The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 6

 

Fireflies at Dusk
by Daniel Ambrose 

Chapter 6 – The Woman in the Yellow House

Grief arrives when it is damn good and ready and not a moment sooner or later. It rarely arrives when people die. Death, at least, has the courtesy to announce itself. There are phone calls. Hospital rooms. Funeral homes with carpet chosen specifically to hide sadness. Grief prefers ambush. It shows up in grocery aisles when a particular song suddenly plays on the loudspeaker while you’re choosing a healthier breakfast cereal. It sneaks up on you in traffic or while you’re folding towels. While reaching for a second coffee mug before remembering there’s no one left to use it.

By Thursday morning, I had collected a short list of Willow Lane residents who had reported unusual activity culled from my own interviews with the residents, monitored conversations on the police scanner, and some tips from the usual contacts a guy like me needs in this line of work.

Most of it was the usual neighborhood nonsense. One man claimed children were playing in his yard after midnight. A man I talked with suspected the fireflies were government drones, which are a thing but likely not the culprit here. A third resident insisted squirrels had become “organized.” I made a note to avoid the squirrels.

Only one name on the list felt worth visiting. Eleanor Whitcomb.

Seventy-eight years old. Widowed eight years. Claimed her husband still came home after sunset.

In a neighborhood built from beige ambition and pre-approved mortgages, Eleanor’s house had committed the radical act of having a personality. The siding was pale cream, but the front door was painted a bright butter yellow. Flowerpots crowded the porch steps. Wind chimes hung beside a swing with faded blue cushions. A ceramic frog sat near the walkway wearing a sun hat like some eccentric sentry. It was ridiculous and wonderful; a house that didn’t need anyone’s approval.

Eleanor answered the door before I knocked twice. She was a small, silver-haired old gal, sharp-eyed in a way that made me immediately reconsider every assumption I had brought with me.

“Mr. Sharp?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t ma’am me. I’ve survived too many decades to be turned to be called anything other than my name.”

“Eleanor, then.”

She stepped aside and said, “Come in before the heat fries you like an egg on a sidewalk.”

Her kitchen smelled like lemon oil, sweet tea, and something baking that would likely make me a better person after eating it. She poured two glasses of the sweet tea and pointed me toward a chair.

“So,” she said, settling across from me. “You’re here about Harold.”

“I am.”

“Good. I was wondering when somebody sensible would get around to asking.”

“Sensible may be generous,” I said, after sip of the refreshing tea. “My line of work isn’t known for chasing sensible cases.”

“I’ll revise my opinion as evidence presents itself,” she countered and I liked her immediately.

“Tell me about Harold,” I pulled out my trusty little notebook. “I understand he passed away.”

“Eight years ago this October.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. He was very inconvenient to lose.” She said it plainly, without theatrical sadness. That was the thing about real grief. It rarely performed on cue.

“And you’ve seen him?” I asked and she nodded. “When?”

“Summer evenings.”

“Every evening?”

“No.” She took a sip of tea. “Only after the fireflies.”

I set down my glass. “You know about that?”

“Everyone on this street knows something. The children know the most. Adults pretend to know nothing, as usual.”

Yeah, I loved this gal. She got it.

“Do you believe Harold is a ghost?” I asked.

Eleanor looked almost offended.

“Oh, goodness, no.”

“What then?”

She looked toward the kitchen window. Outside, sunlight pooled across the lawn. The haze of the summer heat was in full swing.

“It’s Harold.” She sipped her tea and added, “But not the Harold who died.”

I waited. Made notes. Eleanor searched for the right words.

“It’s the Harold who hasn’t learned that yet.”

I returned that evening. Eleanor now served homemade fresh-squeezed lemonade on the porch and switched on a small fan that seemed mostly decorative. I felt like I was living a scene from a Ray Bradbury story. We sat in the yellowing light while Willow Lane went through its usual performance of normalcy.

The first firefly blinked near Eleanor’s hydrangeas at 8:15.

She saw me notice.

“Early tonight,” she said with a coy grin.

“They keep a schedule?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

More fireflies appeared. The neighborhood softened. Colors faded at the edges. Sounds faded as if the universe were turning the volume to get better look at the things.

Then a man walked across Eleanor’s backyard carrying hedge clippers. He wore khaki pants, a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and a straw hat with a green band. He was broad in the shoulders but had begun shrinking into age, the way men sometimes do against their will. He moved comfortably, like someone who knew every blade of grass.

“Evening, Ellie,” he called.

Eleanor’s hand tightened around her glass. The sweat from condensation dripped over her grip. But her voice stayed steady.

“Evening, Harold.”

He smiled and turned toward the hedge. I watched him work. The clippers opened and closed without sound. Leaves trembled but nothing fell. Harold hummed to himself as he trimmed branches that did not change shape. He wasn’t transparent. He didn’t glow. He didn’t drift mournfully across the lawn like someone auditioning for the ghost at a historical inn.

He looked real. Which was worse. I stood. Eleanor didn’t stop me. Harold noticed me halfway across the yard.

“Neighbor?” he asked.

“Not exactly.” I offered my hand. “Silas Sharp.”

His grip was warm and solid and human.

Harold Whitcomb.”

“Nice yard.”

He glanced around with modest pride.

“Ellie does most of it now. I just try not to ruin things.”

From the porch, Eleanor closed her eyes.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Since ’92.”

That matched what Eleanor had told me.

“Good street?”

“Best we could afford. Back then there was hardly anything out here. Just fields and promises.” He chuckled. “Funny thing, promises. They look better before people build on them.”

I looked at the clippers in his hand.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

He frowned down at them as though mildly surprised to find them there.

“Oh, keeping busy, I suppose.”

Then he looked past me toward the park. The fireflies blinked in slow, uneven clusters. For the first time, his expression changed to one of concern.

“Say,” Harold said. “What’s today’s date?”

Behind me, Eleanor’s porch swing creaked once. I didn’t answer right away. Harold smiled apologetically.

“Strangest thing,” he said. “I keep meaning to check the calendar.”

The fireflies blinked again all at once. And Harold Whitcomb waited for an answer to a question no dead man should need to ask.

*****

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