Authors: Lois Ruby
Rebel Spirits (14 page)
EVAN BRINGS ME
the towel, Gertie following tentatively behind him. She seems okay now that we’ve got the box open. They both sit beside me on the bank and peer over my shoulder as I carefully unfold the paper, which is old-fashioned onionskin, brittle with age. It opens to sixty-four squares like small windowpanes. I skim the first few words, printed in a small, tight hand, to get the gist of it, and I’m reeling with astonishment.
“What?” Evan asks. “Read it out loud.”
“I have to read it to myself first.”
“I give you two minutes,” Evan warns, “and then I’m snapping it out of your hands.”
I read:
MAY IT BE UNDERSTOOD THAT THIS IS MY LAST CONFESSION. MY WORLDLY GOODS HAVE LONG AGO BEEN DISPERSED, BUT THE SPIRIT OF WHO I AM APPEARS HEREIN. YOU WHO ARE READING THIS, I PRAY YOU WILL GRANT ME DISPENSATION WHEN THE TRUTH UNFOLDS.
I REMAINED IN GETTYSBURG WHEN THE WAR ENDED, HAVING CAUGHT THE EYE OF VIENNA JOOST, A WOMAN OF UNCOMMON INTELLIGENCE AND INNER BEAUTY. AS A YOUNG DOCTOR, I BEGAN TO FASHION AND CONSTRUCT ARTIFICIAL LIMBS FOR THE SOLDIERS WHO LOST ARMS AND LEGS DURING THE ORDEAL OF BATTLE HERE. I FOLLOWED IN THE DEDICATED TRADITION OF DR. RICHARD ANDERSON, WHOM I ADMIRED. AFTER HIS UNTIMELY DEATH, I ACQUIRED HIS TRUSTED AMPUTATION KIT, WHICH I USED RARELY.
“Time’s up. Who’s it from?” Evan asks.
“Shh. Let me finish, and then you can read it.” My thoughts are spinning. This is from someone who knew Nathaniel’s doctor.
I WAS PRESENT AT THE DEDICATION OF THE SOLDIERS’ CEMETERY IN NOVEMBER OF 1863, AT WHICH PRESIDENT LINCOLN SPOKE BRIEFLY, YET SO ELOQUENTLY. THE ALMIGHTY KNOWS I SHOULD HAVE RETURNED MR. LINCOLN’ S PROPERTY, HIS YOUNG SON’ S RING, THEN, BUT I DID NOT. MY VIENNA WAS WITH CHILD, AND I FANCIED THAT RING UPON THE FINGER OF MY UNBORN SON.
“Oh no,” I murmur.
“What? WHAT?” Evan looks worried, but I wave him away and continue reading silently.
TO OUR UNREMITTING GRIEF, OUR INFANT SON PASSED TWO HOURS AFTER HIS BIRTH, WITH THE RING ON HIS TINY THUMB.
“Oh, that’s so sad.”
“Tell me it’s not from Nathaniel himself. It’s not, is it?”
I shake my head. “I think it’s from his friend in the battle here. A man named Wince Carmody.”
“Who built your house,” Evan adds.
“Please let me finish.”
VIENNA WAS BEYOND SORROW AS OUR BABY WAS LOWERED INTO THE GROUND AT EVERGREEN CEMETERY, THROUGH THE GENEROUS SERVICES OF MRS. PETER THORN. ELIZABETH THORN WAS A DEAR FRIEND OF MY VIENNA’ S, AND DEEPLY AGGRIEVED AT OUR SON’ S DEMISE.
“Elizabeth Thorn,” I murmur. “Now I know why I’ve been so obsessed by her statue at Evergreen.”
Evan groans with impatience.
I THOUGHT TO BURY THE RING WITH THE BOY, GOD PROTECT HIS ETERNAL SOUL, BUT I COULD NOT BRING MYSELF TO LET IT GO. THE RING IS CURIOUSLY BOTH A BLESSING AND A CURSE — A REMINDER OF A DEAR FRIEND AND OF MY SON’ S BRIEF LIGHT SHINING IN THIS WORLD. THUS, IT IS HERE BURIED IN AN IMPERMEABLE BOX, DEEP IN THE HALLOWED GROUND OF A FIELD HOSPITAL.
MY PRAYER IS THAT NO OTHER FATHER OR MOTHER WILL BE BLINDED BY ITS GLITTER AND SUFFER THE LOSS OF A CHILD WHO WEARS IT.
I begin to read aloud, pulling Evan into the sad saga.
“‘Any who remember me, or who happen upon this letter, please reckon that I have tried to be a kind man, a good doctor, and a loyal friend. I refer to my comrade in arms in the 93rd Pennsylvania Infantry, Nathaniel Pierce.
