“Miles,” said
Harold, “you are repeating yourself.”
“Sorry,
Harold,” Miles replied. “I’m in a state of shock. I mean, one minute, we’re
having a lovely day, thinking about playing some music and writing some lyrics,
and before I can say ‘Bob’s Your Uncle,’ you’re in the middle of a post
traumatic event, fighting for your ghostly life. And then, well, I discover
that you hung out with some drummer because he kept you in the powder. Suddenly,
I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s so apropos, you’re speaking and thinking
clearly, materialized properly as a ghost in the clothes you were murdered in, and,
well, I’m just feeling a tad bit overwhelmed, hmm?”
Kitty
stood by the two of them, wringing her hands. She wished she could understand
what Miles was going on about. Usually, Miles appeared prim and proper, the
perfect English gentleman. But now, his packrat eyes quivered in his face, and
his whiskers jiggled like Jell-O.
“We’re
in recovery, Miles,” she said, worried that Miles was offended by their
participation in AA. “We don’t do alcohol or drugs anymore.”
“Oh,
don’t worry about Miles,” Harold said. “He’s just a little stressed out by
today’s events, and he hasn’t had a nap. He’s cool, and some type of counselor
back in England. No worries, right Miles?”
Miss
Kitty looked into Harold’s eyes. They were the bluest blue, and sparkled with
life. She tried to erase the image of Harold’s bones thrashing on the metal bed
in the small attic, but they kept juxtaposing themselves in her brain. She
rubbed her eyes. “I think we could all use a nap,” she said.
Harold
scooped Miles up in the palm of his hand, and held him up to his face. “Miles,
you have been a wonderful friend, and I want to take this moment to properly
thank-you, you know, before I get all higgledy-piggedy and start to fade.”
“Um, boys,” Miss
Kitty said.
Harold
and Miles looked at Miss Kitty.
“Chad
Thead, AKA Smack Death, just pulled into the driveway. I’ve got to round up
Miss Patches. I don’t want him scaring her.”
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