Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  He checked his notebook. "The log showed the call came in at 3:34 AM."

  "The person who called must have been there when the boy was attacked," I said. "Nobody would have been passing by at that hour. And if the caller knew what happened, he could have called for an ambulance, don't you think?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I do. I was sent to the scene before dawn. Once the sun came up, we could see everything. It was bad. Blood everywhere." He shrugged his shoulders. "It makes sense. The Kid was hit in the head more than once. Head wounds bleed like crazy, even if the attack isn't fatal. The Kid would have bled out right there under the tree if we hadn't gotten the call. Even so, the ambulance guys had a hard time getting him stabilized before they could transport him."

  The officer seemed to relish the opportunity to give us a full report with more detail than we needed. The PTSD therapist had said that it was a common coping mechanism for people to do that as they processed a traumatic situation.

  "Yes, blood everywhere," he continued. His eyes shifted off to the side, not seeing us but the scene. "And there were ruts. Deep ruts, like from big truck tires." He shook his head once. "Couldn't get any casts of tire treads. The place was too torn up. Drivers must have peeled outta there in a panic once they saw the Kid wasn't getting up." He glanced at the Lone Oak and shook his head again.

  His description made things fall into place in my mind. "Well, that goes to show that the person who called your tip line must have been terrified. Probably had taken part in the attack in some way and felt guilty afterward. You should talk to--oh, what do they call it on the TV crime shows--yes, you should talk to the victim's associates."

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re doing that,” confirmed the officer. His eyes focused on TJ. “Was he a friend of yours, sir?”

  "Whoa, slow down. I've seen him hanging around the streets of St. Michaels. That's all. Talk to his associates. Believe me, he was no friend of mine." TJ leaned forward. "Still, he didn't deserve to be attacked…or killed. I feel sorry for his family."

  “Yes, sir. He was only 17 years old. According to his dad, he’d had a job with an auto repair shop in Easton. He went on and on about how he loved cars and trucks and could keep anything running on the road. It’s a shame. He was getting his life straight.” The young officer got up and adjusted his belt holding pounds of gear, including his gun.

  “I’ll be going.” He dug into his shirt pocket and gave each of us a business card. “If you think of anything else, be sure to give us a call.”

  “I’ll walk the officer to his car,” TJ said.

  TJ was back in a moment and fell into a chair. “That was horrible. But you had a good idea of how to handle the investigation.” He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “You’re a natural at this. Are you going to write a mystery story?”

  This is what it felt like to be blindsided. How did the conversation go from murder to my book?

  TJ was waiting for an answer, but I was tongue-tied. Me, who had counseled distraught or irate parents, addressed PTA meetings, faced down a school principal about a budget decision. Now, my mouth wouldn't work. I was losing my grip. I couldn't dismiss this man because he was taking an interest in what I was doing. I couldn't admit that I had no ideas for my children's book. I couldn't tell him that the only writing I was doing was correspondence with a ghost.

  In a panic, I said, “You can’t ask a writer about a book that’s still in development.”

  TJ put his hands flat down on the tabletop and pushed himself up so that he stood his full six feet plus. “Well, if you don’t want to tell me about the book, that’s fine. When you meet with your new writing group tomorrow night, you’ll probably have to tell them something. I hope you have a good story for them.”

  I groaned as I turned away so he couldn't see the wave of panic that went through me. Then I realized he was playing with me. Two could play the same game. I turned back to him. "That's right, the meeting of writers is tomorrow night. Tell you what, I'll go willingly if we can go on a field trip in the morning."

  “What did you have in mind?” A trace of suspicion showed on his face.

  “I’d like to take a walk. My physical therapist said exercise is good, but she suggested that I still needed someone with me, just in case.” I sighed. “It’s so awkward and frustrating to think I need a caretaker.”

  “Not to worry,” TJ said. “I’d be happy to walk you around the house or down the driveway anytime.”

  “Could we go to Waterwood tomorrow?”

  TJ started shaking his head almost immediately. “No, no, no. I’m not taking you up to the main house. There’s no way I’m ready for visitors.”

  "No, not the house," I said quickly. "I want to go to the family cemetery." I don't think he could have looked more surprised if I'd slapped him. "I feel a connection with Waterwood. After all, the Cottage is surrounded by the original plantation. Did you know there are some references to Waterwood in the papers pulled for me in the Maryland Room? It would be interesting to see if anyone I've read about is buried there. I'm curious, that's all. But if you don't want to…"

  He took off his ball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. It looks soft and thick, gently streaked by the sun. Then he hid it underneath the cap again. “Well, I don’t understand why you want to go there, but I have time tomorrow morning. Yes, I’ll take you.” He glanced down at my leg. “Do you think you can manage it?” He asked with a tinge of hesitation. “I try to keep the grass mowed.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up at nine.” As he walked away from the patio, he added, “And don’t forget to lock all the doors and windows, at least until they catch the bad guy.”