“‘I was a party to his fatal wounding at the behest of another soldier, whose obsession was vengeance for something over which young Pierce had no control. The wrongdoer, even in the darkest crevice of his soul, professed to be a faithful friend as he pointed his pistol. God save us from such acts of friendship.’
“Yes!” I exclaim. “It
was
Edison Larch. I knew it. This is proof.”
“Let me see.” Evan slides the letter away from me and scans it as I read it again over his shoulder. His eyebrows rise when he comes to the part about the ring, but he doesn’t comment until the paragraph about the
fatal wounding
. “This isn’t proof at all, Lori. He doesn’t mention Edison by name. It wouldn’t stand up in court even in a TV script.”
“Yes it would!” I insist, sinking back on my heels. Then Evan reads the next paragraph aloud:
“‘On that fateful day, Pierce lay on a bed of pain in our tent. I had moved him to a sitting position, the better to swallow a mouthful of a therapeutic tea infusion. Clutching a pistol in both hands, Edison Larch crept up behind my friend. I let go of Pierce, who fell forward, unconscious. Larch and I tussled. We tumbled to the ground behind Pierce as I tried to wrestle the gun away. God help me, my fingers were on the trigger when the gun fired and Pierce gasped his final, labored breath.’”
“Wince did it? No!” I shout.
“It’s right here, in his own handwriting,” Evan affirms, and he continues reading aloud:
“‘My life dwindles and I cannot go to the grave with this confession unvoiced. Vienna met her maker three years ago. We were never blessed with another child, and thus I am left without an heir. I bequeath, therefore, to the young of the world, a future of love, good work, and far more peace of mind than I have enjoyed in my lifetime.
“‘Written this day, March 6, 1904. Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Dr. Winston Jeremiah Carmody, Jr.’”
Then there’s nothing we can say, Evan and I, so we sit in silence, shoulder to shoulder, but not touching, until he quietly leaves.
The mystery is solved, but I feel terrible. I have to break the news to Nathaniel tonight, before midnight. I put the letter
back inside the box with the ring and make my way back toward the inn. Deep in thought about how I’m going to tell him, I almost stumble over Mr. Crandall’s feet. Both the Crandalls are sprawled in Adirondack chairs halfway between the creek and the house. Mrs. Crandall is knitting something fuzzy and orange. Her husband is tapping out a rhythm on the arm of the chair.
“Hi-ho, Miss Lori,” says Mr. Crandall. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
I do
not
want to talk. I stuff the ring box in my soggy pocket. They see, but don’t comment. I’ve got to get the ring and Wince’s letter up to my room to hide them in my pillow with the RVA kit, but the Crandalls aren’t letting me get away that easily.
“I believe we must chat, Miss Lori. The time has come,” says Mr. Crandall.
His wife pats the wide arm of her chair for me to perch on. Reluctantly, I sit down and face Mr. Crandall, still dripping creek water.
“It is not by accident that Mother Crandall and I came to Coolspring Inn this week,” he begins. “I believe we were called here. We quickly picked up on your potential, Miss Lori, and we’re here to assist.”
“Potential?” I keep getting an elbow to the ribs as the knitter works her way across an orange row, but she doesn’t seem to notice me scooting farther and farther into the corner of the chair to avoid her elbow.
“Potential for communicating with people on the Other Side,” she says sweetly. “The other side of the divide between this world of flesh, and the next world of spirit. Charlotte, of course, is an old hand, but you’re fairly green at this, my dear, and we felt you needed a guide — a Sherpa, if you will.”
It takes me a second to comprehend what the Crandalls are saying. So they see spirits, too? Then something dawns on me: “That’s why you’ve been following me everywhere? And you’re the ones who slipped the note under my door about seeing ‘them.’”
“Oh, did that alarm you? Beg your forgiveness,” says Mr. Crandall. “Just thought you should know that you were not alone in encountering the spirits. They’re all around us.”
“Think of it like the busiest street in New York City,” explains Mrs. Crandall with a tinkly laugh. “People going hither and yon, sliding past one another on their personal doings.”
I think of all the ghosts I saw at the ball with Evan and nod. “You make it sound so normal. Isn’t it scary?”
“Well, yes, at first. But so is bungee jumping over a waterfall,” Mr. Crandall booms. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
I’m thinking,
The bungee cord could snap and you’d be plunged to your death onto craggy rocks in icy water, and if hypothermia didn’t kill you, the jagged rocks would rip you to bits
.
Mrs. Crandall continues, “Most spirits just go about their daily chores and pay no attention to us. Some hover over us like rolling clouds to see how we’re faring. They want us to do well; they truly do.” I nod again, thinking of Nathaniel. “Others?” Mrs. Crandall sticks a needle into the ball of yarn and frowns.
“Which is why Mother and I are here at Coolspring Inn,” Mr. Crandall chimes in. “Not all spirits are friendly. We sensed a malevolent spirit in this house.”
