Being Dead

by Vivian Vande Velde

  "And came..." she prompted, "to the tavern?"

  He bit his lip and shook his head. "I don't remember."

  "It seems as though whatever happened must have—"

  "I don't remember." He had stopped and now closed his eyes as though in pain.

  "What is it? John?"

  He had taken a step back. His hand closed convulsively at the opening of his shirt, over where his heart would be. If ghosts had hearts.

  "John?" She was getting scared now. "It's all right," she said. "It's not important. You don't have to remember."

  "I can't go any farther," he whispered.

  She saw that they were almost at the covered bridge, which led out of the exhibition area of the museum, away from the old buildings, toward the modern. "All right," she told him. "We'll go back."

  "I can't"—he took another step back—"go any..."—and another.

  "John-"

  He dissolved.

  "—don't go," she finished in a whisper. She realized that her headache must have gone, because now it was suddenly back.

  Mary, coming up the path from the log house, said, "Zoo day, huh? See you tomorrow."

  Emily watched as Mary walked through the bridge and cut across die green toward the gift shop. She hadn't seen him.

  She hadn't seen him.

  Silently Emily followed, and it wasn't until halfway through dinner that she remembered she hadn't banked die fire in the tavern, or cleaned up at all.

  After thinking that she would never fell asleep, Emily was dreaming about John Mellender. On one level she knew she was asleep. She replayed moments with him over and over, recapturing looks, nuances: the slight catch in his voice when he stepped away from her that first time, apologizing for frightening her; the shy smile; die way he always seemed to be hugging himself for warmth; glancing up, for the briefest moment, before saying, "I think that I may have died." She lingered, consciously, unable to let it rest.

  But on another level it seemed so real—so very real. So that when she started to fantasize, when she started to embroider what had happened and take it a step further, she could feel her heart quicken, her breath catch. She imagined his warm breath as he came close, closer than he had ever really come. His lips touched hers, gently, lovingly. He caressed her hair, her shoulders. He told her she was beautiful, which she knew she was not. He told her he loved her, which ... Oh, God. She replayed the smile, the fleeting glance. Which maybe...

  Maybe.

  His breath quickened to match hers. She felt his heart beating as he held her, kissed her neck. She flung her arms around him and clung to him.

  And then she awakened.

  Her father, or her mother, snored softly in the next room. The hall clock ticked. A car passed outside.

  Emily held herself very still, forcing herself not to make a sound. How stupid, she thought. She was dying. What was she doing falling in love? Obviously this relationship had no future.

  And he was already dead.

  That in itself, she told herself as she got up to get some medicine for her headache, probably pretty much ruled out a traditional church wedding.

  Sunday morning.

  The last day the museum would be open until spring.

  Her last chance to see John Mellender.

  At breakfast her father said, "Your mother and I think you should stay home today."

  Her mother had the sense not to be in the room at the time.

  "Why?" Emily demanded.

  "We think maybe you're working a bit too hard, getting a bit overtired."

  "No," Emily said.

  "All the same." Her father sipped his coffee as though that had settled that.

  "I want to go to work," Emily said. "It's all I have."

  "Nonsense," her father said. "You have us. You have your school friends. Take the day off. Relax."

  "I need to go to work today."

  Her father frowned. She knew he hated confrontation. He said, "Surely they can get along without you."

  "Of course they can get along without me," she said, mentally adding, They'll have to get along without me in the spring. But she didn't say anything about leaving them short-staffed. Instead she said, "This is something I need to do for myself. To give myself a sense of completeness, of closure." Support group was always good for psychobabble.

  "It's just, you get so caught up in it," her father said, but he was weakening, she could tell. "Your mother says that yesterday you came out to the parking lot without your jacket."

  "I was talking to somebody and I forgot," she explained. "I wasn't cold until Mom started telling me how cold it was. Please drive me there."

  She saw her father glance upward—asking for divine advice or gauging if Emily's mother was about to come downstairs and demand to know why her orders were being questioned. He sighed, and she knew she had won one more day with John.

  Somebody had taken care of both the hearth and the cleaning, Emily noted guiltily. Had to have been Norm. Poor overworked, underappreciated Norm. Well, she appreciated him, but the board of trustees didn't She hid her winter coat behind the bar, with the jacket she had left there yesterday.

  "John," she called.

  "Emily." He appeared out of nowhere.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, which had to be the world's dumbest question. He was, after all, two hundred years dead. "What happened yesterday?" she asked.

  He shook his head, rubbing his arms as though for warmth. It was freezing in here today. Norm hadn't been in yet, and this morning there had been a sprinkling of frost on the ground of the common. Emily gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  John leaned against the bar. He had gone from rubbing his arms to resting his hand at his open-necked shirt—to the place where a live man's heart would be. He saw her watching and seemed to suddenly become aware of what he was doing. He lowered his hand. Slowly.

  Even clenching her teeth couldn't get them to stop chattering now.

  He met her eyes. "I remember how I died."

  Did she want to hear this?

  "How?" she asked, so softly he might not have even heard but only guessed from the movement of her lips.

