Made Men by Bradley Ernst

nervous.
    “I’m
quite nervous, obviously, because all I’ve read about ghosts runs contrary to
what I’ve observed here …” Her hands weakened, shook, felt damp. “Gruesome,
most of the references … and arcane.”
    Gitte
let the thought ebb.
    What if she had insulted the being?
    She
would force her very best manners, though she felt rather like clicking her
heels in celebration.
    She couldn’t put the book back, of
course.
    Planning
to take the well-worn book home, the young beauty paused.
    Perhaps it held a clue?
    But
what if she was expected to put it back … it was from this very aisle. At the least
she should look at its space on the shelf.
    Pressing
the book to her bosom with bloodless, tight fingertips, quaking, she crept ; scanning the backs of the books, glancing at the writing
on each spine as she went. Her suspicions—those of being gently examined
from some unknown spot—grew tumid. Expectant .
    First
shelf on the right, halfway down, Gitte squatted with her knees together and
leaned gracefully to one side to peer at the bindings. Two faded old books leaned, their backs swayed against each other, for support,
a gap between them.
    The spot.
    Trembling,
Gitte eased her hand into the hollow, caressing the tired books straight again,
then sucked in her breath; in the space between volumes sat the lens of an old
pair of glasses. A plate fit for a mouse, it cradled a bit of the cake … the
gingerbread she’d baked for the ghost … the treat she’d placed in the drawer
for the beneficent spook.
    Her offering had already been shared!
    A
gumdrop sat, lewd and proud, atop a tiny dollop of whipped cream.
    Some otherworldly hands had served her .
    Breathless,
white-faced, Gitte freed her last doubts and began to laugh. Overcome, she
rolled, kicking on her back like a happy dog sunbeam-bathing on a summertime
rug, welcoming the waves of mirth and wonder that crashed over her.
    Oh, she’d needed this .
    Wildly,
laughing into cupped hands as though trying to preserve some of her gleeful
exuberance, the librarian—a survivor of the camps—wiped the
laughter on the back of her tense, nervous neck to soothe it.
    “Oh
please?” She sat up, tugging her skirt, combing her hair with her fingers. “I’m
Gitte … please come out where I can SEE you!” Eyes wet but dancing, Gitte
peered about, her bottom lip between her teeth and eyebrows
aloft—hopeful, high arcs. She knelt to peek across the hedgerows of
books, watching for an apparition … a glow, a light, a floating book …
anything. Minutes passed. Nothing. Though the feeling that
she was being observed, even scrutinized, persisted.
    “I
am happy to have a friend in you.” She announced with loyal conviction. Her
self-consciousness was gone. She wasn’t talking to herself, she now knew, but
to a kindred spirit.
    Perhaps ghosts were like dogs? If she
seemed self-assured it might show.
    She
retrieved the odd morsel, cupping the bifocal plate in her hand as though the
gumdrop were a lit candle. Hugging the book to her chest fiercely, she stopped
to collect her purse at her desk. Then, juggling the items, Gitte left, locking
the building behind her.
    As
she sat on the foot-worn steps outside, with her long and shapely legs held
together, Gitte took a small bite of the treat with her fingertips. Ignoring
the stares from passersby, she licked her fingers. It was still light and with
nothing else pressing, she decided to visit the place her uncle knew to watch
for her.
    Perhaps he would get off of work early.
    The
world smelled different— was different—somehow now. More full of promise.
    He had! There he stood.
    Gitte
wanted so badly to tell him about her ghost. She swung her purse, heavy with
the book, across her back, and held up the remainder of the strange little
treat for him to see. He couldn’t, of course, see it.
    He was too far away.
    Yet
he waved, and she waved back.
    “I
love you!” yelled the girl, her tattooed number faded by her growth.