The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.56 Circulation

June 7, 11:00 am

They walked together up through the Avenues, as they had hundreds of times. But this time, Keith walked alone. Richard could feel that solitude emanating from his lover like a toxic cloud. To the rest of the world, Keith looked almost fine—even stopping now and then to pet a dog, or say hello to a neighbor. But his lover's repressed grief made it feel as if they were walking through deep snow, or against a heavy headwind.

Keith's desire to make his life return to normal was heroic. Mostly, he appeared successful. But there were cracks on the surface, and those moments of doubt and fear that Richard saw flash across his lover's face pained him deeply. Keith kept moving forward through sheer willpower.

When they reached the library, Keith had to endure all the expressions of sympathy and sadness from his co-workers that Richard had expected. He suspected Keith was probably hating all the uncomfortable concern, and he wished with all his might that he could just pull Keith aside and spare him all the fawning and touching, which was only making things worse. He imagined Keith pulling him aside and saying, "I know they mean well, but I wish they'd all just go away and let me shelve some books."

Richard would likely respond with something vaguely inappropriate or rude, and Keith would pat his cheek in his charming and yet also condescending way.

Richard would have given anything for just thirty seconds of that kind of conversation. But Keith had to bear this alone, and there was nothing Richard could do to help him.

Finally, Keith loaded up a cart of returned books and headed out to the stacks. It was clearly a relief for him to get out of the Circulation department and be alone with his books. Richard trailed behind and watched him going about his job.

It's funny, Richard thought. But in all these years, I've never watched Keith at work. Why didn't I? He's really good at what he does.

Yet what Keith did, although necessary, also became boring to Richard very quickly. They were in a remote part of the stacks on the third floor, and the only good part about it was that the repetitive work quickly drained an enormous amount of the tension from his lover's eyes. It was almost possible to imagine a time when Keith would be past all this pain.

Richard was ashamed to admit it, but after about thirty minutes he couldn't take much more standing around and watching Keith pick up a book, scan the shelf, and put it back in the right place. The aisles of the stacks were narrow, and there wasn't any place to sit. He could look at the book spines, but if he found one that was interesting, he couldn't even pull it off the shelf to check it out—although he caught himself trying, over and over, as if he couldn't quite get that fact into his head.

And that was when he saw the ghost.

He knew it was another ghost immediately, as it passed the row where Keith was working, because it was almost stereotypical. At first, all he saw was a white shape, moving past the end of the aisle. He rushed out in time to see an old man turn into the next row, and at first, all he could see was the back of a head, and the trailing form of a brilliant white sheet that the ghost wore like a cape, tied in a knot at his neck. Richard raced to catch up, and found the man running a finger down a line of books, carefully reading each title.

And Richard could see the ghost's face.

He was, or had been, an older man. Perhaps in his eighties. He looked very pale and drawn, as if he had died of some wasting disease. The sallow cheeks and dark, sunken eyes reminded him of his mother in her last days, wasting away from cancer. Now that he was closer, Richard could see that the man was wearing a hospital gown, visible underneath the white sheet. His feet were bare, and his toenails yellow and claw-like. But despite his appearance, the man moved with agility and grace, defying the withered body that looked like it could barely have crawled out of a hospital bed.