by Greg Weisman
Her mother paused to look. She gently took the pillow from Rain. It had been white once with irises neatly stitched into the cotton fabric. Now the white had yellowed and there was a brown water stain across the back. “Your Grandma Rose made this. When I was little I wouldn’t go to sleep without it.” Iris shook her head in something like amazement. “I had no idea Dad kept this.”
“He was very sentimental.”
“I suppose. I never thought of him that way. To me, he was this dashing rake. Like a pirate in an old movie.”
Rain tilted her head and gave her mother an incredulous look.
Iris tilted her head right back. “I know. That sounds silly to you. But you only knew him as a very old man. He was so handsome, Rain. He wasn’t young when he had me, but even when I was your age all my friends still had big crushes on him. Ask Charlie’s mom.”
Now Rain looked ill. “Mrs. Dauphin had a crush on Papa?”
Rain’s mother considered this for a moment and soon her expression mirrored Rain’s. “Yeah, I thought it was creepy too.”
Rain felt a desperate need to change the subject. She took another look inside the box, reached in and pulled out a glass-framed black and white photograph that had long ago begun to brown with age. She glanced at it. Men in front of an old airplane. She started to put it down on the bed, to reach deeper into the box. Then she froze.
Terrified, she slowly turned her head to look at the picture again. It was like seeing a ghost, and for Rain that wasn’t just an expression. Men in front of an old airplane. Familiar men. The Eight. And standing in the center of the crowd: the Dark Man. To be sure, she silently counted the heads. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten? She counted again. And a third time. It wasn’t the Eight plus One Dark Man. It was the Eight plus One Dark Man plus one more.…
She studied each face carefully to see if she could find the extra body. The ghost who hadn’t yet appeared. It wasn’t hard. All the faces were young. Barely men at all. All looked familiar, but on closer inspection, she realized that the second man from the right in the lower row was sitting in a wheelchair. His forehead was bandaged. He wore a bomber jacket like the others, but it seemed to her that he was wearing his over pajamas and a robe. She studied the others. The Eight. The Dark Man. And now there was a tenth. The Injured Party. The phrase entered her head unbidden; she wasn’t exactly sure what it meant or whether it applied. Maybe she had heard it on TV. But that was his name now. The Injured Party.
She peered up at her mother, who was staring at another framed picture. Rain held out her haunted photo. She saw her hands shaking and hoped her mom wouldn’t notice. “What’s this?” Rain asked—as flatly as she could.
Iris handed her picture to Rain and took possession of the other. Rain’s eyes fell on the new image in her hand. It was familiar. A wedding photo with a gold embossed caption that read, SEBASTIAN & ROSE BOHIQUE. She looked at her grandfather and had to admit her mother was right. He was dashing. She tried to imagine him then. The pirate, the rake. She knew the story, more or less. ’Bastian had told his worshiping version many times. ’Bastian Bohique was a confirmed bachelor, stunned into submission by the lovely young Rose Nitaino. “She chased me, ’til I caught her,” he would say. “She knew we were meant to be together.” He had married late in life. In his forties. The black and white picture clearly showed the gray hair at his temples. Rain kept a watchful eye on his face, as if he might wink back at her. Half her mind struggled to recognize the smiling old friend she knew. But half her mind was struggling with a different identification. Struggling so hard, she had all but forgotten the picture she had handed her mother.
And then, just as Iris spoke, Rain knew. “That’s Dad here in the middle. Which box was this in? I’ve never seen it before.”
The Dark Man. The Dark Man. The Dark Man was ’Bastian Bohique. The wedding picture spanned the gap between the young dark devil in the bomber jacket and the sweet old man with sparkling gray eyes. That ghost reaching for her in her bedroom hadn’t been evil. Hadn’t been a threat. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. It was Papa. He reached out to me, maybe needed me—and I screamed at him! Screamed until he left me alone forever.
She felt like dissolving. And looked like she felt. Iris dropped the picture on the bed to steady her daughter. “Rain? My God, Rain, what’s wrong?”
Rain stared wildly at her mother. At the picture in her hand. At the smiling devil eyeing her from among the other ghosts on the bed. That’s why he wasn’t there with the Eight at the N.T.Z. Why he wasn’t with his friends. Or at the cemetery. I chased him off. Twice. He tried twice. I pulled away from him. I screamed. I yelled. I chased him out into the hall. He’ll never come back now. I’ve lost him all over again!
Tears came, followed quickly by great heaving sobs. Iris wrapped her arms around her shuddering child and began to rock her gently back and forth. Rain just kept repeating, “He won’t ever come back. He won’t ever come back again.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FERRYMAN
It took a good half an hour for a tearful Iris to calm Rain down. The saving grace, as Rain saw it, was that her mother attributed this latest breakdown to general grief. She had no idea of the new guilt Rain was carrying. ’Bastian chose me. Not Mom, but me. And I sent him away forever. Rain was sure her mother would never forgive her for that. So she could never find out. Rain struggled to control her breathing. To focus on something that didn’t make her head spin.
Callahan.
In a strange way, he had become her mind’s greatest ally. The anger she felt toward him was a tide washing everything else away. Fear, guilt, misery, they’d roll out to sea on the wave of his crime. She would get that armband back. ’Bastian’s armband.
