2022-03-19 - Monochromatic

"I took Robbie to the paediatrician," says Sally Libowitz. "He's pretty certain it's just a rash, but they'll run some tests anyhow. To be on the safe side."

She's a blond woman in a smart pink coat, sitting on one of the benches along the gravel path that circumnavigates Gray Pond. Robbie is the three-year-old running around the bench, pursuing a girl the same age. The girl's name is Ruth, and her mother is sitting at the other end of the bench. Neither woman shines, and their children do not, either.

"Can't be too careful," Nerine Toole agrees. "One moment they have a small rash and the next they're full on allergic to five food groups out of six, and you have to get rid of the hamster."

Sally chuckles. Then she frowns a little as something surfaces in her mind. "Speaking of doctors -- did you hear about the explosion in Dr Brennon's office?"

"The gas leak?" Nerine nods and stretches legs clad in blue mom jeans. "Yeah. Read about it in the paper. Those old buildings, shitty maintenance and all."

"Read something on Friendzone about it," Sally murmurs and probably doesn't intend for anyone to overhear -- least of all Monroe. "Someone posted that it's funny how good doctors always end up either leaving town or having accidents. Something about government experiments, I'm not sure -- people who can heal with their hands but they're only allowed to heal small things. I was going to bookmark it for a laugh, show it to Dr McPherson -- but when I came back to it, it'd been taken down again. Ten minutes later, that was all, poof, gone."

Nerine shrugs. "Tinfoil hats are cheap around here. Probably the same kind of guy who'd tell you the old mill is haunted and that people go missing in the woods all the time. I mean, they do, but largely because they don't know how to read a fucking map and don't pat the funny big kitty or try to take a selfie with the wolverine."

Sally laughs. "Yeah, sure. Anyway, I was going to show you that recipe for meringue --"

And just like that, their conversation shifts to something else, something inconspicuous. The Veil does not need to work very hard to keep some kinds of secrets -- social media has trained its ducklings and put them in a line where clickbait and shock headlines long since has innoculated most people against thinking twice about anything odd. You're not a tinfoil hat anti-this or that , after all. Are you?

The spring(ish) weather has Monroe and Alfie out for a little exercise. Getting out of their double decker bus is important for maintaining sanity, for both of them, even during the colder weather. Especially during colder weather. So it is that Monroe is in another of those 'old but comfortable' coats of his, over a loose and flowy shirt that doesn't really get to be loose or flowy under the coat, stretch denim, and a pair of black combat boots covered in bright pink flowers that match the floral paintings on his messenger bag.

Alfie is dressed in a normal looking dark blue winter coat, a matching knit cap, and kid jeans with comfortable, though worn, sneakers, and currently pointing out the different types of trees and spouting facts about them like a little tour guide. Apparently, he's been learning about local flora in school. Next will come the fauna. Monroe wonders if they'll teach about time travel moose. Meese? Elk.

As they walk past the pair, Monroe slows slightly, doing his best to keep his expression blank. Neither of them gleam. Neither of their kids gleam... But Alfie does, a bit, and Monroe is practically a walking torch of spiritual energies.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt... did you say 'not allowed' to heal?" Monroe ramps the accent up to eleven. Americans find it charming, and difficult to believe that someone with such an accent could ever be rude, right?

Alfie looks distinctly uncomfortable. "We're not supposed to talk to them about that." he reminds Monroe softly.

Sally blinks and gives Monroe the Look; she was just having a conversation with a friend here on the park bench, and suddenly there's a lanky kid with a smaller kid, butting in. "That's what it said," she allows, because butting-ins are annoying, but getting to sound like you're in the know does flatter the old ego. "That doctors and -- other people -- are not allowed to cure cancer or leprosy, or whatever."

Leprosy is probably not a recurring problem in these parts. And then again, the realities of the Veil are fluid, and you never know what's going to fall out.

"What a silly idea," Nerine notes. "A cure for cancer? We'd have people lining up from here to Portland and back. Besides, it's not as our local hospital supports that kind of research. If a cure for anything is found in Gray Harbor, it'll be for seasonal depression where the season lasts all year round."