  He looked down at his hand again. "I was shot." He closed his eyes and shivered. In a moment he'd regained control and shrugged as though apologizing for his weakness. His hand twitched once as he let it drop to his side.

  Emily licked her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She wanted so much to take him into her arms. Her eyes filled with tears. -

  "Don't cry," he said. "It was a long time ago." He forced a smile. "Even if I'm only just now finding out about it."

  "Stupid war," she said. She'd never before thought of the American Revolution as being stupid, but that's just what it was.

  John's eyes grew wide. "There was a war?"

  "I thought..." But then she remembered what a loose confederation the colonies had been in 1775, and how slowly news would travel, especially to the smaller towns and villages.

  John gave a low whistle. Unconsciously his hand went back to his chest as he paced the room. He glanced up sharply. "With the King?" he asked. "That's what you mean: a war of independence?"

  She nodded.

  "There was talk ... I never thought ... Who won?"

  "Uh, we did. The colonies."

  He nodded, biting his lip. "I don't think this had anything to do with that," he said.

  "You weren't a soldier?"

  "Lord, no!"

  "Not involved with politics?"

  He shook his head.

  "What about this man Bartlett you mentioned yesterday?"

  "I don't think he was the one "

  She waited for him to say something else.

  "I remember ... Samuel and I came here after delivering the horse." He paused, looking at the door. "I ... opened the door..." He shuddered. Turned away. "There was a man. Sitting..."—he indicated a specific spot—"here. I remember a gun..." He was clutching his heart; his breathing was loud and ragged. "
The door opened. I ... The door opened—"

  Someone kicked in the door.

  Emily took in a breath halfway between gasp and scream.

  "Sorry," Norm said. He was lugging in her supplies for the day's snickerdoodles and cider. "Didn't mean to scare you."

  Now Emily had her hand to her heart. There was no sign of John. "Sorry about yesterday," she managed to say. "I forgot."

  "That's okay," Norm said, too polite to ask how anybody could possibly forget something like putting out the fire. "Except..."

  "What?" Emily pulled her shawl tighter, but that didn't stop the shivering. "Norm?"

  "Drake was making the rounds with me."

  Emily winced. "Mad?"

  From Norm's expression, mad didn't begin to cover it. "He wants you to work the log cabin today with Barb. Mary'll be here."

  "The log cabin!" Emily cried. She hated that. Spinning, she kept getting flax up her nose, and she wasn't good enough at weaving to keep from smacking the back of her hand on the loom. Besides, it was a two-person demonstration and she wouldn't have a minute to herself. "Norm!"

  "Sorry." Not that it was his fault. "Drake said..."

  "Drake said what?" she demanded when Norm hesitated.

  Norm had obviously reconsidered, and he shrugged. "Well, you know Drake. Nothing important"

  "Drake said what?"

  Norm shrugged again and wouldn't meet her eyes. "Mary's more reliable. And Barb'll keep you on your toes at the log cabin. Sorry."

  Emily stomped out of the tavern, never pausing for her jacket or coat.

  Mary, just coming up the path, smiled apologetically, then said, "My gosh, Emily! Don't you have a coat? It's supposed to snow today."

  Emily ignored her, though it was hardly Mary's fault Damn Drake. Today was the last day. Damn it For once she wanted to scream out her news: I'm dying, dammit! Humor me!

  The morning dragged forever. She planned to go someplace where she could be alone during her lunch break—one of the unattended displays—to talk to John one last time. And that was all that kept her going. She wouldn't let herself consider the possibility that he might be able to come to her only in the tavern.

  Her loom thumped noisily, counterpoint to the whirring of Barb's spinning wheel. If she could have ripped her throbbing head off her body, she would have. Her hands shook as she poured three pills into her hand—only one more than she was supposed to take—and swallowed them without water. When she couldn't get that damn childproof cap back on, she flung it across the room. Barb watched her anxiously, but Emily pretended not to notice. Neither spoke, except to the tourists.

  Four hours till lunch.

  Three and a half hours.

  Three hours and twenty minutes.

  Three hours.

  Drake came in at two hours and forty-five minutes while she was trying to demonstrate, for a family who didn't speak English, how to card wool. He gave her one of his baleful looks, but he wasn't going to say anything in front of the visitors. After about two minutes of that, Emily threw the shuttle across the room, called Drake a flatulent asshole, and strode out of the log cabin.

  She left him to explain that to the family and went to the Shaker meetinghouse, the closest building that didn't have a regular attendant.

  "John!" she called. She was shaking, afraid he couldn't hear her call, except in the tavern.

  But, "Yes," he said. He was sitting on the back of one of the benches in the men's half of the room, his feet up on the pew behind.

  She started to run up the aisle to him, then remembered at the last moment. She stopped, helpless, and sank to her knees and began to cry.

  "Emily." He scrambled down and rushed to her, and caught himself just in time, a hand upraised just short of brushing the tear-dampened hair from her face.

  "This is the last day," she said between sobs. "The museum closes in another few hours, and it won't open again until spring, and I won't be able to come here, and you won't be able to come out." Miserable, she finished, "I'll never last through the winter."

  He crouched before her. "Oh, Emily," he sighed. "You will."

