bit overbearing and obsessed with fables and old wives’ tales.
“Why do you say it like that? Caleb turned out alright, so she couldn’t be that bad.”
Garvey laughed again. “She’s not. But she’s as bad as those old ladies always talking about Mae White.”
Everly sighed and set her cloth down. She joined Garvey in the kitchen and helped him clean up.
“For the past week, all I keep hearing about is Mae White. Will you please tell me the whole story?” she asked, joining him at the big triple sink and grabbing a towel.
Garvey stopped washing the dishes for a minute, his hands frozen mid-wash. “We aren’t supposed to talk about it.”
“Ugh, yet everybody is talking about it without saying anything at all! Is talking about it going to magically make her appear? If I say her name three times in a mirror, will she show up with a bloody axe behind me?” She rubbed a plate with the cloth so hard it squeaked.
Garvey chuckled. “No. At least not that I’ve heard, anyway. It’s just superstitious, I guess. My mom would say it’s an invitation for trouble. Nothing good ever happens. Why jinx yourself?”
“But if you won’t talk about it, how do people learn?”
“I don’t know. I guess there’s an underlying belief that what happens in Rickdale stays in Rickdale, and if you weren’t there, you don’t need to know. Hogwash if you ask me.”
“And yet, your first response when I asked was ‘we don’t talk about Mae White.’” Her voice got deep and gravelly, and Garvey doubled over in laughter.
“Ahaha. I don’t sound like that,” he said between rounds of laughter.
She smacked him with her dish towel. “How do you know? Do you practice listening to yourself?”
“I guess you make a fair argument. I don’t want to bring anything bad to the cafe, though, just in case. I’ll tell you about it once we get outside.”
Her disappointment pushed her bottom lip out, but she finished helping him clean the dishes before doing a final sweep in the dining area. As they left the cafe, Everly shivered.
“Cold night,” she said. She pulled her sweater closer to her body.
“It’s unusually cold and look at that fog. It’s extra thick.” He pointed to the fog rolling in from the edge of town.
“It stinks, too—like trash left to rot in the summer heat.” She covered her nose. “Ew. You can taste it, too. Like chewing on asphalt.”
Garvey’s nostrils flared. She was right. Something stunk, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It didn’t feel right to him to talk about Mae White in this mess of a night. He spotted the neon sign of the bar down the street.
“Wanna get a beer?” he asked.
Everly shivered again and nodded. She wanted to know the whole story, and if it meant getting a beer with Garvey, well, she liked beer. “You’ll tell me the whole story at the bar?”
“Yeah. It’s just too...something...out here.”
“I agree. If someone’s telling me a ghost story, I’d much rather it be in a warm place, not outside on a cold, foggy night.” When Garvey didn’t answer, she nodded. “Dude, you’re telling me a ghost story.”