Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Miranda stopped in her tracks. Yes . . . she was certain now that what she’d heard from her window yesterday hadn’t been a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers . . .

  “They were gunshots,” she mumbled. But not these gunshots.

  A chill clawed through her veins. How many other things had she seen and heard since coming to St. Yvette? Things she hadn’t paid attention to, things she should have noticed?

  But how could I have realized? I didn’t know! I didn’t know till now—and now I don’t want to know!

  Forcing down panic, she moved on. She’d hoped to lose herself here—to blend in, be inconspicuous, retreat from the rest of the world. How many clues have I missed? How many signs have I ignored? She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why wouldn’t it leave her alone?

  She wandered farther into the park, along winding, tree-shaded pathways, looking for a place to sit down. The muggy heat had grown way past stifling. The sun blazed down without a cloud in the sky. In the wider, more open spaces, both Rebel and Yankee regiments impressed spectators with various marching and marksmanship skills, while in a small amphitheater, folksingers performed nostalgic Civil War ballads. Miranda paused briefly at each, then continued on to the cemetery.

  Unlike the Falls, the Confederate Cemetery had been lovingly cared for. Located on a gentle rise, its grass was lush and green, its graves peaceful and undisturbed. Each tomb looked freshly whitewashed, banked with masses of flowers and foliage, decorated with vintage photographs, religious figurines, yellow ribbons, rosaries, and votive candles that flickered among the crosses. Markers and memorials stood proudly. Every name and message was distinct.

  Spotting an empty bench, Miranda went over and sat down. It was a beautiful spot, facing the graveyard across a flower-bordered path, but the beauty did little to console her. As families strolled past, she thought of her grandfather—all the things left unsaid and undone, all the unexpressed feelings and unanswered questions.

  A fine sheen of sweat glazed her brow. She was feeling warmer by the minute—warm from the inside out—getting so hot, she could hardly stand it. She wondered vaguely if someone had set up a grill nearby; she could see fine tendrils of pale, gray smoke curling through the air.

  I just never expected Grandpa to die. I just never expected any of this.

  Leaning forward, she propped both elbows on her knees . . . covered her face with her hands. She wanted to cry, but she felt so empty. When she finally lifted her head again, she was surprised to see even more smoke in the air, floating slowly in her direction, bringing with it a faint, familiar smell . . .

  That smell! That smoke!

  Only now the odor was stronger—more recognizable—and thoughts and images were tumbling wildly through her brain. Sweat and sulfur, dirt and blood and open sores, stagnant water, charred flesh, ashes, and hot, hot metal . . .

  Miranda stiffened and looked around. There weren’t any grills in sight, no cookouts, no food vendors. Not a single blade of grass stirring, not a single leaf rustling on a tree, though the smoke kept drifting toward her.

  Alarmed, she jumped to her feet, waved her arms, tried to fan back the smoke. It was getting thicker, and with a slow, sick awareness, she watched it darken to red. Like last night . . . oh, God, just like last night . . .

  “Please!” A dark haze was all around her now, she couldn’t see the path anymore, not even six feet away. “Can someone help me?”

  And, yes, thank God, someone was coming to help! She could see the vague silhouette materializing in front of her . . . the shadowy hand reaching out . . .

  She realized then why he hadn’t been completely visible at first. Why he’d blended so perfectly into the smoke. The tattered, gray uniform he was wearing . . . the dark smears of blood on his face and his clothes. Was he from one of those reenactment regiments she’d been watching? Yet his body seemed to hover there, suspended.

  “For Miss Ellena,” he whispered.

  Miranda was totally paralyzed. All she could do was watch helplessly as he came forward to meet her.

  “Take it . . . the rose . . .”

  That sorrowful voice. That raw, empty, pleading voice, heartbreaking in its anguish.

  That voice Miranda knew, for she had heard it before.

  “Who are you?” From some distant place inside her head, Miranda knew she hadn’t spoken aloud. Yet she heard the echo of her question, and she understood somehow that the young man heard it, too. “Who are you?”

