Poor ghost, p.14
Poor Ghost, page 14
Sometime after you would normally be making yourself a sandwich for lunch, you conclude: “Up until Connie’s death, it was a relatively successful life.”
“And now?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
Kelsey has been an excellent listener, and you can’t remember ever talking that long about yourself, so you ask politely: “And you? What’s your story?”
“Thumbnail sketch? Wealthy kid from Scarsdale. Parents divorced when I was ten. Mom was an actress and singer who did a lot of touring with musicals once they left Broadway, so I lived with my dad, who was an entertainment lawyer.”
“Did you get along with them?”
“Mom, not so much. But I loved my dad. He was the kindest, most generous lawyer you were ever going to meet. That sounds snarky, I know, but I don’t mean it that way.”
You clear your throat. “I notice you refer to him in the past tense.”
“Yeah.” She pauses, looks out the window at the mountains, looks back at you. “He died a year ago. Pancreatic cancer.”
“I’m sorry. You must miss him.”
She nods: of course. “Anyway, I always wanted to come to California, so I did my BA at UCLA, then I went back and got an MA from Columbia, and I’ve been kind of piecing freelance work together since I graduated. Mostly feature pieces on music and movies, but some politics.”
“That’s impressive.”
“I don’t know. One thing I learned early on as a journalist: unless you’re the story, don’t talk about yourself.”
“Makes sense.” You can tell she’s had enough for one day, so you get up and, without really thinking why, ask her what she’s doing for Thanksgiving tomorrow.
“No plans, really. What about you? Dinner with your father?”
You nod, and it pops out of your mouth before you can stop it: “You could join us. If you want.”
“That’s nice of you, but it seems more like family time.”
“My daughter’s driving up this evening. If she likes the idea, would you be interested?”
Kelsey shrugs as she gets up to go. “Sure, why not. As long as you let me bring the food.”
40
You watch out the front window until Victoria arrives, then you put Jackson in the hall and shut the door. When you answer the front door, you tell her, “I have some very good news. I want you to—”
But he’s barking and scratching on the hall door, and she’s already moving past you. “Jackson! You found him!”
When she opens the door, they reunite like two characters in a children’s movie. You half expect to hear swelling orchestral music, as he licks her face, and she kisses his nose and hugs him against her chest. “Jackson, baby, you’re home!”
She wants to know, of course, when you found him, and you consider lying, but you admit that it was Tuesday night, that you couldn’t bear the thought of parting with him that evening, and she seems to understand.
“It’s weird,” you tell her. “A week or so ago, I heard this barking in the middle of the night that I thought was him, but it was really foggy, and I wasn’t sure what I saw, whether it was him or another dog or just a coyote.”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles,” she says.
“It was kind of spooky.” You hesitate. “And something even spookier happened.”
She looks at you: Yes?
“I thought I heard your mother calling me in the middle of the night.”
“What? Dad, you’re giving me chills.”
“I’m sure it was a dream. I got up and walked around. I didn’t hear anything after I was sure I was awake.”
“Still. That’s creepy.”
You grunt an affirmative, then order pizza.
After it arrives, you ask Victoria about Kelsey joining you and your father for Thanksgiving.
“I guess that’s okay, but, really, why? Why would she want to do that?”
“I asked her.”
“Okaaay. What’s going on with this journalist, Dad?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it, like, a romance?”
“Seriously? She’s not much older than you are, Victoria.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Men are perverts.
“Well, I’m not a pervert.”
“You’re lonely, though, aren’t you? You must be. Why else would you be hearing Mom’s voice?”
“Of course I’m lonely. I was married to your mother for thirty-three years. But that’s not why I asked Kelsey to come to Thanksgiving. First, her father recently died, and she seems lonely.”
“So she wants a replacement father?”
“Maybe a little. I suspect she mostly sees me as an opportunity for a piece on Poor Ghost. I’m just the way in to the story.”
“Sounds pretty self-serving.”
“Could be. When I think about it, though, it was probably selfish on my part: she’s one more person to help deal with Grandpa. Like an extra shield in a battle.”
“You’re really looking forward to Thanksgiving?”
“Of course not. Are you?”
Victoria shakes her head, no.
You text Kelsey and arrange for the three of you to meet at your father’s house at eleven the next morning. It’s early for Thanksgiving dinner, but your father prefers an early meal, and he will likely be hungry by then. Kelsey texts that she has the food taken care of, and though you text back that she’s being too generous, you don’t fight very hard. Neither you nor Victoria like to cook, and whatever Kelsey’s plan for the menu is, it’s better than the one you have now.
41
At eleven, you and Victoria pull into your father’s driveway with a bottle of Pinot Noir, a bottle of Chardonnay, and a bottle of champagne.
Kelsey, waiting in her car on the street, emerges with two enormous plastic bags.
Victoria introduces herself, and says, “You shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t really. It was delivered to my door an hour ago.”
You haven’t broken the news yet to your father about the extra guest, but he takes it in stride, apparently assuming that she’s a helper from Meals on Wheels who will leave as soon as she’s set everything up.
