“That’s so exciting,” she said. “We’ve never gotten that one before. Write it down, please. Write it down in the notebook so I won’t forget.”
I sat across from her, holding the little book, trying to remember exactly what I had said so that I could record it for her. And while I was staring at the page, Miss Leary was concentrating on me.
“You look so pretty,” she said. “All dressed up. Can I see that locket you’re wearing?”
I took it off and handed it to her, and she turned it over in her hands while I wrote her fortune down in my best handwriting. Suddenly I realized how foolish I’d been, and I was afraid to look up. Everything in the trunk seemed connected to her somehow. Her name was in the yearbook and in Dr. Winterson’s journal. For all I knew, the locket might be hers. And now she would know I’d stolen it. And snooped around trying to find out more about her too, from a Ouija board no less. When I finally found the courage to lift my head, I saw that Miss Leary had opened the locket and was looking at the picture inside.
“How did you know him?” I asked.
And she smiled. “Edgar was my best friend. My childhood sweetheart.”
Constance (she told me to call her that) showed me other pictures of Edgar. A class picture where their faces were almost too tiny to pick out, and another of Edgar and his brother standing in front of an old-fashioned car.
“He used to call me Freckles,” Constance said.
“I saw that,” I said. “Henry and I found a yearbook, your high school yearbook, in the attic.”
“That must have belonged to Phillip,” Constance told me. “His brother. Edgar was gone by the time we graduated. I never forgot him, though. He was a wonderful little boy! A true friend. But he could be a devil too. Loved to play tricks. He’d hide behind a tree and jump out at me as I walked to school. He pulled more than one prank. He was my partner in crime. We could play checkers for hours. He usually won. Beat me at marbles too, almost every day in the fourth grade! His parents always tried to get him to be more studious, practice harder. He was a wonderful pianist. A prodigy, really. I used to have his piano for a time. Before I donated it—to your school.”
“The piano in the music room at school is yours?” I asked her.
“I suppose so. But I’ll always think of it as Edgar’s.”
I thought then of the night of the play, of the keys moving all on their own. Should I tell her that Edgar loved the piano still, that even now he played it some nights in the darkness of the empty music room?
“You know,” she was saying, “Edgar was only eleven years old when he died. The flu. Same as my sister, Candy. Threw a dark cloud over me for a long time. It was the end of my childhood, really. You can’t imagine how many people we lost. They couldn’t even keep up. And everything was about the flu. We even sang about it when we skipped rope.”
“Like a jump rope rhyme?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. And then she recited it.
I had a little bird,
Its name was Enza.
I opened up the window,
And in-flu-enza.
“Henry’s uncle Marty told us about it,” I said. “The flu. But there’s still something I don’t get. I know it was hard to cure, but some people survived. And Edgar’s father was a doctor. Why couldn’t he do something? He had medicine, didn’t he?”
“Nothing magic. Nothing that would help, I’m afraid. They tried a vaccine, but it didn’t work. And more foolish things. Patent medicine full of sarsaparilla. One lady in Oregon took to telling everyone to eat more onions! Nothing worked. And they blamed us! Said it was partly fear that caused it. Can you imagine? Things slowed down when the war ended, but even then, it was a couple of years before it stopped completely. About all they could do was keep us at home. They closed the schools, made us stay indoors. Edgar was fit to be tied. All he wanted was to go outside and play. Such a sad thing! A lively little boy like that spending his last days on Earth looking out the window, trapped inside. It hurts me even now to think of it. He was supposed to come for my birthday, but his mother wouldn’t even let him come across, wouldn’t let him out of the house once the schools closed. All he could do was wave to me—from the window.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then she asked me, “Why does this interest you so? And how do you know about Dr. Winterson?”
“It’s all because of Henry,” I said. “My friend Henry. Your neighbor.”
“Yes,” she said. “Sophie’s boy. Does Henry take an interest in history?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Edgar…well, Edgar sort of visits Henry.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said calmly.
But I was shocked by her reaction. And also relieved. Except for that slip with Uncle Marty in the library, I’d never told a grown-up before, about the ghosts. I wasn’t sure what to expect. “You’re not?” I asked. “You’ve seen him too?”
“No,” she said. “Since he died, I’ve only been able to see him in photographs. But there are times, when I’ve been ill or unhappy, I suppose. That’s when I feel him with me. I sense his presence.”
“You called Henry by Edgar’s name,” I said. “When the two of you were playing checkers.”
“Did I?” she asked.
“Henry doesn’t remember it either,” I said. “But he’s been acting pretty strange, off and on, ever since I met him.”
“Well,” she said. “Isn’t he fortunate to have a friend like you, who notices and worries.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I said. “He’s the best friend I ever had. The first real one. It’s kind of hard to admit this, but not everybody at school likes me. Some of them think I’m kind of obnoxious, I think.”
Constance laughed. “It’s not always easy being the smartest one in the class, is it?”
The doorbell rang then.