"All I'm saying," Sally huffs, "is that there was a Friendzone post. And now there's not. Things like that always disappear very fast. And people in this town talk. Don't go to the doctor, my mom always used to say. Go see old Mrs Jankowski instead, you'll feel better faster and it won't cost you your kid's college savings." She pauses and then shakes her head. "Old Mrs Jankowski's dead now and I don't think her daughter's got the healing hands, but there you go. Local folks, they talk about people who can do things."

Sally, from her lack of shiny aura, is clearly not one of those people. But she is, perhaps, someone who's lived in town all thirty-three years of her life, and a penny or two has dropped, if slightly out of alignment with one another.

There's a nod from Monroe, and an expression flickers across his face that looks very much like anguish. Curing cancer is beyond even the best of them... But you can give them more time, and lessen the symptoms and combined with medicine... He shakes his head slightly and brings his attention back to the conversation.

"Thank you, I didn't know any of that. I'm not a local, after all. There's still so much I don't know about the town." He smiles at both women, doing his best to put them at ease.

Alfie nods vigorously. "We should go to the museum, they've got lots of local stories! We went there on a field trip a few weeks ago, but we didn't get to spend much time..."

Maybe it's the way that Monroe is interrupting; the fact that he is not carrying himself or sounding like God gave him the right to talk and the women the obligation to listen. Maybe it's the cute kid, enthusiastic about the museum and learning things. Maybe it's the combination, paired with the way that Monroe is clearly not making demands on anyone's time or knowledge; he is offering to be an audience.

"Well, it's like that," Sally agrees and glances after her kid -- still having the zoomies on the gravel path. "Every town has them, I figure. Some old man or woman they say knows things. Got a sister who lives down Lousiana ways, she says it's like that there too. No one talks much about it, but there's always some cottage out by the river, where you go after dark if you got a problem that the doctor can't fix."

Nerine nods slowly, searching her mind for similar tales. "Old Mrs Jankowski, I remember her from when I was a little thing. Very kind. She had a boy and a girl. The boy is still in town but the girl left to study in Portland. Neither of them had the healing hands. She was this little old lady always sitting on the porch, always asked if you wanted sweet tea like we were in Georgia. Always looking at you in a funny way and then she'd say things like, Megan, your little girl doesn't like milk because it makes her tummy hurt. She had warm hands, always made you feel better."

Sally nods. "I remember when her house burned. Left the gas stove on and lit a candle, they said. Nothing like it, that old lady, she didn't forget anything."

"And then she stopped seeing people," Nerine supplies. "She'd talk to you about a cold but nothing more serious than that. My mom used to say, Mrs Jankowski, she doesn't want her house to burn again."

Alfie, for all that he's polite, is still an active kid, and is clearly uncomfortable with the topic at hand. And so he moves over to look out over the water, keeping a good distance from the pond... but also keeping half an eye out for Monroe behind him.

Monroe nods to Sally's comment about the Louisiana and the cottage by the river. That was exactly the sort of woman his Gran was, though it was more 'drive down a winding road' than it was 'cottage by the river'.

"Bad things sometimes happen to good people who do their best to help others out." Monroe says softly, glancing back at Alfie, who is looking at the pond dubiously. "Or to the people they love." Another moment of anguish flickers across Monroe's face. Mother, grandmother, step-father, all gone within just a few years. While his step-father was his least favorite of the three, he still cared about the man, and he was Alfie's dad.

"Sometimes it skips a generation. It did with mum." that's said almost absently, before Monroe turns back to the women and smiles, a little sadly. "Is Mrs. Jankowski buried in the cemetary? I think I should like to leave her some flowers on my next visit."

"Oh, she must be," Sally agrees and looks for her toddler again. Zoomies are becoming tiredsies. Little feet have little stamina.

"The Jankowskis are Catholics," Nerine agrees. "They're there -- well, the dead ones. The living ones are probably only there on Sundays. It'd be nice of you to leave flowers. It's an old family in town, they have a family plot on the east side. You can't miss it, it's got a big headstone with a Polish flag painted on."

