We're goin' to Jackson... Look Out

Jeanette

It was late November, a few years back. I was halfway through a trip home from New York, and Charlotte Douglas was bustling. I sat cross-legged with my back to a wall, stealing electricity to charge an old phone. My assistant, "If," perched on my shoulder, weightless and silent. She watched the crowds move, her blank, empty eyes peering out from behind gossamer strings of white hair.

You can never be too careful in these big airports, so I kept my left hand resting palm up on my knee. Waiting. Feeling. Just in case. Suddenly, a bright, happy peal of laughter rang out and If's head snapped up. Together we watched a trio of women in beautiful, colorful saris swish by, animated and preoccupied. They made me smile; I've always loved the colors and glitter of outfits like that, but so far, Father Scott's never sent me anywhere out East. Another time, maybe. I can take the monsters in India, right?

I was headed out on a side job, to somewhere a little ways outside of Jackson, Mississippi. This big-mouthed realtor had a property he couldn't sell, took a bet that was costing him money, and hired me to see if I could clean the house. Jackson's not too far from home, so I squeezed the job in, figuring I'd be back to New Orleans by Christmas.

Our boarding call was announced; I unplugged, nodded my goodbye to If, and hefted my bag onto the shoulder she vacated. I have no idea how she gets around. I don't usually ask. I just know she doesn't like airplanes and she'll be wherever I'm going. She floated lightly over a chair, her tattered sleeves fluttering, and she was gone.

The job itself was pretty straightforward on paper. Someone died and wouldn't leave. They do that sometimes. Usually the ones who die mad. But we've been over this, right? Souls aren't meant to be without bodies. They're not supposed to stay here after their time's up. The longer they do, the worse they feel. Anger, sadness, and longing take over, polluting and damaging the soul. And at that point, who you gonna call? Uh... Father Scott, I guess. And he calls me.

As I went over my notes on the flight, I started to think I might not like my client. I try not to develop prejudices, because this is a strange business, right? I know people don't want to hire the likes of me at all. This isn't like pulling up a webpage and bringing in a roofer. There aren't review sites for people in this line of work, and I'm not on any of Angie's lists. I get that this is abnormal. But people sometimes treat you badly even if they need you, and you can usually tell by the emails if the job's going to come with a side of snark. I sighed as we touched down in Jackson, and hoped I'd be wrong.

. . . I was right.

In one hand, halfheartedly, he held up a sign with my name on it. His attention and his other hand were on his phone; his expression twisted into an unpleasant sneer as he typed rapidly with his thumb. His foot jiggled and tapped impatiently.

"Allan Tann?" I asked, extending a gloved hand.

An enormous, toothy, phony smile erupted across his face then, stopping miles short of his eyes; the phone disappeared into a coat pocket. I felt If's presence on my shoulder a second before he shook my hand too hard. "Welcome to Mississippi, Mizz Renn. Allan Tann. It is a real pleasure to meet you." He pumped my hand vigorously up and down like he'd just sold me a car, that inane smile screwed into his cheeks. I was glad I'd kept the gloves on.

I can forgive a smarmy dude. Some people are just like that. But then he greeted the empty air beside me grandly, with a low, sweeping bow. "This must be your 'assistant spirit,'" he said, in a tone just patronizing enough to let me know he didn't think anyone was there. "Nice to meet you, O Spiritual One. Woooooooo....." he said, grinning like we were sharing a joke.

I mean... To be fair, she wasn't there.

If leaped lightly from my shoulder and rested herself on his back. She weighed him down, making herself heavier and heavier until he sagged forward onto his hands and couldn't straighten back up. "What in the hell?" He exclaimed, trying to keep his balance. He sputtered and stumbled as she pressed him down, and when he hit his knees, she looked up at me.