  The answer came like a death rattle.

  “Nathan.”

  “What do you want?”

  His face began to appear through the gloom. Pale hair, bleached skin, eyes like bottomless, black holes. Sunken cheeks streaked with blood, parched lips caked with blood, but none of that as horrible as the blood soaking his uniform, as the wide, crimson stain blossoming over his shirt, directly over his heart . . .

  “Take it,” he murmured. And those lifeless eyes staring, staring, all the suffering there, the hopelessness, the aching regrets . . . “Help me . . .”

  As a faint, ragged breath stirred the air, Miranda felt something slide across her upturned hand. Not a rose, as he’d said, but something like twine . . . a short length of twine, knotted or twisted or woven . . .

  Braided? She couldn’t see it in her open palm. Braided twine?

  “For Miss Ellena,” he whispered. “The rose . . . the rose . . . the . . .”

  And he was fading now, just as his voice was fading, just as the smoke was fading . . . fading to nothing but shadow . . .

  She felt the sun.

  She heard the people.

  As the park came back into jarring focus, Miranda blinked against the light and looked down.

  Her hand was empty.

  And she was crying.

  13

  THAT NIGHT FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME, Miranda slept in Hayes House. Or rather, tried tosleep, in between tossing, turning, checking her windows, and keeping an eye on her door. Even the mirror made her nervous—not to mention the closet, the space under the bed, and every shadow in every single corner.

  That poor soldier . . . that poor, tragic soldier.

  Nathan, he’d called himself.

  She couldn’t stop seeing his face, hearing his voice. “Take it . . . the rose . . . the rose . . .” And his blood, his sorrow, his unbearable pain . . .

  No matter how much Miranda longed to deny it, ignore it, and forget it—in her heart she couldn’t.

  She didn’t remember coming home from the park. She’d suddenly found herself locked in a downstairs bathroom, crying into a towel and unable to stop. When she finally slipped out to the kitchen, no one seemed to have missed her, and she was relieved that Mom was too distracted with Aunt Teeta and pending funeral arrangements to focus on her.

  But later, lying there in her mother’s childhood room, Miranda almost wished she had someone to talk to. Not just about the soldier, but about so many other things. News of death traveled quickly in St. Yvette, and there’d been a constant procession of neighbors throughout the day, bringing casseroles, cakes, and condolences. She’d spent most of her time being introduced to people she didn’t know and didn’t care about knowing. She’d felt confused about her grandfather—how she should feel and how she should show it. She’d wondered what to say to her mother, who seemed rock solid, and what to say to Aunt Teeta, who was devastated.

  Her only source of comfort had arrived later that evening, when she’d started down the hallway to go outside and found Gage at the front door.

  “Are you okay?” was the first thing he’d asked. And then, before she’d been able to answer, his arms were around her in a gentle hug. Miranda had fought back unexpected tears and felt herself surrendering—just as unexpectedly—to his concern.

  “We weren’t really sure what to do,” Gage explained as she led him into the deserted study at the back of the house. He’d waited till she sat down before taking the chair across from her. “We all wanted to come
, but we didn’t know how you’d feel about it. We didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  Miranda simply stared at him. “Nobody needed to come.”

  “We wanted to come.”

  She hadn’t known what to say. Despite her best efforts, she’d felt embarrassed and strangely touched. “I’ve only known you guys for two days.”

  “Sometimes that’s long enough.”

  When he smiled, she couldn’t help smiling back at him. After a moment, he leaned toward her, his voice more solemn.

  “Do they know what happened to your grandfather?”

  “They’re pretty sure it was a stroke. And that it was quick, so he didn’t suffer.”

  Gage hesitated. “Did what happened at the Falls yesterday have anything to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should have taken him to the clinic.”

  “I think Etienne was right, Miranda—I think we did the best we could.”

