Page 29 of Man of His Dreams
“Fair,” Scratch scoffed. “Fair woulda meant I got treated the same as folks who didn’t have ancestors from Africa. Fair woulda meant the government didn’t shut down the houses and rob me of my work. Fair woulda meant Octave Hebert had a nice chat with me and his wife instead of shooting me here in my own bed. Ain’t nothin’ fair about this world.” His tone was angry but his eyes glistened with tears. Flip wanted to reach out to comfort him but feared letting go of Tony.
He aimed for comfort via words instead. “You’re right. Lots of shitty things happen to people—good people too—for no reason at all. And unfortunately we can’t do anything to fix the shitty things that happened to you. But maybe we can help you a little anyway.”
“Nobody can help me. I’m nothing but dust sitting in a caveau in Saint Roch’s cemetery.”
“You’re more than that. Think on what Tony said. It’s so long after you died, yet your family still talks about you. You are?—”
“History,” Tony interrupted with a smile. “You are a part of what makes the Bergerons who we are today. I study history—it’s my life—because I believe that it’s important. Every family, every city, is like a building, each generation resting on the bricks of those who came before. You know, we have a cousin who’s a pretty well-known R&B musician. Her genre wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t for the music you and your contemporaries created.”
Scratch brightened for a moment before shaking his head. “Nobody cares about history.”
“I do,” said Tony firmly. “Others do too, especially if you give them a compelling story. Not just the dry facts and numbers, but the… the living, beating heart of history. The people who made it. And that’s where Flip comes in.”
Was that a glimmer of hope in Scratch’s expression? Maybe. At least he wasn’t disappearing.
“We want to share your story,” said Flip. “Because we think it’s worth sharing.”
Scratch narrowed his eyes. “How?”
“We’ll write a book about you—together. Not some dreary monograph so overloaded with footnotes and citations that it does nothing but languish in a dusty corner of a shelf. But a story. A novel. Something people read on airplanes and on work breaks and then stay up too late because they just can’t put the damned thing down.”
He’d thought about this a lot, actually. Nonfiction wasn’t his strength; he didn’t like being constrained too heavily by data and facts. He wanted his readers to taste the foods, smell the scents, hear the clop of hooves and the calls of street vendors, feel his characters’ hopes and fears. Of course he’d ground everything firmly in reality, which is where Tony could be invaluable. And with a novel, they’d never have to explain to anyone that their primary source was a ghost. Did the Chicago Manual even specify how to cite phantasms?
Frowning, Scratch walked slowly to the window and gazed into the darkness. From the back, Flip would have easily mistaken him for Tony. They had the same stalwart stance, the same broad shoulders that seemed ready for life’s burdens.
“Ain’t nobody gonna care,” Scratch said.
“Tony and the rest of the Bergerons, they care because you’re one of them. But I’m not. I’m a complete outsider, but as soon as I met you, as soon as I learned just a little about you, I wanted more. I wanted to know you because you’re worth knowing. Give us a chance and we’ll introduce you to the world. They’ll want to know you too.”
Tony squeezed Flip’s hand. It was clear from his tense posture and gnawed-upon lip that Tony was as desperate for Scratch to agree as Flip was.
Before beginning a writing project, Flip would hear the characters whispering faintly in his head. It could be a bit maddening, actually, and writing was his way of making those voices clearer. Now, however, he was experiencing far more than murmurs. His inspiration stood in the same room as him, three-dimensional despite being dead, and Flip’s fingers twitched with eagerness to start typing.
“What story will you tell about me?” Scratch asked. “The tomcatting nitwit who was too broke to pay his rent on time, who fucked everyone but never held a lover’s interest long enough to settle down?”
“We’ll tell the story of a man with human foibles, who was shaped and sometimes constrained by the city and by the times. A devilishly handsome man who dressed sharply and loved music, who didn’t seek to harm anyone but wanted to live his life to the fullest. A man who made a lasting impression on others even though he died far too young.”
Slowly Scratch turned to face them. “There are plenty of other ghosts in this city. Most of ’em were richer than me. Lots of ’em were more famous. Some of ’em?—”
“None of them are you,” said Tony firmly. “We’re not simply searching for a dead man’s story—we want to tell yours.”
Scratch’s expression softened, the guardedness replaced with wonder that emphasized the youth of his mortal years. “You ain’t lyin’.”
“No.”
Scratch leaned the umbrella against the wall and walked toward them. A battered wooden chair appeared and he sat in it, his posture regal. “I’m gonna start by tellin’ you about my mama and papa.”
“My great-great-great-great grandparents,” said Tony, smiling.
“The very same.” But then Scratch tilted his head and pointed. “What’s that thing there?”
Flip answered. “An electric keyboard. I know you can conjure a real piano, but we thought you might enjoy playing with this one.”
And at that, Scratch’s eyes sparkled as brightly as if he were alive.
Chapter
Thirteen