"Time to get this little one home," Sally declares and gets on her feet, ready to pick up junior and get moving. She pauses, and gives Monroe one last look. "Don't think too much about these things. It's just a local conspiracy theory. No one actually believes in magic hands and family curses these days. Coming, Nerine?"

Nerine stands up as well. "Coming, coming." And over her shoulder, she adds, "Still say, Old Mrs Janskowski, she had the healing hands."

And off they are, a couple of white suburban mothers, on a perfectly normal day. The odds that either of them will even remember this conversation tomorrow? Not good.

"Thank you for taking time to speak with me." Monroe smiles at the women and the little ones, then moves to find Alfie once more, draping an arm over his little brother's shoulder. "Come on, let's swing by the library for a bit and see if we can find some books on botany, and then we can take the long route back to the car. I want to get some flowers for someone."

St Mary's Church sits near Addington Park and Gray Pond, in what was once a central part of town, pleasantly removed from the lumber yards and the harbour. Established formally about twenty years before the incorporation of the town, the Gardens of Eternal Rest have been used as a burial ground for far longer. The stately grounds are gently rolling hills are studded with moss-covered, hardwood trees that bear leaves only in the height of summer. Otherwise, they stand as stark sentinels over the rows of stone monuments dating back to the 1800s. There are a few family tombs here with elaborate granite mausoleums guarded by watchful stone angels, but most stones are simple. In the oldest part of the cemetery, many are even obviously hand-carved, and bear only first names, or, in some cases, no names at all.

Overall, the cemetery is well-kept, with local civic organisations seen on the last weekend of the month refreshing flowers, cleaning up trash, and planting small flags on the graves of veterans. The air has a solemn hush, and one can often catch the faint scent of memorial flowers on the breeze.

Neat gravel paths wind their way around the grounds. A few people stroll upon them -- some older, some with mobility aids -- and some younger, a few of whom are in overalls and carrying gardening tools. Finding a specific plot or mausoleum should not prove a complicated affair, provided the name given matches what's on the headstone.

The trip to the library was leisurely and relaxed, and now Monroe and Alfie are walking through the grounds quietly, as solemn as many others are, though neither Alfie nor Monroe know anyone who's been laid to rest here, that they know of. Still, Mrs. Jankowski sounds like the kind of woman who'd have appreciated the bright yellow daisies Monroe is carrying, tied with a simple bit of undyed cotton twill.

"I miss mum and dad." Alfie says softly, as they walk. It seems the appropriate sort of place to admit such things, after all. He isn't crying, but he also isn't bothering to hide his sadness. Having an older sibling like Monroe means spending your whole life with someone reinforcing that emotions are okay to express, after all.

"I do too, Alf." Monroe replies, squeezing Alfie's shoulder gently, even as he keeps an eye out for the headstone Nerine directed him toward. He thinks he's spotted it, "We won't be here long, I just... felt like I should do this." he shrugs slightly, "Then we can head home... and I'll make us some lentil and black bean burgers and some fries... and maybe some cake for dessert."

"Okay. That sounds really good. Did you know lentils are a type of legume, like peanuts? And their name is because they're shaped like lenses..."

The pair make their way to the grave stone, with Alfie finding a nearby bench to sit on, opening one of his books on botany. Monroe pauses in front of the headstone, a little awkwardly. He steps forward, avoiding walking atop the grave as best he can, placing the daisies to lean against the headstone, before he steps back again.

"People in the town still talk about you, ma'am. From one healer to another, it sounds like you've done a lot of good for this part of the world. You haven't been forgotten."

Wilhemina Margot Jankowski died in 2014, at the ripe old age of 93 and was interred next to her loving husband, deceased 1992. The lot is neatly kept -- and, it seems, part of a small congregation of Jankowski lots. Maybe Wilhemina, the lady with the healing hands, was part of an entire flock of siblings. Maybe some of these are sons and daughters whom she outlived, or otherwise related. One might get the feeling that one is looking at the grave of a matriarch.

