Today's fiction feature is the story of a young girl from a lost time. Annie Whipple is an enigma in her own world. The child of divorced parents, not at all sure why the separation occurred-- and certainly not informed by her mother or father-- she struggles to understand a world gone upsidedown, and a life that moves from apartment to apartment as her mother does her best to be that unthinkable thing in the early 1960s, a divorced, single Mom.
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The Haunting of Annie Whipple
Annie Whipple didn’t see why her mother was so cheery, singing some stupid song by the Herman's Hermits as she perched on a wooden ladder-backed chair to reach the topmost cupboard of their new apartment, tidily storing their good china there. The kitchen cupboards emanated the smell of new paint. Annie thought it would probably seep into the china making it impossible to use, which was okay, because…they never used it, anyway.
“Annie, scoot down and get those sheets on the back seat of the car, so I can make the beds when I’m done here,” Marge called over her shoulder.
Annie made a huffing sound and stomped out of the tiny, second story apartment. She sent her mother a dark look before clunking down the rickety back steps to the parking lot. They were hurrying because Marge had go to work at 6:30.
I don’t care if the beds ever get made, Annie thought. She purposely hopped down each step, trying to stall for time. Maybe, she mused, the roof will cave in and we’ll have to go back to our old apartment. But, of course, a quick glance up at the roof showed no sign of wear or damage.
A mean red sun sucked the cool of a recent rain from every crevice. July was not being kind to them this year. Sweat tickled down Annie’s ten-year-old spine.
What’s so great about this stuffy, stupid old place, anyway? Annie thought, pausing at the bottom of the stairs when she had retrieved the box of sheets. It looks just like all the others. She huffed and puffed her way back up the shaky steps muttering to herself.
Who needs sheets, anyway? What we need is a fan! At least, I need a fan. I don’t get to work in a cool, air-conditioned restaurant all night.
She took the sheets in the small bedroom she would be sharing with her mother and dropped them on the twin bed that was hers. Without realizing what she was doing, she began to make the bed.
“You are a doll!” Marge came into the room, brushing fine golden hair off of her forehead. Small beads of sweat sat like diamonds on her brow.
Annie looked at the neatly made beds and blinked. Funny, she didn’t remember making them.
“I have to shower,” Marge said.
Annie followed her mother out to the landing at 6:30 and kissed her good-bye. She was only going downstairs, to the Golden Goblet, the finest restaurant in this part of town, to waitress for six hours. Annie was used to Marge going off to work, leaving her alone, but not in a whole new part of town, in a whole new place. Usually they had a weekend to get used to it together. 
As Marge walked away, Annie glanced over the iron railing into the parking lot. Shiny new ’65 Fords and Chevys sat in a neat row, waiting for their owners to reclaim them after an evening of prime rib and lobster tail. In a far corner, a lone red sports car sat parked at an angle, its convertible top down, its body gleaming with what Annie supposed was a recent wash. It tried to look important, but it was so small compared to the other cars, it only looked silly. Across the lot, under the small maple tree closest to the building, Marge’s old jalopy sat in hiding, its faded green paint and crushed rear fender marking it for embarrassment next to the other, fine vehicles.
“I bet you hate it here, too,” Annie said. That car was an old friend. They'd had it since before...well, since before. She looked to the back door of the restaurant for her mother, but Marge had already stepped inside.
The sound of children playing drifted to Annie’s ears. Beyond the parking lot she could see a neat residential area with colonial-style homes, complete with painted shutters and wide porches. Straining her neck, she could see some of the porches that were close by, and the tops of the houses around the bend in the road. Shouts of laughter, chanting, and friends calling to each other from porch to porch filled the night air. The voices were girls calling out songs; the kind of songs you sing when you play jump-roping.
“Teddy-bear, teddy-bear, turn around; teddy-bear, teddy-bear, touch the ground.” 
Annie wondered if Susie, her best friend from the old neighborhood, was out playing jump rope with someone new, right now.
She gave a fleeting thought to strolling down that noisy street, checking out the lay of the land, but although her hands gripped the iron rail as if ready to propel her forward, and her feet tapped out the cadence of the chant, she didn't move. Her lips moved to the lyrics of the song, but her throat did not let the words come out.
“Sure, Mom,” she gave a big sigh when the chant was over, “this time it’ll be different.”
With downcast eyes, she turned back to the cluttered apartment. The crash of the screened door as it slammed behind her was an exclamation to the day.
“It'll be better this time,” she spoke out loud, in the kitchen. “This time we’ll have a real home.” She was mimicking Marge's on-going litany of the last few days. A litany Annie had heard too many times before to believe. The night stretched ahead of her like a thick schoolbook full of homework. Boredom impelled her to tackle the boxes of non-perishable food sitting on the kitchen table.
She stacked soup and boxed goods in rows in the pantry, unaware of the shadows growing on the kitchen walls. Darkness came and brought quiet with it, the sound of children playing down the street disappeared.
Annie tried not to let the newness of the apartment bother her, but she saw ghosts everywhere; hiding in the pantry, peeking out from behind the refrigerator, crouching beneath the kitchen table. Nighttime crept into her shirt and trembled in her throat. She turned on the overhead light, but its weak glow only made enhanced the blackness of the shadows.
Determined not to give in to her fears, she found the old radio they’d had in the last apartment and plugged it in. She turned the volume up as loud as it would go, unconcerned (perhaps hoping?) that it might disturb the other tenants in this four apartment building. If someone came to ask her to turn it down, she would.