You and the other two Cranes sit passively, watching Kelsey put the food on your father’s not very clean kitchen table. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Kelsey says, reading from a printed menu. “Savory butter roasted turkey breast, brown butter mashed potatoes, homemade garlic and herb gravy, fresh cranberry sauce, roasted Brussels sprouts, and a delicious apple crumb pie. How does that sound to everybody?”
“I don’t like Brussels sprouts,” your father says.
“If I’m honest,” says Kelsey with a wink, “I don’t much like them either, Mr. Crane.”
There’s a long pause, then your father cracks a smile, something you haven’t seen in months. “My father’s Mr. Crane. My name’s Albert.”
“All right, then, Albert, the two of us will leave the Brussels sprouts to Caleb and Victoria.”
Your father’s face goes sour. “What do you mean the two of us? Are you eating Thanksgiving dinner here?”
Kelsey looks over at you. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you talking about ‘not yet’?” your father asks. “Who is this lady, anyway?”
You’re not exactly sure how to explain her presence, and you’re fumbling for an answer when Victoria jumps in. “She was a friend of Mom’s, Grandpa. Someone she knew from the New Yorker.”
“You’re a little young to be doing that job, aren’t you?” he harrumphs.
“Still wet behind the ears, Mr. Crane.” She smiles, and it almost wins him over.
“So, you’re some kind of cartoonist?”
“Actually, I’m a reporter.”
“And how did you know my late daughter-in-law?”
“Just … you know. Running in the same circles.”
That response seems to satisfy your father for the moment. At any rate, he is hungry, and soon the four of you are sitting around the table, each with a small glass of red or white wine, digging into the pre-made food, which is quite good.
When he’s finished, before everyone else, your father says, “Okay. That was good. I think I’m going to take a nap.”
“Grandpa, no,” says Victoria. “I did not drive all the way up here just to watch you eat for twenty minutes.”
“Why did you drive up here, then?”
“For family.”
He grimaces. “Some family.” He picks up his fork and points at Kelsey. “And she’s not family at all.”
“She’s a guest, Dad,” you say. “You need to treat her with some respect.”
“What is she, your girlfriend?”
You roll your eyes, and Victoria once again comes to the rescue. “Let’s do ‘What are you thankful for?’ I’ll start. I’m thankful for my dad and my grandpa, and thankful to have met Kelsey. I’m thankful that we are lucky enough to share this meal together when so many people around the world are starving.”
“It’s their own fault,” says your father.
“Jesus, Grandpa.”
“Don’t you ‘Jesus’ me, young lady.”
You say: “What are you thankful for, Dad?”
“I’m thankful I have some visitors for a change.”
“I visit you twice a week, Dad. Other than Meals on Wheels, I’m your most constant visitor. And your granddaughter sees you whenever she’s in Santa Barbara. I don’t feel like you’re very deprived.”
“A lot you know.”
Kelsey says, “What should people know, Mr. Crane?”
“Well, for one thing,” your father says, staring at Kelsey, but pointing at Victoria, “did you know she had an aunt?”
“She wasn’t actually Victoria’s aunt,” you interrupt, “because she died when she was four, decades before Victoria was born.”
“Has your father ever told you how she died?”
Victoria says, “Something about a spider bite?”
“A black widow.” Your father picks up his fork again, this time pointing it at you. “He made her touch it.”
“Dad?” says Victoria.
“He’s right. I was six. She was four. I wasn’t sure what it was—it looked like this black bump on a piece of wood—but I didn’t want to touch it myself. It was my fault. I had a bad feeling, but I told her to do it anyway.”
“You should be so ashamed of yourself. It should have been you, not her,” your father says in an Old Testament voice.
There’s a long, strained silence. Your father glares. The two women have their heads bowed, as though they are saying grace. You look around the dining room, everything covered in dust, unwashed cups and glasses crowding the counter, newspapers stacked against the walls. There’s a musty, moldy odor. It could be Miss Havisham’s second home.
Then Kelsey says, “I think he is ashamed about it, Mr. Crane. He told me about it yesterday. He seemed really sad.”
“He should be,” your father says, with apparent satisfaction.
“But I’m thinking,” Kelsey continues, “that must have been extraordinarily painful for a child of that age. Of course he didn’t mean to kill his sister. He simply made a mistake. Doesn’t that deserve some forgiveness after all these years?”
Your father dashes his fork to the floor and stands up, shakily, both hands resting on the table. “The Almighty will decide who is forgiven and who is damned. That is not for us to know.”
“Grandpa, you are being so harsh,” Victoria says. “You’re better than this.”
“I am who I am.”
“Come on, Dad, please,” you say, getting up and reaching a hand toward him.
But he slaps your hand away and shuffles toward his bedroom. Over his shoulder, your father mumbles, “Go to hell, Caleb Crane. Go straight to hell.”
TEXTS
KS & RA
Thu, Nov 25, 4:32 PM
Where are you?
Hello?
We were supposed to have Thanksgiving today. Remember????
Everyone was asking where you were, and I just said, “She’s on assignment.”
I am so sorry!!!
What happened?? Do NOT tell me you went back up to Santa Barbara.
Yes, but driving home right now. I’m in Calabasas.
