Aiden lives with his grandmother while his mother is in a psychiatric hospital, and he believes that his late grandfather’s ghost visits him at night. On a summer day he goes to see Rita, his grandmother’s friend, to confess a lie the two of them told her and to ask for her help.
My hand shook a little as I drank the tea. “You sound like Grandpa.”
“How do you know what Sean sounded like? He died before you were born.”
“Rita, do you believe there’s life after death?”
“I tend to think not.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’ve never seen one, and I don’t know anyone who has.” She sipped.
I was quiet.
Furrows appeared in her forehead. “Have you seen a ghost, Aiden?” She laughed and put her cup down.
“Maybe.”
“Either you have or you haven’t. Which is it?” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Tell me about your ghost. I love stories.”
“My grandfather.”
“Sean?” she sighed. “Oh, that it were true.”
“Ghosts are true.”
“Aiden, you have an active imagination.”
I must have looked annoyed.
She smiled. “I believe you think you saw your grandfather’s ghost. . . . Don’t be angry with me.” She poured more tea into my cup. “Shall I get you some cookies?” She was about to get up.
“He came to me at night. He said my mother doesn’t belong at McCall’s and we should help her escape. He told me to ask you for help.”
“Aiden, your mother’s ill. You were dreaming about your grandfather.”
“He said my mother isn’t crazy. “ I looked down. “And neither am I. He told me we both have ‘second sight.’”
Her eyebrows raised, her face pale and serious. She moved her chair to my side of the table and put her arm around my shoulder. “Ya know what I think?” Her eyes shone kindly. I smelled whiskey. “I think you have a creative mind, and you should write stories. The Irish are known for their literature.” She threaded my hair with her fingers. “You’ve got his hair. And you’re so much like him with your curious ways.” She patted my knee. “Help me clean up.” She rose and placed our cups on the tray with the teapot. “Run ahead and hold open the door.”
“He wanted me to thank you for helping him find my grandmother’s pearls. He said he laughed at you for praying to Saint Anthony before you went to the car. You found the necklace between the seats.”
She dropped the tray. Bits of blue and white china were smashed on the bricks. A cardinal swooped down and sat on the birdbath.
Her shoulders trembled. She pointed to the birdbath. “That was your grandfather’s favorite bird.” She wiped tears from her cheeks.
I felt awkward and stooped to pick up the mess.
“You’ll cut yourself. Sit at the table with me.”
The cardinal flew to a crossbeam above us and looked down, as if it were listening to our conversation.
From The Weight of Small Mercies.
The boy reports what he sees, hears and smells, and leaves most of the meaning to the reader. He mentions that he smelled whiskey and goes on. When Rita drops the tray and points to the cardinal, he does not say what the pearls must have meant to her and his grandfather; he only feels awkward and stoops to pick up the china. The hope was that a child’s plain reporting would let adult feeling reach the reader without anyone naming it.
A suggestion. If your narrator explains what other people feel, you might try letting the narrator report only what can be seen and heard, and see what the reader infers.