Ghosts of Bergen County by Dana Cann

her?” the girl asked. “Maybe she’s down here.”
    â€œIt’s not nice to tease.”
    â€œI know that .” The girl glared at Mary Beth. Then she jumped off the tree and squatted next to it. “Yeah, she’s right here,” the girl said, “under this tree. She’s smushed under this tree.”
    â€œOkay, stop it!”
    â€œWe were building this house, and Catherine got under it. Come out, Catherine. Someone’s here to see you.”
    â€œI said, stop it!” There were birds on the tree branches and squirrels in the brush. Cars whined from a highway and a train horn sang. There were animals and machines, Mary Beth and the girl.
    â€œCome up,” Mary Beth said.
    â€œCome down.”
    So she did. She started down the steep slope, faster than she should have. The dirt was loose. Rocks tumbled. She reached for exposed roots but missed. The girl screamed and started up, off the path, through the green ground cover. Gravity and momentum carried Mary Beth. She nearly toppled, head over heels. Her sandals slid, and she fell on her butt, and grabbed a thin tree, which bent but didn’t break. The girl was three-quarters up the hill now. Mary Beth could have caught her, maybe, by the time they reached the field. But how would that look? CHILDLESS WOMAN, TEASED BY KINDERGARTNER, TACKLES CHILD .
    She let go. She was near the bottom. She rose to her feet and stepped off the trail, through the brush, using the small trees growing from the incline to steady herself. She watched for prickles but they found her. They tore the skin on her wrist. Then her ankle and toes. Then the tops of her feet. After a time she made it to the tree where the girl had stood. Its main shaft was two feet wide. Mary Beth stood on it, then peered under it. There was nothing, of course, but dead leaves and branches. She glanced up the hill. She sat on the tree and poked at her cuts. Then she threaded her way through the brush and the prickles to the trail, which she took down, toward County Park, where there was a paved path that followed a stream to the duck pond and the playground with its preschoolers. Her knee hurt, and she limped. She was filthy and bleeding. But she wasn’t tired. In fact, she felt rather alive. She walked the long way home. There were hours of daylight. When she got home she soaked in the tub. She cleaned out her cuts. It was nearly dusk and she wasn’t tired. She didn’t know what to do next.

CHAPTER NINE
    They spent hours on her couch. Ferko had his cushion, and Jen had hers. They slept and woke. They didn’t eat, and they barely talked. After a time, Jen got up and went to the kitchen and splashed water on her face. “It’s night,” she said.
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œNine fifteen.”
    â€œI forgot I wear a watch,” Ferko said.
    â€œLet’s go to a party.”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œWell, I’m going.”
    He used the bathroom. When he came out, he said, “We look high, don’t we?”
    â€œPeople will know. Your pupils are pins.” She curled her finger to make a tiny hole and peered through it.
    â€œWhere’s this party?” he asked.
    â€œOn the way to the PATH . I’ll get you there by midnight. You’ll be home by one.”
    But it took time to get out of Jen’s apartment. They ate falafel sandwiches on the way to the party. They arrived at ten forty-five and stayed until one thirty. Then they went to a club nearby, where bands played, one after another, hour after hour, until there were no more bands, and a DJ played MP3s until dawn. Ferko paced himself, beer and water—lots of water—while Jen switched to Diet Coke and hits off joints. She had friends, so many of them. There were musicians and artists and carpenters and writers. There were actors and computer geeks and ne’er-do-wells. There were kids in their twenties and old punks in their fifties,