We groaned, of course. Somebody else made a noise, too.
We whirled around to see a man — or more like a teenager — in a dirty blue Union army uniform, his tattered hat cocked to one side like it had been knocked over there and never straightened.
“Where is my little brother?!” he demanded.
We were so caught off guard that nobody could speak right away, not even Julie.
The ghost was standing over the old trunk, as if looking for something. The lid was open and there was a strange golden light inside. He took a step toward us — a menacing step, or that’s how it seemed — and said it, or demanded it, again.
“Where is my little brother?!”
We were all still scared speechless, trying to think of something, anything, to say back.
The ghost stood firm and waited, hands on the hips of his dirty pants, which seemed a couple of sizes too big. The uniform coat seemed too big, too. For some reason there was a sprig of wilted green leaves tucked into the collar. The ghost was short and it was obvious that he didn’t shave or didn’t need to — that’s how young he was. But he still looked like he wanted to fight somebody. I wanted to assure him that we weren’t part of the Confederate army. I mean, I was from the South, sure, but I wasn’t a Rebel or anything. I didn’t even like the Rebels, or what they stood for and what they fought for.
But it didn’t seem like the time or place to tell the Union soldier — or ghost — all that.
Julie finally found her voice. “We don’t know where your little brother is,” she said calmly — way calmer than Greg or I could have been, or were likely to be for another hour. “And we don’t know who he is. But maybe we can help you figure it out.”
“Help me?” the ghost said, his voice so high that I thought he could almost pass for a girl.
“Yes, help you,” Julie said. “We’ve helped some other ghosts. They had things in that trunk.” She pointed and the ghost turned to look at the trunk, which was still open, and still giving off that golden light.
Julie continued, “Is there something of yours in there?”
The ghost continued staring for a minute, and then nodded. “I lost it in the battle, but there it is.” He thought for a minute, then added, “I can’t pick it up.”
“Can you tell us what it is?” Julie asked.
“They told us to fix bayonets,” the ghost said. “That’s all I remember.”
I knew all about bayonets, which are like long knives, or more like the end of a spear, and you attach it to the end of your gun so you can use it as a weapon for close fighting. “Fix bayonets” is the order they give when soldiers are supposed to get out their bayonets and put them on their rifles.
“Is there a bayonet in the trunk?” Julie asked. “Is that what you’re missing?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d had it,” the ghost said, not answering Julie’s question. “Nobody got close enough. Nobody at all.”
And with that the ghost vanished, the golden light blinked out, the trunk lid slammed shut on its own, and the dogs next door started up their barking once again.
Needless to say, we didn’t get any more practicing done that day, but we did all dive into the trunk to search for the ghost’s bayonet. We didn’t have to look long, though, because there it was, sitting right on top, as if it had been placed there in anticipation of our searching for it.
Julie picked it up. It was rusted steel, a long, thin blade at one end and a sort of cylinder or socket on the other to slide over the end of the barrel on a soldier’s musket in the Civil War.
“So that’s what she was looking for,” Julie said.
“You mean he,” Greg corrected her.
“Yes. That’s what I said,” Julie replied.
Greg and I both shook our heads.
Julie gave an awkward laugh. “I guess I did. I don’t know why. That’s weird.”
“Forget it,” Greg said. “We’re all shook up and tired, and if I have to listen to those dogs bark for one more minute, I think my head’s going to fall off.”
“Yeah, maybe we should call it a day,” I said, already picking up my book bag and heading for the door. We usually left our instruments in the practice room, though Julie was always getting on me and Greg about taking our guitars home and practicing more there. Today she didn’t say anything, though. She still seemed kind of confused.
“Hey, do you think we should give the bayonet to your uncle?” Greg asked. “You remember how upset he was about the hand grenade.”
I thought about it and decided we could probably just hang on to the bayonet, though. I mean, a rusty bayonet wasn’t going to explode or anything, and it looked cool.
Uncle Dex was already closing up shop when we got upstairs. The dogs were still barking. “I’ll be setting up a music system tomorrow,” he told us. “Speakers all over the store. I’m hoping I can drown out at least some of the barking and howling, and actually have a few customers not only come in but stay a while and buy something, too.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, Uncle Dex,” I said.
“And I’ll bring some music you can play over your new system,” Julie said.
“Just as long as it’s good old-time rock and roll,” Uncle Dex said. “Has to be loud enough to do the trick, so no soft classical.”
“Plus, you just like old-time rock and roll,” I added. Uncle Dex just winked.
Julie, still in a daze or something, climbed on her bike and rode home without saying anything else to Greg or me. Greg and I rode most of the way home together since we lived close to each other.
“Was Julie acting a little strange?” Greg asked, puffs of his breath appearing in the chilly air. “Didn’t you think?”
“Julie’s always a little strange,” I said. “What I thought was strange was, um, let me see — oh yeah, we met another ghost and this one’s from the Civil War!”
I was working on being sarcastic again, and this time it seemed to come through.
“Well, you don’t have to be that way about it,” Greg said.
“You have to admit it’s still really weird for ghosts to just show up like that,” I said.