  “Etienne hasn’t been by this afternoon.” She’d been startled when the words popped out—she hoped they hadn’t sounded— what? Judgmental? Disappointed? The truth was, she’d honestly expected him to show up at the house, at least for Aunt Teeta’s sake.

  Gage’s eyes were full of sympathy. “They were pretty tight, Etienne and your grandfather. I know Etienne’s heard the news, but I haven’t talked to him yet. He . . .” Again Gage paused, as though choosing just the right words. “I know he’ll be really upset. And he never lets anybody see him that way.”

  “Macho thing?” Miranda couldn’t help asking.

  A dimple flashed in Gage’s cheek. “Something like that, I guess.”

  They’d lapsed into a companionable silence. To Miranda, it felt so good just to sit there with him, not feeling the need to pretend or explain or keep up any sort of appearances. He’d seemed in no hurry to leave, and she’d been glad for him to stay. And when his attention focused on the comings and goings out in the hallway, she’d taken that chance really to study his face.

  Yes, there were definitely resemblances between Gage and Etienne—the same high cheekbones, lanky frames, and dark good looks. She guessed both their mothers were beautiful. But what was even more apparent up close was the stark contrast in the boys’ eyes. One, soulful and sensitive . . . the other, suspicious and blatantly defiant.

  “You’re staring,” Gage mumbled.

  As Miranda realized she’d been caught, the two of them laughed self-consciously. Gage lowered his eyes and slid back in his chair.

  “Do you know when the funeral is?” he’d asked her.

  “I heard them talking about Tuesday.”

  “Let us know for sure.”

  “But—”

  “So we can be there.”

  “But—”

  “Because.” His hands went up to ward off her question. “Because we want to, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and um . . .” Frowning slightly, he traced one finger across his upper lip. “I’m not sure it’s the right time to bring this up . . .”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “That building you wondered about this morning? Magnolia Gallery?”

  The change she’d felt had been immediate—that tightening in her stomach, that tensing of her nerves—though Gage didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he’d seemed almost too casual as he continued talking.

  “I’ve been trying to find some information on it. I haven’t really come up with much yet, but what I’ve got so far is pretty interesting.”

  Miranda swallowed nervously, half expecting him to bring up her odd behavior of that morning. But Gage only cleared his throat and looked down at the floor.

  “I thought . . . maybe later . . . when you feel better? Maybe we could talk about it.”

  “Yes. Later’s good. I’d really like that.”

  “Great. Well . . . I better go.” As the two of them stood, he’d fished in his shirt pocket and handed her a folded slip of paper. “Here’s my cell phone number. And Etienne’s. In case you . . . you know . . . need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  Giving her another hug, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Miranda. Just remember I’m—we’re—thinking about you.”

  His body was warm and strong, and there was nothing the least bit shy about the way he held her. Miranda had a sudden, silly urge just to stand there in his arms and never leave. But instead, she pulled free and walked him to the door, her mind in turmoil. Should I tell him? About what happened in the park today? And how I knew about the opera house? Because somehow she was sure Gage would listen . . . somehow she was sure he’d understand.

  “Gage?”

  Stopping on the walkway, he’d turned to look back at her. “Yeah?”

  “Nothing. Just . . . thanks.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, you did. More than you know.”

  That dimple again, and a modest shrug. “See you.”

  Exhausted, Miranda had dragged herself through the rest of the evening. After the last visitor had gone, she and Mom and Aunt Teeta had sat together in the kitchen, picking at the vast assortment of food, but eating little. Aunt Teeta showed Miranda her new room—a cozy little hideaway tucked up on the third floor—then immediately went to bed. While Mom insisted on tidying up, Miranda made a quick run to their apartment to fetch nightgowns and toothbrushes.

  And now she couldn’t sleep.

  It had been a long and grueling day, a bizarre and upsetting day. Even with her soft mattress and feather pillows and the privacy she’d been longing for, Miranda could only pitch restlessly back and forth and stare wide-eyed into the darkness.