  She realized he thought she was speaking figuratively. "I'm dying," she said. Did they know about cancer in the 1700s? They might well have called it something else. "I have a disease of the brain. That's probably"—she wasn't even sure how she meant this—"why I can see you."

  He reached for her, unable to hold her but sending icicles through her shoulder where his hand passed through. "Emily," he said. "I'm so sorry."

  "I need to know," she said, because otherwise—ha!—the curiosity would kill her. No, it was more than curiosity; it was wanting the world to be an orderly place. She asked, "Who shot you?"

  John sighed. "A jealous husband."

  Well, that was orderly, even if not quite the order she had envisioned. Everything fell into place. The world made sense after all. It was her turn to say, "Oh, John, I'm sorry."

  He had his arms wrapped tight around himself. "You don't understand," he said. "I was mistaken for someone else. I was killed by mistake."

  Very slowly, very carefully, Emily put her arms around him. It was like being in a lake, like trying to hold on to a cold current. For a few seconds, they managed it. Then her hand slipped through his neck, and his through her back, and they were left sitting on their heels, both of them shivering.

  Behind her the door to the meetinghouse flew open. She expected John to disappear the way he had other times, but he didn't.

  Behind her, her father's voice said, "Jeez, Em."

  "See why I called you?" she heard Drake say. "She's been like this all weekend—talking to herself, leaving fires unattended, popping pills."

  "Don't you see him?" Emily asked them, looking directly at John.

  "Emily, it's all right," her father said. He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. "It's probably just the medicine. We'll get your medications balanced properly—"

  She craned around and saw that John was gone. "Johnl" she called. "Come back!"

  Her father was struggling out of his coat, and he got it around her shoulders. "It's her medication," he explained to Drake. "She's under a doctor's care, but there must be something wrong with the mix she's taking..." He was trying to rub warmth into her hands. "Here"—he got her to her feet—"all right now?"

  "Yes," she said. Then she pushed her father into Drake, and she fled, her father's coat falling to the floor behind her.

  "Emily!" she heard her father yell.

  She ran across the commons, past the Ballston Spa Tavern, into the woods behind—the woods slated for great things by the board of trustees, things she knew she would never/see.

  The trees in the woods were thick enough to hide her, even with most of their leaves already on the ground. Emily fought through the underbrush, slid down a slope of rocks and tree stumps, followed a frozen stream ever deeper into the woods.

  I'll cross the stream, she thought, but of course the ice was just a thin crust in October, and she went right through, so that she slipped and landed sitting in the icy water. She picked herself up and fled farther into the woods until she lost all sense of time and direction. Her wet skirt stiffened frostily, chafing against her legs.

  "Emily!" she heard off and on. Her father. Norm. Strangers on bullhorns. But they were feint, distant.

  Still, she kept on running, to put more distance between diem. Her plan was to wait until nighty then return to the tavern, hoping they'd give up before she would. Once she got warm, once she rested, she'd be able to think what to do next. She tripped and fell to her knees and stayed there, her teeth chattering. She'd get up as soon as she got enough energy.

  But she was too tired, and she put her head down on a pile of dry leaves. She hadn't smelled leaves—really smelled them—since she'd been seven or eight. She'd forgotten how wonderful they smelled. She closed her eyes, just for a minute, just to get her strength back.

  "Emily," she heard, a gentle but insistent whisper near her ear,
and she groaned. "Emily, you have to go back before it's too late."

  "Ifs too late already," she whispered back. "I can't move. I've frozen to the ground."

  Hands grasped her shoulders, strong, solid hands that forced her to sit up, that held her close, rocking her until finally, finally, she was warm again.

  They didn't find her body till spring.

  Being Dead

  NEW YORK, OCTOBER 1930

  Until the part where I died, my day had been going pretty well.

  I'd sold all but one of my papers, I'd earned seventy-five cents in tips, and all I needed was to sell that last paper and I could go home. Then along came this swell—in suit and hat, with a briefcase—and he handed me a dollar bill.

  At least thaf's what I thought it was at first. I was digging into my pocket to get him the change when I took a closer look and saw it was a twenty. I was going to ask him if he was crazy—like I'd have enough money to make change for a twenty—but when I looked up, he was already halfway down the block.

  "Mister!" I called after him. "Hey, mister!"

  He never even slowed down. I had to run after him, and when I caught up and told him he'd given me a twenty and I didn't have near enough to give him his change, he looked at me like I was talking Chinese.

  "It's all gone," he told me in this hollow distracted voice. "All of it."

  "Yeah," I said. Banks and businesses had been failing since the stock market had crashed back in October last year. The technical term was depression. But even as I tried to hand this guy back his twenty, he started walking again. Me, if I learned that I'd just lost all my money, the last thing I'd do with what I had left was tip a newsboy nineteen dollars and ninety-three cents for the newspaper that told me about it.

  But I wasn't going to knock him down and force him to take his money. "Are you sure?" I yelled after him, because my mother would fret when she saw how much extra I had, demanding of me: "You're not turning into a crook, are you?" My mother had a fierce worry of her kids turning into crooks, seeing as we didn't have a father to keep us straight. But the guy kept walking, and even my mother would have to admit I'd tried.