“Yeah,” Greg said. “But this one sure is different from the others. I mean, always before we found the thing — the navy pea coat, the dud hand grenade, the medic’s kit — and then the ghost showed up.”
“I suppose it’s like Julie keeps telling us,” I said. “These ghosts are all different — they’re people, too — and this one seems to be living right next door. At least in November and December.”
“These mysteries — they’re exhausting,” Greg said. “But I guess call me tonight if the new one shows up in your bedroom like all the other ones did.”
I shuddered, thinking about the Civil War ghost doing just that. I wasn’t afraid, exactly. I just didn’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling about this new ghost. Not at all.
Mom and Dad were waiting for me in the living room when I got home. “Don’t take your shoes off, Anderson,” Dad said. “We need to take your mom to the hospital.”
My heart sank. I went straight over to Mom on the couch and hugged her. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said. “I don’t think it’s anything serious.”
Mom has MS — multiple sclerosis — which is what they call an autoimmune disease where her body kind of breaks down and leaves her really weak sometimes, and sometimes some of her organs don’t work right, and sometimes she can get really stiff in her muscles, like she’s almost paralyzed. There are drugs they can give her, and different therapies, and it’s better sometimes and worse other times. They can’t cure it, though.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, well, my leg just seemed to give out from under me a little while ago,” Mom said. “I was in the kitchen, actually feeling good for a change, but then the next thing I know I fell. Your father came home and found me on the floor. I don’t know if I hit my head.”
“Which is why we’re going to the h
ospital,” Dad interrupted. “To get it checked out. So let’s get going, you two.”
I had this sick feeling in my stomach for the next few hours as we sat in the emergency room, and then waited a long time in an examination room for a doctor to come in to see Mom, and then while we waited for an X-ray on her leg, which didn’t show anything, and an MRI to make sure there wasn’t anything to worry about from maybe hitting her head.
Everything came back negative, except that Mom seemed to get weaker and weaker while we were there and they decided to keep her at the hospital overnight for observation. It was midnight by then, and Dad and I didn’t even bother to go home. We just slept in chairs in Mom’s room. We never even ate dinner, but after everything that had gone on that day — worrying about Mom, and the whole business with the dogs and the Civil War ghost before that — I don’t think I could have eaten anything anyway.
I skipped school the next day to stay at the hospital with Mom. She told me this wasn’t necessary, but I was still worried and didn’t want to be away from her.
“You don’t need to keep checking on me, Anderson,” Mom said when I asked her for about the millionth time how she was feeling. “I’m fine. The nurses are right out there in the nurses’ station if anything happens. And nothing’s going to happen.”
“But you fell,” I said.
“And I’m sure I’ll fall again some time,” Mom said. “I just need to be more careful. That’s all. This isn’t going to go away. We just need to keep doing what we’re doing.”
“Which is what?” I asked.
“Which is continuing to adapt,” Mom said. “Keep learning how to live with MS. Not be afraid to live our lives. And I certainly don’t want you to be so afraid for me that you don’t live your life.”
“I do,” I said. “I mean, I think I do.”
Mom smiled. “I just mean I want you to keep doing the things that you’re supposed to do, like going to school and helping around the house, and also the things you like to do, like your band and hanging out with your friends, and solving those history mysteries with Greg and Julie.”
“Those are for school,” I said quickly. “I mean, mostly.”
Mom nodded. “Now scoot. I’m tired and since they’re just observing me I want you to go do something.”
“Like what?” I asked. Mom dug in her pocketbook and handed me some money. “Go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. Or buy yourself a treat. Go wander around. Do some exploring.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” I asked. “I don’t mind staying. I can just keep sitting right here in the sleep chair.”
I was sitting on the edge of Mom’s hospital bed while we talked. She reached over and pushed me off, which caught me totally by surprise. I landed on my butt on the floor.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, trying not to laugh. I shook my head, though my tailbone was a little sore.
“Then go,” she ordered. So I took the money and left.
I actually was really hungry, so I ordered a big breakfast in the hospital cafeteria plus two cartons of chocolate milk. After I ate I went outside to text Greg and Julie about what had happened to my mom. I had a couple of texts and voice mails from both of them: Greg wondering where I was and why I wasn’t responding to his earlier messages, Julie telling me stuff she was reading about the Civil War and the Battle of Fredericksburg.
“While the Union army was stuck on the wrong side of the river for those three weeks waiting for pontoons, Robert E. Lee and his Army of Northern Virginia had plenty of time to move in and set up their defenses on the hills just south of Fredericksburg,” she explained in one voice mail.
As I was standing there, reading and listening to the messages from Julie and Greg, I realized the hospital was built on one of the hills where the Confederate forces had probably dug in, with all the advantages of holding the higher ground. I remembered from school that the Rebels’ defensive line ran for several miles along the ridge of these hills, starting around where I was standing and running east. Plus, there was a national park in town where the most important parts of the battle were fought. I could see the river just to the north, half a mile away, and I could even see one of the bridges — the Falmouth Bridge — that the Confederates destroyed. It dawned on me as I surveyed the area why everything that happened in the Battle of Fredericksburg, everything the Union army did — or didn’t do when they had the chance — was such a disaster in the making.