  The bad guy. I was so preoccupied with Daniel that I kept forgetting about the attack on the young man. My poor brain was having trouble managing the pills, doing exercises, and now, protecting myself.

  I was tired, but it was too early to go to bed. There was one more thing that could distract me. I could write a letter to Daniel.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “There is a bill before the Texas State Legislature that states that if a husband is in the U.S. army or navy, the wife has ample grounds for divorce.”

  —Baltimore Sun Newspaper, January 31, 1862

  After dinner, I went into the writing den and made myself comfortable at the desk. I took out my calligraphy pen with the metal nib and reached for the bottle of black ink. I remembered how difficult it was to control the amount of ink on the pen point. Uncle Jack had bought an inkwell at an auction once. I ran my eyes over the many shelves of books and knick-knacks. Finally, I spotted it in a dusty corner.

  The small crystal inkwell sat on a square bronze base decorated with an owl's face on each corner. Uncle Jack said he liked it because the owl was a symbol of wisdom. A person had to be smart if one was going to write with pen and ink in an old-fashioned way. That's the challenge I faced. This was my chance to build my connection with Daniel and to find out more. I suspected that if I didn't write this letter, I would always regret it.

  I opened the bottle of ink and, with a steady hand, poured a quantity into the inkwell and set it back on its base. I pulled a sheet of paper, dipped the pen, and began to write.

  My Dear Sir,

  I never meant to give you the impression that I wanted you to leave my life forever. Pray, tell me what has transpired during this time of your silence. I truly want to know.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Emma

  I laid the pen down and moved the inkwell to the side. I gently blew on the words so that the ink would dry. Then I remembered the rocker blotter tucked away in a cubbyhole. Our ancestors had the time and ingenuity to develop useful tools to help with everyday tasks. Why blow on wet ink when there was another way? Of course, I preferred the efficiency of emailing and texting, but writing a letter the old-fashioned way was, I don't know, elegant.

  I'd made my decision. I set the finished letter in the
center of the writing surface of the desk. I went to the door and turned out the light.

  Before climbing the stairs to bed, I looked across the creek to the Lone Oak. No lights were waving around there tonight. All was quiet on that mysterious piece of land that was once home to two old women believed to be witches. Now, the local lore could add the mystery of how a young man had lost his life there. The thought sent me around the house to recheck the locks and close the curtains then I'd tackle the stairs.

  The next morning, I found that once again I had forgotten to close the drapes in the upstairs bedroom as the warm rays of the rising sun caressed my face. I dressed quickly in a pair of comfortable jeans and a light pullover sweater of deep rose and went downstairs. Long pants were good for traipsing around an old family cemetery. One never knew if the mosquitoes were hungry or a tick was waiting to chomp down on bare skin. I’d learned my lesson as a child visiting the Cottage.

  I smiled when I got to the bottom of the stairs. The thought of finding a letter from Daniel on the desk didn’t scare me anymore. Now that I’d decided to build the connection, I wanted to see what my ghost had written to me overnight. And I wasn’t disappointed.

  On the desk, in flowing script, was his response.

  My Dear Emma,

  I was relieved to receive your letter. When it did not arrive immediately, my concern grew, but my patience was rewarded. Thank you so much for your caring and constancy.

  I deeply regret that I did not say a proper goodbye to you before your father and I left Waterwood. It gave me great pain to ride away without telling you of our departure.

  I waited by the Lone Oak tree for as long as I could. If I may be so bold, I wanted you to know that I carried you with me in my heart. But it was not to be. I kept telling myself that you were detained for a good reason. As we rode away, I told myself over and over again that your absence was not because you didn’t care.

  I am sure that your father’s decision to leave seemed sudden. It was not. Over the many weeks before that fateful day of our departure, your father weighed the arguments about the declaration of allegiance surrounding the War Between the States. As you know, I spent my days with him as he walked the land, attending to his many daily responsibilities. I spent hours listening to him speak aloud of the many things said by each side of the debate, those favoring the North and those feeling strong ties with the South.

  When he first expressed their arguments, I thought he was talking to me, trying to make me understand the divisions facing our state of Maryland. I soon learned I was wrong. He was trying to better understand the situation himself. He was facing a great decision that would affect the future of Waterwood and his dear Emma. Little did I know that this decision would affect my life as well.

  For a while, the disagreements between the Union representatives and Southern sympathizers were far away. Then the situation changed and tensions moved across the Chesapeake Bay and into Talbot County and our very own town of Easton. Federal troops came from Baltimore and seized ammunition, muskets, cannons, and sabers from the Easton Armory. Those armaments had been stored there since the War of 1812. That act of seizure made our citizens realize that the government believed that we would storm the building, commit thievery and use the arms against our fellow Americans. Many found that idea abhorrent.

  Could they imagine an even more offensive act was about to be perpetrated by soldiers from Baltimore under orders of the government? I think not.

  When the Union soldiers came to Easton, dragged a judge from the bench, and arrested him, it was a source of upheaval.