“That must be your mother,” Constance said. “Come to collect you.” And she handed me the locket.
“I’m sorry I took your locket, Constance,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“Oh, it isn’t mine, dear. It belonged to Edgar’s mother, Elizabeth.”
There wasn’t time to say more about it, so I slipped the locket back around my neck and rushed off to get my coat. Constance thanked me again for the basket, and we said our goodbyes.
* * *
—
After I talked to Constance, I decided that I should go back—to finish reading Dr. Winterson’s diary. So the next day, I told my mom that I wanted to go to the library.
“The library’s not even open today,” she said.
“The downtown library’s open,” I told her.
“Why do you need to go all the way into the city?” she wanted to know. “Can’t it wait until Monday?”
I was all set to tell her that I needed things for my project, but I didn’t have to because my dad volunteered to take me. He had to do some stuff at his office anyway.
“See you right back here in a half hour,” he said as I got out of the car.
“An hour,” I said.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “One hour.” And he pulled back out into traffic.
* * *
—
Uncle Marty unlocked the room for me and gave me the white gloves. Then he let me stay there by myself to read the rest of the diary. The last few entries were short, and even though I knew what was coming, the news Dr. Winterson shared was harsh. This time, I sat all alone in the little glass room. I opened the black leather book with no title, and this is what I saw:
Wednesday, November 6, 1918
Our beloved boy is gone. Elizabeth washed and dressed him herself and readied him for the journey, though I begged her not to. We hear the church bells tolling all day, it seems; so many know this same sadness.
Monday, November 11, 1918
Last night in France the war was ended, and this morning I have lost my dear Elizabeth, whose illness followed close on the heels of Edgar’s. The city is alive with celebration—bands and parades. Tonight, there will be fireworks downtown. But here, for Phillip and me, the worst has just begun, and I cannot imagine how we will survive it.
Monday, November 25, 1918
I have given the piano away. To the Learys. Perhaps their darling Constance can learn to play. Phillip and I cannot bear to see it anyway now that Edgar will never play it again.
When I finished the journal, I stopped to tell Uncle Marty goodbye and to thank him. At the last second, I’m not sure why, I said, “Mr. Corrigan?”
“Yes?”
“I have one more question.”
“About the journal?”
“No,” I said. “Just something I’ve been wondering, and I really hope you don’t mind if I ask.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Well, Mr. Corrigan? Do you think…I mean, have you ever…Do you believe in ghosts?”
It was hard to ask, but I’m glad I did, because Uncle Marty had a ghost story of his own. And he is positive ghosts are real, because he saw one himself. When Uncle Marty was twelve, his grandfather died. Now, this grandfather was more like the father in Uncle Marty’s house. Anyway, after he died, there were signs of him everywhere: the smell of his pipe tobacco sometimes, and once they found his favorite book lying open by his chair when they got back from visiting friends. Stuff like that. And all of that was weird enough. But one night, Uncle Marty woke up to the sound of the hall clock striking midnight. When he looked out through his open bedroom door, he saw his grandfather pass. The old man’s spirit turned its head toward Uncle Marty and smiled.
“I screamed bloody murder,” Martin said. “So, yes. I believe in ghosts.”
I was afraid Uncle Marty would start asking me questions then, but he didn’t. I guess if he’d wanted to know more about what was happening at Henry’s house, he would have tried to find out from Henry on our first visit to the library—when I accidentally mentioned the word “ghosts.” But Uncle Marty wasn’t like that. He didn’t expect you to explain more than you wanted to. And I liked that about him. All he did was shake my hand as we said goodbye. “It’s been a pleasure helping you, Miss Klein. I admire your curiosity.”
On the way home, I couldn’t help thinking how sad it was—the journal. I looked out the window as my dad drove. I watched all the people walking by, so busy with their lives. Every one of them, I realized now, was a story I’d never know.
* * *
—
When I got to Henry’s house, it looked like nobody was home. No cars in the driveway. But I had to see him, so I took my chances. I ran up the steps and rang the bell.
“Hey,” he said when he opened the door. He was smiling, and he looked so glad to see me that I couldn’t stop myself. I flung myself at him and hugged him as hard as I could.
“What’s that for?” he asked, stepping backward.
“Just for being you,” I said.
“Oh-kay,” said Henry slowly. He was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Henry, we need to talk. I have a bunch of stuff to tell you.”
“I can’t now. I’m about to challenge my dad to a game of chess,” he said.
“You can do that anytime,” I said. “This is really important. It’s about Constance, Miss Leary, and Edgar, and—”
“Not now, Barbara Anne. I want to spend time with my dad. And besides, I’m tired of talking about Edgar. And I’m tired of him showing up and scaring me half to death whenever he feels like it.”
“What happened now?” I asked him.
“Nothing,” Henry said.
But I knew better. “Henry Davis!” I said. “Spill.”