“We may be right, and also wrong,” Mrs. Crandall says with a faint smile. “It’s entirely possible that the malevolent spirit isn’t a spirit at all, and that there isn’t only one. It might well be a whole bevy of living souls doing evil work.”
“Be careful.” Mr. Crandall’s terse words strike fear in my heart.
“What if I don’t want to do this, see and talk to spirits?” I blurt out. “What if it’s just too hard?”
Mrs. Crandall nods. “Yes, my dear, that is a dilemma. You see, it’s not like a faucet that you can just turn off. But you can
let it drip in the background and pay no attention until the sink fills, and then you have to give it your mind.”
“Lovely analogy, Mother,” her husband says. “In time, Miss Lori, it’ll feel as natural as breathing in and out. Now, we’ll be leaving tomorrow, but fear not. Young Charlotte will remain here. She has a good ear, that one. You might say perfect pitch for the melody of the spirits. A fine-tuned gift. Never misses a note. Ho! I’m certainly musical today, aren’t I, Mother?”
“To be sure, Earl!”
It’s all so much to take in, and I have so many questions. I ask only one:
“But — but what happens when someone has crossed over for good?” I start tentatively, feeling a flush of warm hope. “Could I still communicate with him — or her?” Could I feel his lips on mine, his arms around me, after he’s vanished forever?
Mr. Crandall removes his straw hat and wipes sweat away with his sleeve. “Well, now, only if the young soldier chooses to be seen and heard; if he thinks it’s in your best interest.”
My stomach jumps.
They know!
“But if not,” says Mrs. Crandall, her knitting needles ticking, “you can always talk to him in your mind. You just need to take care that you don’t get stuck in the past.” She’s stopped knitting for a second to stare intensely at me.
“This is new ground for me,” I murmur.
“Not really, now, is it?” Mr. Crandall says, hanging his hat on his knee. “You’ve traveled this road before; you’re just encountering more traffic now that you’re here in Gettysburg where history arises with a flourish.”
I don’t know what to say. I stare at the ground until I feel Mrs. Crandall pat my arm reassuringly.
“Lori, dear,” she says, “I’ve always been partial to these famous words about love lost. ‘Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.’”
I look up at her, smiling despite my pain. “Is that Shakespeare?”
“No, dear. Dr. Seuss.”
DAD’S WATCHING FOR
me from the balcony and beats me to the red front door. My head is still swimming from everything the Crandalls revealed, and from the discovery of Wince Carmody’s confession — and the ring.
The red flag over the door barely grazes my dad’s head as he offers me a giant towel to wrap around my still-dripping clothes.
“Lorelei Cordelia, your mother and I would like to have a word with you.”
I follow Dad inside, clutching the towel to me. I feel a pit in my stomach. What do they want to talk to me about? Do they somehow know everything, just like the Crandalls did? Whenever one of my parents talks about having
a word
, it’s likely going to be a thousand words, most of which I won’t like.
Mom’s tapping her foot in the kitchen, with the Chinese takeout cartons all over the table. She’s clearing her throat — bad sign — and Dad’s fuming. Gertie has the good sense to leave the room. She’s never been great at conflict resolution.
Dad begins the inquisition. “It has come to our attention that you’ve been cavorting with a Battle reenactor, which means he’s older than you.”
Yeah, about 150 years older. “Cavorting, Dad?”
Mom’s turning as pale as a, well,
ghost
. She says, “And there was some mention of … murder.”
It hits me: Amelia Wilhoit overheard me on the phone with Jos, and quickly reported the conversation to my parents. I struggle to cover for myself by acting indigant. “Mom! Amelia Wilhoit is a romance novelist. She sees vile plots everywhere.”
Dad frowns at me. “Yet she distinctly heard the word
murder
, Lorelei, and how you’re supposed to solve it. She came to us out of genuine concern for you.”
“She’s a fake!” I stop just short of calling her a liar. Of course, she wasn’t lying.
“Honey, what your father means is, we’re wondering who the young man is. We don’t mean to pry, but —”
“He’s obviously not the boy you went to the dance with, our own Evan Maxwell,” Dad puts in.
Gertie trots back into the kitchen at the sound of Evan’s name. I think he’s been sneaking her bits of hamburger to win her over.
“Who is this boy?” Dad demands.
How do I explain this? Lying to my parents isn’t something I do on a regular basis, but this calls for emergency measures. “Okay, you guessed right,” I say, thinking quickly as my heart pounds and I clutch the ring in my pocket. “He’s a reenactor on the Union side. I met him when I went to watch the Battle on July first.” That much is true. Nathaniel and I did meet there that day, even if it wasn’t the first time.
