The Paper Girl and the Stilt-Walker

The Hunger Artist and the Mysterious Gentleman

During the next few days, the wonderful thing happened.

Every day now, the paper girl, the stilt-walker, and the ghost all sat together at meals and kept each other company in the dreary hours of rainy twilight. The ghost woman would knit on the window seat, sometimes wistfully glancing out the teary panes. Monk sat in the armchair that rested in the darkest corner of the room, where he seemed to be the most comfortable, saying little. And Mina read old magazines and books and newspapers, growing accustomed to the lamplight and wishing that the electric lights still worked. They were an odd family, but Mina was content. When she left in the morning to go work at the clock or run errands, Marie-Élise would kiss her goodbye and Monk would hand her some money for the cable car.

Marie-Élise, it seemed, acted like three very different people at any given time. The first Marie-Élise was cheerful and oblivious, always smiling and making remarks about her husband, and this was the Marie-Élise that didn't remember that she was dead. The second Marie-Élise was moody, always sullen-looking, and prone to distancing herself from Monk for some reason, and this was when she knew that she was dead. The third Marie-Élise was see-through and just sat at the window and cried, not noticing anyone at all, and during these times, Mina didn't speak to her because she wasn't really there. Despite her oblivious attitude, Mina usually preferred the first Marie-Élise because her cheerfulness always rubbed off on her.

It was the second Marie-Élise that greeted her that morning.

"You're up late," she said, stirring something on the stove.

Mina rubbed her eyes and lingered at the doorway, not wanting to test the woman's mood. "You're making breakfast?" she asked.

Marie-Élise didn't answer, but was staring into the pot she was stirring. She looked to be thinking deeply. When a few minutes went by in silence, however, she broke it abruptly by hauling the pot off the stove and calling, "Come on, everyone to the table. We're going to eat like a family."

Mina couldn't imagine a stranger family, but quickly pulled up a chair for herself anyway. Marie-Élise set the pot down heavily and some of it splashed out. Monk was sitting across from her, his metal limbs attached to the ceiling, and Marie-Élise sat down last, a huge wooden spoon in her hand.

"What is it?" Mina asked, looking suspiciously at the pot.

Marie-Élise blinked, as if she were wondering that herself. Then, slamming the spoon down, she knitted her eyebrows. "It was going to be omelets," she said, looking very confused indeed. "Drat. What was I doing?"

Mina looked into the pot, asking herself the same thing. It just looked like Marie-Élise had filled the pot with water. The woman seemed to see that too, and, embarrassed, she stood up and stormed out of the kitchen. Mina heard her slam the door to her room, and then the sound of muffled crashing.

"Poor Marie-Élise," said Mina, looking at Monk. "She can't seem to keep it together for very long."

"No," he replied, his limbs letting go of the ceiling as he stood up. "Her memory is bad."

"Is there any way it could get better?" Mina asked.

"Perhaps," said Monk thoughtfully. "I'm sure if she knew that she was dead more than part of the time, she would be happier."

"And easier to handle," said Mina, taking the pot of water and putting it back on the stove. She looked outside and saw the dismal haze low to the ground, the gnarled black lampposts. There were crows, black shapes amid the glare, rustling every now and then. She sighed. Then, turning around, she said, "I'm going to explore."