Keep the Ghost

10. Banks

“You didn’t even ask where we’re going,” she says as the engine rumbles to life with the twist of a key. 

“I’ll find out when we get there,” I respond, counting as I exhale. 

She takes us into downtown Port Lavaca, down Main Street. We don’t see another car the entire way. The shop windows are deep ebony, stop signs and mail boxes cast in steep shade by the occasional street lamp. 

None of these shops ever seem crowded, even in the daytime. Pet groomer, refrigerator repair, bullshit trinket shop, shoe restorer. The last few things you can’t get done at one of those super stores, the stores people actually shop at.

A traffic light turns red, and Morgan slows to a halt. “My sponsor wants to meet you,” she says quietly. “I don’t know for sure what will happen.”

“Sponsor?” 

She nods. “My benefactor. The guy who makes this possible.”

“You mean faking your death?” 

The question floats restlessly around the car. The light turns green, and Morgan gently brings us up to speed. Even now, with no one around, she obeys every traffic law, and I never see her go past the limit.

“I can’t help you unless he agrees you’re right for it.”

“Right for what?”

Again, no answer.

We move through Main Street and toward Port Lavaca’s marina. A ragtag armada bobs there: some shrimp boats, one decrepit yacht, and a neighborhood’s worth of house boats. Some of these have lights on, and I see silhouettes cast through the yellow glow within portholes. Shadow theater of the forlorn.

She parks in the gravel lot beside the docks. A row of wooden posts connected by thick ropes marks the edge of the lot; from there, a ten foot drop down to the gulf.

We get out. Morgan retrieves a small flashlight from her purse, and twists the top so it beams to life. I follow her through the gravel parking lot, rocks grinding beneath our feet. Then I’m on the old pier, and can feel the boards sway as waves throw themselves at the pillars and are broken.

The dock is broken into sections, each long pier leading to a dozen boats. From down here, this little floating village is more alive than it seemed. Somewhere, Tejano music plays softly. Televisions whisper from cracked windows, and a dirty looking man slumbers on the deck of what barely qualifies as a raft. 

I follow the flashlight over cords of rope, a dead seagull and the mangled cardboard remains of a box of beer. At the end of the pier sits a houseboat that’s not particularly distinct from its neighbors. Blue and white, with the words “La Vittoria” painted on the side in faded cursive. It seems more like a house than a boat; two small rooms nailed to a shallow hull. An iron pipe rises from the center, and smoke drifts out. 

Morgan stops outside the boat and raises her hands to the door. “This is it,” she says. “Think before you talk.”

I nod, but do not move. The white door of the boat shifts gently in the water, and the world is so dark in contrast that I’m hypnotized. Just me and the door; the rest of the universe ceases to exist. 

“Inside,” Morgan clarifies. “You need to go inside.” 

With one hand on the wooden post the boat is tied to, I step aboard, walking carefully over the wet wooden slats until I’m standing before the door.

I knock twice, quietly. 

“Come in,” a voice says. Friendly, an older man’s voice. 

I twist the knob, push. It opens easily, but with a creak.