  Your father was greatly agitated. That was the moment that he felt the federal government had gone too far. He knew it was time to make a stand.

  He reflected on both sides of each argument. In the meantime, he had to be careful to avoid confrontation. Do you remember the time he took away your peppermint stick? People were calling it secessionist candy. It was striped red and white and didn’t have any blue representing the federal government. He thought it was trivial, but he didn’t want trouble.

  Though he was a citizen of the great state of Maryland, a state that remained in the Union, he felt his ties were stronger to the Southern cause. He believed your mother would have supported him in this decision if she were still alive. She may have joined the ladies of other Eastern Shore plantations and made faces at the federal soldiers on the street. Many local residents would not walk under the Stars ‘n Stripes flag hung over the sidewalk on Washington Street.

  Once your father made his decision to support the South, he ordered provisions and made equipage ready. Everyone quietly worked to prepare provisions for the Confederate army and the supplies needed.

  I was honored and humbled when he asked me to accompany him, to tend to his needs on this trek. He declared that we had to make haste and depart as soon as humanly possible. He was fearful that the men of the town committed to the Union would try to stop him. We needed to slip away without detection. He hoped to return soon to prepare another shipment of supplies without anyone the wiser.

  As I made final preparations, my heart ached to talk to you, even if it was only for a moment. I looked everywhere. You were not to be found. When I saw Joshua in the stables, I asked him to deliver a message asking you to meet me at the Lone Oak, our tree.

  My father was sworn to secrecy by your father. He beseeched my father to protect Waterwood and the most precious one in his life. You, dear Emma, his daughter. It gave me great pride when my father gave his blessing to my upcoming travels. I too begged him to care for and protect you.

  The time was nigh for us to leave. I went to the Lone Oak and waited in vain for you to come. As your father decreed, we rode away as the last rays of the sun disappeared. I kept looking over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of you one last time. It was not to be. The lands of Waterwood faded in the gathering dusk. Would I ever cast my eyes on them again?

  Emma, I hope you will accept this explanation of what happened and truly believe that my heart stayed with you and Waterwood on that day and every day thereafter.

  Ever Your Servant,

  Daniel

  Tears prickled my eyes as I laid the letter down and looked out the window to the great tree across the creek. It must have been agony for Daniel to ride away, to do his loyal duty without saying goodbye to Emma. Not knowing why she didn’t come must have troubled him.

  Then I wondered about this other person named Joshua. Why had he failed in his mission to deliver the message from Daniel? Was he a rival for Emma’s affections? Did he resent Daniel because he was the son of a plantation manager? Or was he a slave who refused to take orders from the young man?

  I gazed at the Lone Oak, its large leaves fluttering in the breeze. It must have been growing on that spot for more than 150 years if it was their meeting place in the 1860s. A smile crept over my lips as I thought about Emma and Daniel spending time under that tree, a special place for two childhood friends who grew to be grownup lovers. Had they carved their initials in its bark? I promised myself that when I could walk without any assistance, I would look for myself.

  With a start, I realized I hadn't copied Daniel's latest letter. I didn't want it to fade away before I captured his words. Quickly, I took a picture with my phone then typed the words into Daniel's computer file.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Flower, Bird, Wind, Moon.”

  —Japanese Proverb, meaning Experience the beauties of nature and learn about yourself.

  True to his word, TJ pulled up in front of the Cottage at nine o’clock. I settled into the passenger seat, eager for our expedition to the Waterwood cemetery. I wasn’t sure how I would feel seeing a stone marker with Daniel’s name on it, but it was something I needed to do. We drove down the long gravel driveway from the Cottage to the main road and turned left.

  Soon, we made another left onto a small gravel road crowded by towering stalks of corn, their green leaves drying golden brown in the sun. They blocked the
view of everything around us except the sky. It felt like we were driving down Alice’s rabbit hole.

  TJ followed the curving road until we reached the far end of the fields when he turned onto a large, mowed area of grass and parked in the shade of a gnarled, old tree.

  A tall red brick wall with bright white mortar enclosed the gathering of stones marking the graves of people associated with Waterwood. An intricate iron gate blocked the entrance. TJ unlocked it and it swung open easily on its hinges. As we walked inside, it might’ve been my imagination, but it felt uniquely quiet in this place.

  “This cemetery has been here since the beginning of Waterwood,” TJ said in a hushed voice. He must have felt the peace and reverence as I did. “The plantation dates back to the time before the Revolutionary War.”

  He pointed to a grave marker in the shape of an obelisk that must have been fifteen feet tall. Its white marble was blinding in the sunshine. “And that’s where they buried the man who started Waterwood. He was a crusty old captain who made his fortune on the high seas. The king gave him this land for services rendered. Of course, the original land-grant was for many more acres than we have today. Over the centuries, the land has been subdivided for the many sons and daughters of the family. And whenever they needed money, they sold off some acres. It wasn’t unusual, but I wish that they had been able to hold it all together.”