Ghosts (WW-I 7)
Amy wondered for perhaps the hundredth time whether something was off about her house.
Her. House.
She quirked her lips into a nervous half-smile at the thought. All the rants she’d gone on with her friends at the bar about boomers and generational wealth had flown out the window after she heard those two magical words from the lawyer. The executor of her Great Great Aunt’s estate. Amy’s father’s mother’s sister had died with no children. She also hadn’t bequeathed her worldly goods to charity or a university or set up a trust, like many in her position would have done. According to the lawyer, Amy’s Aunt Tabitha was somewhat of a feminist for her generation and had insisted that her estate go to her only living female relative. And so, with no one else to contest the will, Amy had inherited an actual mansion.
Yes, the house was old as dirt and had major structural issues, and sure, the back taxes were almost as much as Amy had been paying in rent, but she was an honest-to-god homeowner!
Moving from the city to the countryside had been exciting in a novel way at first. Amy was thrilled to be free of the noise of life that invaded her space in the apartment building’s paper-thin walls. No more late-night movies, morning shouting matches, or Jonesy on the floor below her messing up the same refrain on his electric guitar all afternoon. But all the quiet made Amy uneasy. She could hear every gust of wind, every rattling pipe, every creaking wall, ceiling, and floor. And in a house that had been around since before the Civil War, Amy couldn’t help but think about the dozens and dozens of people who’d lived and died in the house before she got there.
***
“You’re doing it all wrong!” Mildred said, wagging a gloved index finger at Amy where she stood at the stove.
Mildred was a middle-aged woman whose blonde hair hid a few strands of grey. She wore a dusty pink mid-century modern dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt reaching nearly to the floor. She looked like a character from a black-and-white sitcom—if rather more generously proportioned. She watched Amy mix the batter with her perfectly plucked brows scrunched together.
“What you mean, she do wrong?” asked Una, standing on Amy’s other side.
“I think she’s making pancakes,” Mildred said, “But she’s not using nearly enough milk.”
“Oh.” Una’s response was more of a grunt. Her dark hair, in messy tangles hanging just past her shoulders, was smudged with dirt, and she wore a collection of furs that almost resembled a bikini. Like Mildred, Una looked remarkably well-fed. But where the housewife sported a thick waist and substantial bottom, Una carried excess weight in her chest and thighs.
Standing alone in her kitchen, Amy reached for the door of the ancient refrigerator. The batter mix was the kind you only need to add water to, but she grabbed the carton of half-and-half she bought for her coffee and added a few generous glugs to the bowl.
Amy made two pancakes with her batter. Then, seeing there wasn’t quite enough to save for the next day, she poured a third. Pulling a second plate from the cabinet, she reached for the cling film.
“What are you doing? That won’t be any good reheated,” Mildred said. “You’re better off just eating it now. And put some butter on them, for heaven’s sake!”
Amy considered how a microwaved pancake might taste and scooped the third cake onto her original plate. Putting the clean one back in the cabinet, she reached for her butter dish. She usually ate pancakes with syrup alone but decided she deserved a little treat before all the DIY work she had planned for the day. After adding her normal drizzle of syrup, the taller stack still looked dry, so Amy squeezed a second, more generous stream of liquid sugar onto her plate.
***
Amy’s morning was not nearly as productive as she’d planned. Instead of laying out dropcloths and prepping walls for paint, she’d gone online to compare paint colors. After three hours of ‘work,’ a twinge in her stomach told her it was time for a lunch break. Back in the kitchen, she opened a bag of bread and set out packages of meat and cheese on the counter.
“What she make now?” Una asked.
“It’s meant to be sandwiches—unless I miss my guess,” Mrs. Benson said. “But she’s no tea or cakes to go with them.”
Mrs. Benson’s red curls stuck out from her cream-colored cap. She wore a plain blue linen dress that covered her from neck to ankles. The canvas apron covering her ample chest and round belly was smudged with handprints of flour.