I do NOT believe this. What even is the story? A bunch of losers can’t let go of a washed-up band? NO ONE wants to read that. Believe me.
Sorry. I felt obliged to be around these people. They’re hurting.
So you didn’t even forget?? You chose the weirdos over your friends! Seriously????
There’s a story here, Becca. Something worth telling. You have to let me follow it. We’re still friends.
Are we, Kelsey? Because I’m starting to doubt it.
Look: How about dinner at Tar and Roses tomorrow? My treat. I’ll tell you all about everything.
How do I even know you’ll be there?
I will, I promise. I swear. The snapper is so good! At eight?
Okay?
Please!
Can I bring Ted?
Of course!
Okay.
NTSB Holds News Conference on Fatal Poor Ghost Plane Crash
—AP News, November 26, 2021
Nicole Zelle of the National Transportation Safety Board held a press conference at the Santa Barbara Regional Airport on Monday to discuss the crash on September 21, 2021, of a Cessna Citation in which the pilot and three of the four members of the band Poor Ghost perished.
According to Zelle: “As previously reported, the plane’s fuselage was split in two just aft of the wings. Both wings were impact-fractured, and exhibited leading edge damage consistent with tree impact. The empennage [tail assembly] was impact-fractured and severed and found approximately 25 feet from the rear half of the fuselage. The instrument panel was fragmented. The engine controls were in the full forward position.”
When reporters asked if the position of the engine controls indicated that the plane had been intentionally crashed, Zelle responded, “We believe so.” She added that the lack of eyewitnesses, and the fact that the cockpit voice recorder had been disabled, was hampering the investigation. The only survivor, bassist Kerry Cruz, 58, has said he was asleep at the time of the crash.
Zelle told reporters that the pilot, 36-year-old Jeffrey Dunne, had been thoroughly investigated, and there was no sign of suicidal or homicidal ideation, although she could not explain why Dunne apparently flipped a circuit breaker that turned off the voice recorder prior to the plane’s approach to Santa Barbara.
Zelle said there was no evidence that Dunne had met any of the members of the band prior to the flight, or that he held any animosity toward anyone in Poor Ghost. Zelle read a statement from Dunne’s wife, Allison, which said, in part: “Jeff was a huge fan of PG. He was thrilled to be their pilot, even though it was only a short flight.”
When reporters asked whether Dunne’s apparent innocence indicated the involvement of one or more members of Poor Ghost in the downing of the plane, Zelle replied, “No comment,” and said that the investigation was ongoing.
As she was leaving the meeting room, a reporter called out, “What about Kerry Cruz? He’s the only one left alive.” Zelle paused and said, “Mr. Cruz is actively assisting us with our inquiries,” then ended the news conference.
POOR GHOST: AN ORAL HISTORY
2002–2004
Defenestration and Decapitation (2003)
US Billboard Peak Position: 18
KERRY CRUZ: The thing about Poor Ghost is we’d get on a roll, like we had a number one album in 2000, but then we’d all sort of get burned out and have to go our separate ways to save our sanity.
And also, let’s face it, we were dependent on Stuart for our material, and if he didn’t have his downtime, there was always this implicit threat that he was going to leave the band, and that would be it for all of us.
It’s not that we didn’t write our own songs, me and Gregg, and even Shane, but the fact of the matter is that we are three great sidemen, no more and no less. We add a ton to the band—the Stuart Fisher solo project would be a lot weaker without us, as Stuart himself would be the first to admit—but we are incapable of writing songs like Stuart’s. Over the years, all three of us have said how generous it is that Stuart has this special arrangement of paying us co-writer royalties, even though most of the songs only have “Fisher” as the official credit.
So, “Whither thou goest,” as I believe the saying is.
STUART FISHER: I can’t just write songs on command. I don’t want to sound like some prima donna, but that’s the way it is. I’m not a music factory. I have to recharge the batteries, and for me that means doing something different.
After the Ugly Word tour, I spent some time in Austin, which, despite what everyone says, seemed like any big Texas city to me.
Then I was in rural Wales for about six months. I rented a house outside a tiny town called Llandysul. No one knew who I was. As far as they were concerned, I was just some eccentric American who came into the Kings Arms in the afternoon for a couple of pints. Anyway, most people spoke Welsh as their first language, so conversations could be … limited. Fields and sheep and rain were big topics. It was a real head-clearer.
GREGG MORGAN: I spent a week jamming with Jeff Tweedy after Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came out and Jay Bennett had quit. I like Jeff, he’s funny and smart, and he’s written some great songs. I don’t know if he was going to ask me to join Wilco to fill Jay’s slot, but I pretty quickly figured out that it would just be another version of Poor Ghost, so it never came to that.
SHANE REED: My businesses were doing pretty well at that time, so I was never bothered when the band wasn’t together. In fact, I took up golf around then. After six months, I was shooting in the mid-80s.
STUART FISHER: When I got back to LA at the end of 2002, the songs just started coming to me: “Anagram,” “Ecce Homo,” “Archaeology,” “Against the Euro.” Definitely guitar rock—not necessarily the most commercial form of pop music at the time, but “Euro” did get some airplay.