“Sit!” Dad says, and Gertie sinks to her haunches, looking guilty. “Not you, Gertie. I meant Lorelei.” I slide into a kitchen chair with Dad looming over me, still looking suspicious.
Mom says, “Vernon, why don’t you sit down, also. There, that’s better.”
Dad delivers his usual opening pitch: “You are only sixteen,” and I position myself at home plate with my usual catcher comeback: “Almost seventeen.”
“Regardless,” Dad says. “The point is, we worry about you
going out with boys we haven’t met. We’ve only been here a few weeks. We don’t know who these people are, or their families, and so many of the reenactors pour in from all over the country. How can we be sure that you’re keeping company with someone reliable who won’t take advantage of you, hurt you?”
Nathaniel would never hurt me — I know this now. But anything I say about him, even if I try to make him sound alive and well, will just raise Mom and Dad’s suspicions. And it’s not like they can call up his parents in Titusville for a friendly meet-and-greet. So my next play is to agree.
“You’re right, Mom and Dad. I’ll be much more careful starting tomorrow; I promise.” Also not a lie.
Dad pats my hand. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Lorelei.”
“What?”
“Your father and I love you and want what’s best for you. The problem is, you’re such a trusting girl.”
How ironic is
that
, since Nathaniel told me just this afternoon that I’m not a trusting soul at all.
“Which is why,” Dad adds, “we’ve decided to ground you for the next forty-eight hours, until all these strangers go back where they came from. Some of them may not be as wholesome as you think.”
“You can’t do that!” I cry, slapping the table and making the takeout containers quake.
“Yes, Lorelei, we can,” Dad says sadly. It’s the old
This will hurt me more than it’ll hurt you
ploy parents have been using for centuries. “We have to do this for your own protection. You’re not to leave the house until July fifth.” Dad gets very quiet when he’s determined.
I grit my teeth, anger surging through me. “Oh, really? Just see if I’m going to be stripping beds and cleaning toilets in this broken-down, ramshackle rattrap tomorrow when everybody checks out. Not a chance! And that dog upstairs, Brownie? I hope he bites everybody’s ankles and they warn all their friends to never come here, and you go broke so Randy doesn’t have to see this nuthouse when he comes home from Ghana!” Whew. As soon as the words are all out of my mouth, I feel a stab of guilt and bite my lip, wishing I weren’t always so impulsive.
Mom’s sigh hasn’t got much gusto to it. I’m thinking she doesn’t agree with Dad about the grounding, but they always present a united front, so I take a deep breath and play to her weakness out there in left field.
“Mom, tell him,” I say, turning to her. “Have I ever done anything to betray your faith in me?”
Mom gives me a thoughtful look. “Well, there was that one time you and Jocelyn snuck into a Phillies game and we got a call from ballpark security — well, no, not really, honey.”
“And you haven’t had to ground me since I was maybe twelve years old, right, when I dyed my hair puce for Valentine’s Day?”
“Irrelevant,” Dad jumps in. “This is not punishment, Lorelei. It’s for your own safety, the same way we used to put covers over the electric outlets when you were a toddler.”
“That’s a ridiculous comparison.”
“Maybe so.” Dad’s practically whispering. “But it stands. The morning of July fifth you’re free to come and go. Until then, you’re grounded. Now, please give me your cell phone.”
My jaw drops. “You’re putting me under house arrest? Holding me incommunicado? The prisoner doesn’t even get her one call?”
“In a sense,” he agrees.
I hate you
comes to mind, but I’ve never said that to my parents, even those few times I thought it. But the main, panicky thought now is: If I’m grounded, how will I be able to get to Nathaniel in time?
Dad’s hand is out. “Your cell phone, please.” I reach under the towel and wheedle the phone out of my pocket. It’s ruined anyway, because I forgot it was in there when I sank neck-deep
in the creek. I slap the phone into Dad’s hand, stand up, and tramp out of the room just as the house phone rings.
Mom answers. “Oh, hello, Evan. Lori can’t come to the phone right now. I’m afraid she can’t call you later, either. No, she won’t be going out tonight. We have family business to take care of. The back area is looking a bit wilted. Will you be watering tomorrow? Great. Have a nice evening, Evan.”
She’s so
nice
to him, and I’m treated like a felon. How long ’til I’m sprung? An eternity. Well, in the greater scheme of things, not an eternity, I guess. But I’m still furious. I’m thinking
revenge
, inspired by Edison Larch, though I’m not murderous yet. I’m also thinking
freedom, my civil rights
!
I stomp hard on every step to the tower, humiliated. By the time I reach my room, I’ve hatched a diabolical plan: I’ll sneak out the window. They asked for it. It’s their fault for treating me like a child when every minute’s so crucial. Now that I know who the murderer is, I need to find Nathaniel and help him understand what happened before he vanishes at midnight, forever. I have to, and they can’t stop me.