Eventually, I went back to Mom’s room for a couple of hours and hung around while they did some more tests and while she napped some, but she finally kicked me out again and told me to go meet my friends and do something. Band practice. Whatever. She insisted that she was fine.
“Your dad will be back this evening,” she said. “We’ll all meet up back here for a delicious hospital dinner.”
It was cold out, nearly three in the afternoon. School would be out soon. I walked home and got my bike, then rode over to the Kitchen Sink after texting Julie and Greg that I’d be there.
Uncle Dex looked up when I walked in. The dogs next door were barking, though it didn’t seem to be quite as loud as the day before. “Hey, Anderson!” Uncle Dex said, or shouted, even though he probably didn’t need to. “How’s everything? I talked to your mom. She sounds a lot better. Glad everything’s going to be okay.”
“Thanks,” I said. Uncle Dex is Mom’s brother. They’re really close, and since Uncle Dex isn’t married he comes over to our house a lot for dinner and stuff. He had come by the hospital and hung out with us for a while the night before.
“Oh, somebody came by looking for you,” he said. “I almost forgot.”
“Was it Greg?” I asked, though if it had been Uncle Dex probably would have already said. Plus, I doubted Greg could have gotten there so fast from school.
“No,” he answered. “And not Julie, either.”
“Well, who then?” I asked. For a second I was worried that it might have been the Civil War ghost, but of course Uncle Dex wouldn’t or couldn’t have known about him.
“Not sure,” he said. “A younger kid. I’m guessing a grade below you guys.”
“A fifth grader?” I couldn’t imagine who it could have been.
“Maybe,” said Uncle Dex. He looked toward the front of the store as the door opened. “But you can probably just ask her yourself, because there she is.”
I turned to look, too, and nearly fell over when I saw: It was Belman’s little sister — the one we met the night of Julie’s piano recital that I wrote about in one of my notebooks, “AWOL in North Africa.” She was just standing there grinning at me, and she might have been a little fifth grader and all, but it was about the scariest-looking grin I’d ever seen.
“Hello, Anderson,” she said in a fake-sweet voice.
“Hello, uh, Little Belman,” I said.
Before I could think of anything else to say, or a way to get her to go away, Uncle Dex interrupted. “Why don’t you kids head on down to the basement? I’ve got work to do up here.”
And the next thing I knew, without me even inviting her, the scary little Belman was following me downstairs to our practice room. I couldn’t for the life of me guess why she was there, or what she wanted, and I wasn’t too sure I wanted to find out.
“My name is not Little Belman,” Little Belman said as soon as we got there. “It’s Deedee. And don’t forget it.”
I just looked at her. She was small for a fifth grader, with long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. But she still looked tough.
“Okay, Deedee,” I said. “I’ll try to remember.”
“You better,” she snapped. “And I’ll tell you why I’m here. It’s because I know it was you, or your friend, who attacked my brother at the piano recital.”
“You mean the eggs that fell on his head?” I asked. “And the rubber chicken?”
She just glared at me, because of course that’s what she was talking about. Greg had secretly dropped all that
on Belman while he was onstage performing, but nobody had actually seen him do it. It was to get back at Belman for shooting Greg with a rubber chicken out of a potato cannon. And for shooting Greg and me with potatoes.
“My brother is a nice guy,” Deedee continued. “Too nice to do anything about it. But I’m not as nice as him.”
I nearly fell over again when she said that, because Belman was about the not-nicest person I’d ever met. But no matter what, I wasn’t about to admit to anything concerning Greg and the rubber chicken to Belman’s little sister, especially since she was claiming to be even worse than him.
“I’m sorry your brother got clobbered,” I said, not sure what else to say. Maybe a joke would help. “But I guess now we know which one came first.”
“What are you talking about?” Deedee asked, exasperated. “Which what came first?”
“You know, the whole chicken or the egg thing,” I said. “The egg hit your brother first and then the chicken. Not that I know who did it. But so now we know the answer to that age-old question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“I think you’re a moron,” Deedee said.
Somebody stepped up behind her when she said that. Somebody in a tattered blue uniform from the Civil War. The ghost!
“It ain’t polite to talk so ugly to people as that,” the ghost said to Deedee.
Deedee whirled around, saw the ghost, and screamed. Then she bolted out of the room and up the stairs, still screaming. I heard her thunder through the store, making all kinds of noise.
“Oh great!” I said to the ghost. “Why’d you have to scare her like that?”
“She wasn’t one of yours?” the ghost asked. “I thought she was in your band.”
“No,” I said. “She’s not. And now what are we going to do? She’ll tell everybody!”
The ghost didn’t have time to answer because Uncle Dex came rushing downstairs. “Anderson!” he shouted as he came through the door. “What in the world happened down here?”
The ghost had already vanished and I didn’t know what to say, so I just blurted out the obvious. “She thought she saw a ghost and got scared and ran out of here.”
Fallen in Fredericksburg Page 2