“At least she finally have some meat,” Una said.
“I suppose,” Mrs. Benson said. “Though if she had a proper cook or at least a kitchen maid, she wouldn’t have to make them herself.”
Amy spread mayo on one slice of bread and mustard on the other, then stacked two slices of meat over a large lettuce leaf and a slice of cheddar.
“Aww… she only making one?” Una observed.
Mrs. Benson sighed. “That’s not nearly enough for a growing young Miss!”
Amy turned over the package of sliced ham to check the ‘sell by’ date, then reopened it and added the last two slices to her sandwich. Seeing that only one slice of cheese was left in the bag, she added that as well. She opened an app on her phone to add more of both to her next grocery delivery.
***
Amy’s afternoon consisted of ten minutes of cleaning the kitchen and four more hours of ‘research’ shopping for furniture and other home decor. When she glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen, she opened a new tab and loaded the page for the local pizza place.
Una leaned down to inspect the screen more closely, sounding out the words. “Mmm… eee, ah, teh. Me-ah-t? Meat? Meat!”
She turned to look at Amy, whose attention was fixed on her screen. “Meat good. Get meat!”
Mrs. Benson stood on the other side of the table and added, “Of course, she should have meat. What else would a Lady have as her main course for dinner?”
“A balanced meal is important,” Mildred added from her place beside Mrs. Benson.
Amy rarely ordered pizza and generally went with veggie supreme with a thin crust and half cheese. But she was surprisingly worn out from her day of ‘working’ on the house and found herself adding a deep dish meat lover’s pizza to her order. She also ordered garlic bites and a two-liter of soda.
***
Tiffany sat on the couch beside Amy while she watched TV. The sun had set long ago, and the hour display on the thrift store wall clock was in the single digits. She was chubby in all the right ways, with pale skin, thick black eyeliner, and unnaturally black hair framing her round face in frizzy curls. She wore a black corduroy skirt and a Smiths tee shirt, torn at the collar so that it hung off one shoulder. She frequently commented on whatever Amy was watching and rarely had anything nice to say.
A fast food ad played between videos, and Amy subconsciously licked her lips. Tiffany looked over at her and said, “You should totally get Taco Bell. It’s one of the few things I miss.”
Amy thought a bean burrito would really hit the spot, but she’d had too much wine to drive. “It’s too late to go out,” she said to the empty room.
“Don’t you have those, like, apps or whatever? Can’t you get anything you want delivered?”
Amy picked up her phone, and her finger tapped on the DoorDash icon before she knew what she was doing. Taco Bell was, of course, still open. There were even a few drivers still working.
“Do it,” Tiffany said, “Life is stupid, but tacos aren’t. Plus, if you get, like, fat, maybe you’ll get some boobs like mine.”
Tiffany squeezed her arms together, making her breasts rise up to form a long line of plump cleavage.
Amy started adding things to her cart.
***
Amy grunted as she tried to pull her pants up over her hips. The flesh of her thighs bulged over the tight waistband, and there was no chance her bubble butt would fit into that denim prison. Tossing the jeans onto her bed, Amy slipped on some leggings and started buttoning her shirt. She struggled to make the buttons reach their holes across her soft midsection, and when she got the last one closed over her chest, the second one down, at the apex of her breasts, popped free.
“That stupid dryer shrunk all my clothes!” Amy moaned into the empty bedroom.
“I’ll have you know that dryer was state-of-the-art in ’57,” Mildred huffed.
“They should be hung on a line,” Mrs. Benson added. “And besides, it’s not proper for a Lady to be doing her own washing, anyway.”
Tiffany said, “You guys are so like, phony. Let her enjoy eating while she can.”
“Is good she getting fat,” Una said. “Better for surviving winter.”
Amy tossed the blouse on top of her jeans and pulled her sleep shirt back on. She muttered unintelligible complaints about the house as she stomped down to the kitchen to make breakfast.