And that’s when he told me—that the dreams had gotten more elaborate, more real, that they didn’t even seem like dreams anymore. He said it felt more like Edgar’s life was always there, just below the surface.
* * *
—
Henry explained that a while ago—when he got sick—things started to…overlap.
He said it went in stages. At first, he only heard the music, the piano. But that was how he knew they were there—the other family. He wanted to tell someone, but everyone kept saying that he was sick, that he needed to get some sleep, that he was just dreaming.
“I didn’t want to sleep,” Henry said. “It felt like every time they made me close my eyes, they were sending me back.”
“My grandmother calls those fever dreams, Henry. I’ve had them too.”
“No,” he insisted. “You don’t understand!”
“Then explain it to me,” I said.
“It wasn’t a regular dream. Well, it was at first. But then every time I fell asleep, there was another one! And they kept getting more vivid, more real. Barbara Anne, it was like Edgar and I…”
“What?”
Henry swallowed hard. “It was as if Edgar and I had traded places somehow. And Edgar’s world was the real one now. And I was just…an intruder.”
Then Henry started to paint me a picture with his words. He said he dreamt that Edgar was there in the room with him, getting dressed. He watched as Edgar tied his shoes.
“They were weird shoes too, more like brown ice skates without the blades than regular shoes,” Henry said.
As Edgar finished lacing up the tops, he called, “Mother! I’m ready to go.”
Henry said he glanced toward the doorway, and he saw a woman there. The one who smelled like lilacs. The one who’d worn a mask in his other dream.
“Oh, Edgar,” she said. “I’m afraid I have bad news. No cinema tonight. Father says they’ve closed them all. Just to be safe.”
“Not really!” Edgar protested.
“It seems so,” she said. “I’m sorry, dear, but this flu is serious business. I suppose the schools will be next.”
Henry saw Edgar take off his tie and pull a wooden yo-yo out of his pocket. He wove the string through his fingers, until the yo-yo hung there in the center, swaying.
Henry paused then and said, “Don’t just stare at me, Barbara Anne. Say something. Am I going crazy?”
“What?” I asked. “No!”
“Good,” Henry said. He nodded like we’d agreed on something, like we’d made a pact. And then he told me the next part.
“The thing was that I kept trying to wake up, but I couldn’t seem to stay awake for very long. It was sort of like swimming in a lake, like I was pushing off against that soft bottom each time and trying to find the surface. But I never knew who would be there—I mean, which family—when I came up for air.”
Henry said that he had this uneasy feeling that he wasn’t where he belonged. He kept worrying that he was late for school. And then he heard this loud noise—not that obnoxious buzz of the tardy bell, though.
“This was something else,” Henry said. “More like…church bells. Tolling.”
Henry told me that he went to the window and looked out in time to see the strangest thing: an old-fashioned black carriage coming down the street, drawn by huge, dark horses.
“Every horse had a feather on its head. Just one. And they walked really slowly and so tall and straight, almost like acrobats in a circus ring. Do you know what I mean?”
I nodded so he would continue.
“The man who held the reins was dressed in a black top hat and cape,” Henry said. “He turned his head and stared at me when he passed. And the carriage pulled this curtained glass box with another box inside. Except it wasn’t just a box, Barbara Anne. It was a coffin.”
Henry and I had been sitting together on the front steps while he told me this story. And it was too cold to be outside. We could see our breath as we spoke. But after what Henry had described, I
wasn’t looking for an invitation to come for a visit, and I guess Henry was in no hurry to go back in either. So we just sat there, side by side, for a while.
Finally I said, “You know, she’s lived in that house forever. Miss Leary. Since she and Edgar were little kids.”
“How do you know?” Henry asked.
Then I explained about my visit on Thanksgiving, about how Edgar and Constance were childhood friends. “Like us,” I said. “Best friends like us.”
“I guess,” Henry said. “If you were a strange old lady and I were a ghost.”
“She made him sound so great,” I said.
“For her, maybe,” Henry said. “I just want him to go, Barbara Anne. I can’t take it anymore. He has to leave.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll make him go. I promise, Henry.”
* * *
—
I wasn’t sure, at first, how I would keep my promise to Henry. A few days later, though, I got an idea. I came up with it because Renee was hopeless at fractions.
Zack was trying to help her with them. She seemed more willing to take his help than to ask me or Henry. Zack had trouble with reading, but he was pretty good at math.
“Look,” Zack said. “If I had a pizza—”
“You’d eat the whole thing,” Henry said.
“Stick a sock in it!” Zack said. “I’m trying to help her.”
I thought he and Henry would get into it then. I expected a bunch of insults that would make Zack start doing his counting thing. But it didn’t happen that way. Zack just gave Henry a look and then went back to helping Renee. He was pretty patient about it too.
“How’s it going, Renee?” Ms. Biniam asked when she stopped by our pod.
“It’s okay,” Renee said. “I was having trouble, but Zack explained it to me.”
The Haunting of Henry Davis Page 12