Of course, no one came. She was alone in the universe. She continued working, without thinking, concentrating on the neatness of her work, stacking the macaroni and cheese, the Campbell’s Soup, the pasta, the tuna fish, in neat, organized rows. For awhile, it was okay. For awhile. Until the radio switched to oldies. Annie wasn't really paying any attention...until, Elvis came on. Him and that dumb song! 
“You ain’t nothin’ but a Hound Dog!”
Annie squinched her eyes shut as tight as she could. She clenched her hands into fists at her side-- but the tears welled up and slid down her face anyway.
Hound Dog was Sam's song. He sang it all the dang time! Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to leave her with that song in her head, going round and round, all day, every day, like a broken record? And why did the radio stations have to play it all the time?
"It's a dumb old song," Annie shouted at the radio. "Nobody cares about it anymore!" She reached out to turn the radio off, touched the knob with her fingertips, then dropped her hand. Her fingers wouldn’t work. They wouldn’t let her turn it off. Elvis was all she had left of Sam--of the father that walked out of her life two years ago and disappeared.
Two years ago, come September. Maybe her mother had forgotten, but Annie never would. All those nights waiting up in the dark, hoping to hear his car pull up outside, hear his key turn in the front door, hear his voice apologizing to her mother for being gone so long. One week, then two, went by. Marge had paced the floor, crying, swearing, moaning, wringing her hands, night after night, finally crumbling up the clothes he’d left behind and stuffing them in a big, black duffel bag and throwing them on the front porch.
Annie had heard the thud of that heavy bag hitting the front steps, and thought her heart would pop right out of her chest, it was beating so hard.
She remembered that it had to be past midnight, because she could hear Johnny Carson making jokes on the TV. She’d sat up in bed, hugged her knees, and decided to wait up. She was so sure he would be back before morning. When the sound of birds calling in to each other in the trees awoke her, Annie jumped out of bed like a jackrabbit. She ran to the window to look at the porch. The duffle bag was gone!
She made a beeline for the kitchen. Empty; no coffee brewing. No eggs frying. She crept down the hall to her parents’ room and pushed the door open. Her mother lay on the bed, uncoverd, curled into a knot, alone.
Elvis had stopped singing. Petula Clark came on singing about "Downtown." Annie gulped. It was past nine. Darkness slithered along the ceiling and floor, and settled in every corner. Annie felt eyes watching her. She imagined ghosts hiding in the corners. Their curious eyes followed her every movement, eager to leap upon her and capture her in their eerie web. She'd learned from reading stories at the library that ghosts were always looking for kids to steal.
Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she threw the three boxes she’d emptied in the corner and tried to think of something else to do. They didn't have a TV, so there would be no Ed Sullivan tonight. Annie clicked on a table lamp in the living room and stood there thinking. Maybe she should go out front, explore the street outside. This was almost in the heart of downtown. Might be some interesting things out there. Directly across from the sofa was a door that led to a narrow stairwell. It was their access to the street below. Annie unbolted the door and peeked out into the hall. She counted three other apartment doors, with numbers tacked on them, two across the way, and one down the hall to her left. Dust balls floated along the floor. It was clear this area did not get cleaned often. So, did that mean there weren't even any people in the other apartments?
Not pausing to contemplate that thought further, Annie took a tentative step into the hall. She wasn't sure she should venture further. She could hear her mother's voice admonishing her to stay in the apartment, but curiosity got the better of her. As she pulled the door closed part-way, and stepped into the hall, a sudden crashing sound came from the stairwell. Annie heard feet fleeing down the steps. She ran to the top of the stairwell in time to see the door at the bottom close behind—someone.
Off she flew, red flip-flops hammering loudly on the stairs, flop, flop, flop, all the way down. Bamm! she burst through the door, looked about wildly... but whoever it was had vanished. She was too late.
To her surprise, the street in front of the restaurant was pulsing with activity. A dozen neon signs flashed announcements to the world. The restaurant where her mother was now waiting tables had a sign showing a golden goblet tilted slightly on edge. It was a very large sign, perched on the eaves of the building. Annie turned her gaze away, a little afraid that it was too big for it's anchor, that it might come down on her head if she stared at it for long.
Across the street, smaller multi-colored signs flashed invitations to be tattooed, to enjoy some refreshing ice cream, to buy next-to-new jewelry and watches. Annie was surprised at the number of people striding along the curb, couples with their arms about each other’s waists, women in scarves and peddle-pushers intent on their destination, young men smoking cigarettes, lulling in doorways or moving slowly along the curb, eyes darting here and there.
Annie wondered if one of these people had been in the stairwell. She twirled around and around, pondering her experience. Actually, none of these people were likely to be her visitor. Her visitor, she was pretty sure, was a young girl. Someone her own age. Maybe another kid stuck home alone, like she was. But, why had she run off so quickly? The upstairs hall was off-limits to anyone but the occupants of the apartments, Marge told Annie that yesterday. Most likely, whoever it was, wasn’t allowed up there. That's why she had run off so fast.
Maybe, Annie thought, still searching the far ends of the street, where the lights couldn’t reach and the night was a blanket of gray static, maybe her parents are divorced, too. I wonder, as she pulled open the door to go back upstairs, how long it’s been since she saw her father.
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Stay tuned next week, dear readers for Part II of "The Haunting of Annie Whipple." Will she find out who the little girl is? IS there a little girl? Or, is there merely...a ghost. A ghost of summer past?
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