"Słyszysz to, Willi?"

The words are spoken softly, fondly. The man speaking them is --

-- Well, he probably doesn't expect anyone else to hear, or for that matter, see him. He is best described as a tall, dapper gentleman, maybe some thirty, thirty-five years of age, and very well dressed -- assuming that one goes by the fashion sense of 1925. He wears a tailored suit and coat, and leans on a walking cane, and the first image that might jump to mind? Fred Astaire, about to launch into a dance routine. All of which might just point to a curious obsession with period clothing (and why not? A British tailor essentially made his fame from refusing to wear anything but Regency clothing), were he not in, well, black and white. Stepped out of an old photograph, and from the looks of it, entirely unaware that at least Monroe can see him.

Monroe goes very still, turning to look at the man speaking to Mrs. Jankowski.

"Mr. Jankowski, I presume." Monroe says softly, in that perfectly crisp accent of his. Unfortunately, he doesn't understand Polish or he'd respond in kind.

Alfie doesn't look up from his reading. Either he doesn't hear the conversation, or he Doesn't Hear the conversation. Kids can be wonderfully stubborn that way, after all.

Monroe smiles at the man, tilting his head slightly. "I hope daisies were alright, sir. I wanted to bring her something bright and cheerful."

This isn't how ghost stories tend to go, at all. There are certain conventions and regulations -- tropes, even. One of these rules suggests (in the way that the highway patrol suggests you keep under the speed limit) that when a man and a ghost meet, the man is the one who screams, startled.

No rule without exception. The gentleman in black and white visibly startles, grasping his cane as if it was some kind of stick with which to beat off an unseen enemy.

Then he visibly breathes out. It's just two boys, neither of which look in any way terrifying. "Goodness," he says, in a voice that sounds like London -- English, and quite far away. "Sorry about that. You startled me, son. I'm sure my Willi would have loved daisies very much. She did like her flowers and her growing things. That's very kind of you, young man."

Ah, but those rules apply to Monroe about as much as the prophecy applied to Eowyn, for Monroe is no man.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to give you a fright... I wasn't expecting company, either." he admits, smiling gently at the spirit. "I think it's a fairly common thing for those of us like her to enjoy growing things. My Gran kept quite a garden, and... I've got plans once things warm up a little."

Monroe smiles again, "I was out near Gray Pond and some of the locals told me about your wife, and how she used to help the townfolk... and how she wasn't allowed to help them anymore..." his smile fades, "I've lost a lot because of those rules."

"My daughter," the man -- presumably one Mr Jankowski -- corrects, with a small smile. "She is not here, of course. But I still come here to talk to her off and on. I like to think that wherever she went, she sometimes manages to look back and see that things are looked after." However an early 20th century ghost would manage that. Perhaps he haunts future generations with threats of ominous doom if no one does the gardening.

He rests his hands -- gloved like Ravn's, except his gloves are the white ones that go with the suit for a night on the town -- on his cane. "My Willi had a good head on her, and a kind heart. And she had that music inside that I see in you as well, son. It gave her a lot of trouble, but I think she found that it was worth it. In the end, she left here to find out more about how it all works."

Then he reaches up for a breast pocket in his tailored silk vest, to produce a beautiful gold watch -- one of those old ones that sit on a chain and which are opened to show the time. "That will have been -- well, a very long time ago. The first times she came back. One day she did not. Always used to tell her son -- my grandson -- she was old and had nothing to lose anymore."

"My apologies, sir." he says, looking slightly embarrassed by the faux pas. "I shouldn't have assumed. Your daughter is still remembered with fondness and inspires acts of kindness from folks about town."

"It is a lot of trouble. My brother and I... I didn't know the costs and tried to do things I shouldn't have. I think our parents paid the price for it." that's said very softly, Monroe not wanting Alfie to hear.

"You mean she... crossed over to the other side of the Veil?" Monroe's eyebrows disappear into those curls of his.

