I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.
Hmmm . . . Maybe I should recap.
Norma, my elder sister, and I have been roommates since the death of my husband three years ago. Norma never married and, in a move that was at once uncharacteristic and generous, asked me at the funeral to sell my home and move in with her.
It took me a while, but I finally decided that it would be much more practical for us to halve our expenses by sharing living quarters. Two days after the funeral, I was cramming my bed and furniture into her spare room.
This was new territory for us.
With the gap in our ages—she is twelve years older than me—we had really never ‘shared’ anything. Before I was old enough to be a friend, companion, or even a ‘spoiled-brat-hiding-under-the-bed-to-listen-to-her-and-her-pals’, she was gone, working in the big city.
Now was our chance to make up for it.
At first, all went well. I put up with her rabid attachment to her smelly old bird, Reginald, and she put up with my need to poke pins in her ego at key moments.
All was well.
Until we discovered our visitor. Our fragrant, albeit invisible boarder.
Then everything changed.
Reginald developed a nervous disorder resulting in bowels even more active than usual. Her words, not mine. (I mean, how is that possible?) And finally forced her to send him (temporarily) to our cousin, Edith.
Something that still doesn’t sit well. With any of the three involved parties.
Once good old Reggie was out of the house, Norma, using his future return as an incentive, took it upon herself to expose and terminate our boarder.
I probably don’t have to mention that issuing an eviction notice doesn’t work with invisible visitors. That was the first thing she tried.
Her most recent attempt included dried grass.
And a lot of sneezing.
Effective in exposing our visitor.
But in no way allowing us to capture. Or evict.
And that brings us to today. And her next challenge.
I walked into the sunny front room and stopped. “What are you doing?”
Norma looked up. “I just had the best idea! I’m going to . . .” her words faded to a mumble as she bent over the old stereo that, until this moment had resided in dusty splendour in the basement. She straightened. “What do you think?”
I looked at her. “I think you’re crazy, but that has nothing to do with this. What did you say?”
“I’m reinventing my strategy. I’m going to change the atmosphere here.”
I glanced from the stereo back to her. “And?”
She smiled. “I’m going to play our old records really, really loud.”
I blinked. “Oookay. And that will do—what exactly?”
She looked at me, disgusted. “Well, obviously she likes it quiet.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“And if we—somehow—make this place become more—undesirable, maybe she’ll just leave.”
I sighed. “I don’t know, Norma. Maybe she’ll grow to like it.”
Norma reached into the stack of old LPs on the chair and slid one out. “Remember this one?”
I glanced at the cover. “You’re going to chase our ghost out by playing Elvis Presley?”
She nodded. “If it’s played real loud?”
If her plan was to get someone out of our house, it worked.
I’m now sitting at Edith’s.
With Reginald.
On a more positive note, I think Elvis actually showed up.
I’m quite sure he and our ghost were dancing up a bonafide storm.
I left before the rain started.