  This room had been Mom’s, Aunt Teeta had told her—this room was where Mom had spent all her growing-up years. It sat right at the top of the narrow third-floor staircase, small and sparsely furnished and nestled snugly back under the eaves. Instead of air-conditioning, French doors stood open to a small sunporch where screened windows on three walls allowed for breezes, but could also be shut against bad weather. There’d been many a slumber party out there, Aunt Teeta recalled—girlfriends staying up till all hours, talking and giggling throughout those long, carefree summer nights. At one end of the porch a door led out to a flight of wooden steps. The banister was overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle vines, and the steps went all the way down to a thickly shrubberied back corner of the house.

  Miranda wondered if her mother ever thought about this sunporch, about this room, about childhood. If her mother ever had any happy memories at all . . .

  Memories . . .

  But Miranda had her own memories to deal with tonight. Memories trudging heavy through her brain and flashing back at her like snapshots, making her heart race and her head pound. The walls seemed to be squeezing in. The stagnant air whispered with faraway screams. Unable to fight it any longer, she jumped up and made for the door, not even bothering with the bedside lamp.

  Smart, Miranda. Real smart.

  She’d forgotten how dark the staircase was. Groping along the wall, she couldn’t find a light switch anywhere, but she could follow the sudden rumble of Aunt Teeta’s snoring. With a relieved sigh, she reached the dimly lit second-floor landing, then continued on down toward the kitchen.

  That’s when she heard the crying.

  Miranda froze at the foot of the stairs. Oh, please God, not again. Yet almost at once she realized this crying was different. Not the same ghostly sounds as before, but almost as heartbreaking. And very, very close by.

  Still fearful, she peered through the kitchen doorway. The room was mostly in shadow, though a pale, silver moon shone in at the window above the sink. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she finally recognized the figure at the table. Mom sitting there with her head lowered on folded arms, and her whole body shaking with sobs.

  Miranda had never seen her mother cry like this before. In fact, she couldn’t remember having seen her cry at all since Dad died. Mom—the strong one, the invincible one—always unflappabl
e in the face of every situation, no matter how bad.

  Startled, her mother gasped and looked up in alarm. “Oh, Miranda, it’s you. What’s wrong, honey, can’t you sleep?”

  Just like that, in total control again. While Miranda could only stand there and watch helplessly.

  “Mom?” she whispered.

  For an endless moment their eyes locked. Mom’s hands fluttered uselessly toward her coffee cup, as if searching for some viable excuse.

  “Mom . . . what’s wrong?”

  Her mother’s shoulders sagged. Miranda moved slowly across the floor and took the empty chair across from her.

  “What are you doing up?” Mom asked again.

  “I was . . . thinking about stuff.”

  “Me, too.” Mom made a feeble attempt at a laugh. “Well, your grandpa, mostly. But a lot of other stuff, too, I guess.”

  From her mother’s red, puffy eyes, Miranda could tell she’d been crying for a long time. Now she asked cautiously, “What were you thinking about Grandpa?”

  “About . . . oh, time, I suppose. How fast it goes. How much it can end up robbing you, if you let it.”

  Mom idly stirred her cold coffee, gazing down at her spoon.

  “We were so different, Miranda—your grandpa and I. Teeta was younger, and she was always closer to Daddy. I was the one closer to Mother, and after she died, I felt . . . I don’t know . . . excluded, I guess. Teeta was always so good, and I was always the rebellious one.”

  “You!” Miranda couldn’t hide her shock.

  “Yes, me. And don’t get any ideas.” Mom frowned in mock sternness. “Daddy was . . . different. Teeta always seemed to understand that. Accept that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was . . . I don’t know. Just different. Sort of quiet, never shared much. Strict with us and overly protective—at least that’s how I saw things when I was growing up. He had his hobbies, his books . . . He kept to himself a lot. I never knew what he was thinking. But Mother—well, she was so animated, so happy all the time. You always knew where you stood with Mother, and people really loved her. But Daddy had these . . .” She shrugged. “Moods. That’s what Mother called them. His moods.”