Page 85 of Possibly Texas

We stood there for a few moments, our eyes locked, before Auggie gave a sigh and stepped back. The breeze whispered through Windchime Hollow once more, ruffling our hair and causing the smaller chimes to make their tinkling noises.

“I’ll come get you tonight? About eleven-thirty?” Auggie asked. “To go see our ghosts?”

“Sure,” I nodded.

“I’ll go now,” Auggie said. “In case you need some time.”

I didn’t know what Auggie meant at first, but he cocked his head towards the windchimes across from us and smiled. I understood then. Without another word, Auggie turned and headed back down the trail that led into and out of Windchime Hollow. He didn’t race away, sprinting like he had when we arrived at the Hollow. Auggie strolled away at a leisurely pace, pointedly not looking back. To give me privacy? I wasn’t sure.

After he had disappeared down the trail and the shadows of the trees that lined the path claimed him, I turned my attention back to the windchimes. The wind was picking up, cool and fragrant, carrying the smell of summer grass and the woody scent of the trees.

As I sauntered across the clearing, my eyes fixed on a windchime strung with old metal keys, hung from a large pine tree, I wasn’t sure what to think. Was Windchime Hollow really harmless? Was it healthy for people to place their comfort in what was essentially an art installation? The fact that no one really knew who had begun the tradition of hanging the chimes and adding to them made me more unsure of it.

With cell phones and letters and emails and other forms of communication, why would one ring a windchime for someone? Even if they were dead, why wouldn’t someone just go visit their grave instead? Or say a prayer at night? If someone was dead—and you believed they could be communicated with—couldn’t you talk to them…anywhere?

Was it ridiculous to ring one of the chimes and believe Auggie’s story? To buy into yet another Possibilian legend?

The decision was made for me. When I came to a stop in front of the chime made of keys, a gust blew through Windchime Hollow, and the keys fluttered as if they were nothing, clanging together.

People in Possibly say that if someone is thinking of you—alive or dead—that the chimes will make their music.

So, when the chime settled, I reached out, grabbed one of the heaviest keys, and swung it. The windchime clanged again, keys tapping into keys, filling Windchime Hollow with the sound of metal clanging against metal. It should have sounded harsh, like someone working in a factory. Instead, it sounded like a song.

Like a song I had in my head but could never remember the tune.

Jack was turned away from me, his hand resting on the handle of the fridge door as he examined its contents, when I got back to his place. When I left Windchime Hollow, the tinkling of the chimes following me down the trail, I realized that my lower back had turned into a swamp. Possibly wasn’t experiencing the hottest day, but after walking around town thirteen times, then racing to Windchime Hollow, it was understandable that I’d gotten overheated. On the way back to Jack’s, I’d paced myself, finishing off the bottle of water Auggie had given me on the way.

As I walked into the house, I made a beeline for the sink and unscrewed the cap of the water bottle. I filled it up from the tap halfway, then poured it all down my throat, swallowing the cool water greedily. Gasping for breath and partly satiated, I held the mouth of the bottle under the tap again. I let the bottle fill all of the way to the top before turning off the tap and taking another healthy swig from the slick metal bottle.

When I turned away from the sink, Jack had closed the refrigerator and was staring at me, an amused smile on his face. Obviously, slurping down water like a maniac was kind of funny.

“What?” I smiled.

Jack started to sign, but most of the signs I didn’t understand.

“Sorry, man,” I said with a wince, “I’m not following you.”

Jack stopped mid-sign, frowned thoughtfully, then his eyes lit up. He took his right hand and touched his thumb to his four other fingers and brought it to his mouth.

Eat.

Then he brought that arm down and used his left hand to touch his forearm.

Breakfast.

“I already had breakfast,” I said.

Jack smiled and held up a finger.

“Okay,” I said.

Jack held up four fingers, then he made the sign for “eat” again, then brought his hand down to touch the back of his left hand.

Dinner.

Jack looked at me questioningly.

“Breakfast for dinner?” I asked. “Do you want to do breakfast for dinner?”