"There is a city on the other side," the ghost murmurs and re-pockets the timepiece. "And in that city, there are people -- creatures, who know things. My Willi went to see them, to ask questions. Once, twice -- and then, the third time, she did not come back. Her house burned, a second time. No body was found but somehow, the story became that she smoked in bed and caused the fire herself. She is not buried here, but I still come here to -- talk to her. Her body grew old but she was still my Willi."

A small smile spreads across the monochromatic features. "There have been others. There are others even now, like you. I spoke with a few, some months back. A colourful young man with a motor vehicle -- and an older man with a salt and pepper beard. They are both like my Willi -- healers. You are too, are you not? Willi always said, you can cure a cold and a carbuncle, but only so many at a time. Can't cure -- what did she call it, the disease that killed so many fairies? Can't cure cancer. But she could cure many small things. I understand that is different now, that it has become harder."

"It's hard. You can fight cancer. For a while. Give someone a few good months, maybe. Make their chemo and radiation less painful on them... but you can't beat it. Not really. Just enough to give false hope." Monroe turns away from Alfie as a few tears fall rapidly down his cheeks. "And then you pay the price for it, all at once, and..." he shakes his head. "It's not fair. I don't want to turn back death once someone's gone. I don't want to rewrite the rules. I just... wanted a little more time before we had to say goodbye." The last word is almost choked out.

"Sorry. This city... is... is it possible she's still there? Your daughter?"

"Don't apologize, son." The monochromatic gentleman does not reach out a comforting hand -- perhaps doing so would be a pointless gesture, given how much he resembles an old black and white photo superimposed on reality. He probably can't touch anything even if he wants to. His expression, however, is sympathetic. "We all want a little more time before we have to say goodbye."

In his case, perhaps a little more time has meant a century so far.

He shifts the cane to the other hand and looks down at the gravestone again. "Willi may be over there. Or she may be dead -- she was very old when she went missing, and that was a long time ago, almost a decade. But the city exists. Just like this one except it's not quite right. A mirror world, and a dark and frightening one. She believed that there were people there who know about these things. She would sit here on the bench on a sunny afternoon and tell me about it."

He half-turns and glances at a bench a bit down the gravel path. It sits in front of an even older grave marker, one withered by time, probably a hundred years old. "In another decade, my lot will be demolished, I hope. Then my vigil will finally be over, and I can go look for her, maybe."

"I hope, wherever she is, that she's found comfort and rest. And I hope that you're able to, as well. You deserve rest and ease." Monroe takes a deep breath and smiles at the man, though it's a little tremulous. He's holding a lot of emotions in, after all, and Gods help the poor soul that breaks that dam, if it turns to anger, instead of sorrow.

"It doesn't sound like it's a good place to be. This world is already dark and frightening enough without there being a darker, more frightening version." He looks, a little worriedly, at Alfie. Something like despair on his face. "I hope she found somewhere sunny and warm to rest." Alfie's reading from his book, studiously oblivious to the fact that Monroe is 'talking to himself'. Of course he can see Mr. Jankowski, but the average person walking the paths can't.

Not that it's weird to talk to the dead in a place like this. That's part of why these places exist.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, just like you and your young partner in crime there will be." The smile that the ghost once known as Mr Jankowski sends Alfie's way is genuine -- and slightly eerie in all its lack of colour, a bit as if one was watching an old movie in black and white and Fred Astaire suddenly broke the fourth wall, talking to the audience -- and expected an answer. Woody Allen made a movie along that theme but given what a tremendous asshole he turned out to be, no one wishes to be reminded.

"Death is not always something to be feared." He should know. "Sometimes, it's just -- a little more time to say your goodbyes. But all the same, don't go look for it ahead of your time -- it gets a little tedious, only a few people can see you and all that. I hope you find what you're looking for, young friend. And I hope that you'll be happy with it when you do."

He stands, and touches a finger to the brim of his dapper hat before ambling on along the gravel path at a leisurely pace. But then, if he has haunted this graveyard since the 1920s, he probably does have all the time in the world.