She forced herself to study the two photographs again. In the wedding picture, the armband peeked out from below his sleeve on his right wrist. But in the airplane shot, she couldn’t see it. Maybe it was under the cuff of his bomber jacket. Or maybe he wasn’t wearing it at all.
Iris watched her, and Rain soon became aware of the attention. Again, she held up the airplane photo and tried to keep her voice calm. “When was this taken?”
“I’m not sure. During World War Two, of course. You knew your granddad was a bomber pilot.”
“I guess I did. Sort of. I knew he was in the war. Went to Europe. But I don’t know how I knew. I can’t remember him ever telling me or anything.”
“No. Dad never talked about the war. Wouldn’t talk about it.”
“Do you recognize anyone else? Like this guy?” Rain pointed at the Injured Party. “Or anyone?”
Iris scanned each face over Rain’s shoulder. Finally, she shook her head. “He never talked about any of it. Now it’s lost.”
Lost. Rain felt ’Bastian staring at her from the photograph. The Dark Man smiling and confident. Probably disgusted with her. She held the picture to her chest so she wouldn’t have to look at that face. But she wouldn’t let it go. Keeping it would be her penance … like the albatross in that Mariner poem they had studied last year. “Can I have this?” she asked, half-hoping the answer would be no.
But Iris seemed pleased that Rain wanted it. She nodded to her daughter. Rain swallowed hard. Careful what you wish for. “I have to go get school stuff,” she said. “Dad gave me money.”
Iris gave her daughter a bookkeeper’s stare. “We discussed that. Just make sure you get what you need before you spend the balance.”
Rain smiled. She didn’t need much. She had an old binder she could reuse by throwing out last year’s notes. And she had all the math stuff—ruler, compass, protractor. All she’d need were a couple pencils, a couple pens, a highlighter, some paper and a new folder. That would last her through the first month or so. After that, if she needed something else she could always wheedle a bit more cash out of her parents. Education was important to them.
Rain kissed her mom and left. She was outside the Inn before she realized she was still clutching the
photo. ’Bastian, the Eight, the Injured Party, all pressing against her chest. Ghosts, memories, guilt. She didn’t want to be alone with them. She beelined for Charlie’s.
An hour later she had her supplies in a plastic bag and nearly fifteen dollars still in her pocket. She showed the picture to Charlie as they sat on a bench between palm trees, twenty yards from the edge of the beach, where two seagulls were fighting over the remains of a corn dog. A warm breeze slid along the shore, but Charlie had to suppress a shiver. His jaw hung open as Rain tried to explain: “See, the first ghost was ’Bastian…”
“Wait, wait, slow down.”
“And these guys. These other eight guys were the ghosts I saw with you at the N.T.Z.”
“Rain.”
She pointed at the Injured Party. “I haven’t seen him yet. Maybe that’s tonight’s special moment.”
“You have not been seeing ghosts.”
“Shut up. I have. It’s not like I’m happy about it. Doesn’t really matter if you believe me, anyway.…” She trailed off, thinking.
“What?” he asked, apprehensive.
“What if this last guy isn’t dead? I mean maybe that’s why he wasn’t with the others. What if he’s alive somewhere, living in Nebraska … or London.” The prospect of the Injured Party living in Europe actually brought a smile to her face. “He could tell me something. I wish I knew his name.”
Before his mind had time to censor the thought, Charlie asked, “Have you looked on the back? My mother always writes names on the back.”
Rain rolled her eyes as she absently flipped the framed picture over. “There’s nothing there.”
Charlie rolled his eyes right back at her. “Not the back of the frame. The back of the picture. Take it out.”
Rain mentally kicked herself. She flipped aside the little tab and lifted the felt and cardboard backing away from the photograph. Sure enough, there were three lines of faded pencil scrawl. On top it read, May 8, 1945. Below that, names and initials. Top: Billy Z., Pete G., Me, Harry C., Harry E. And, Bottom: Bear M., Ducky S., Lance P., Joey C., Tommy M. She flipped the picture back and forth, attaching a name to every face. “Me” was her Papa ’Bastian. ’Bastian B. This was his scrawl. And the Injured Party? The man in the wheelchair? Joey C.
Rain frowned. “No last names. Guess he thought he’d remember. It’s gonna be hard to search all of London for a Joey C. Not much help.”
“Can I see him again?”
Rain turned the photo over once more. They both studied good old Joey. Old Joey. “Oh my God,” she said, “you don’t think?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said, but she could tell from the slow way he shook his head that the same thought had crossed his mind. Down on the beach, one of the birds snatched up the last chunk of corn dog and took to the air; the other remained, pecking at the crumbs.
Rain stood up abruptly. “Let’s go ask him. I mean they were best friends. Even if it’s not him, he might know something. We should ask him.”
“Ask him what? Whether he’s being haunted too?”
“We’ll just show him the picture. See what we get.”
“Don’t tell him anything that’s going to get you committed, okay?”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
She took off with the photo. Charlie stood and picked up her bag of school supplies. He chewed on the inside of his mouth.
“Come on!” she yelled.
And he followed.
They had to wait fifteen minutes for the Sycorax Ferry to return. Rain got in line and spent ten of her father’s dollars on their two tickets, which kept her occupied for a full three of those minutes. But during the last twelve Charlie half-thought she was going to jump in the water and swim for the boat. Finally, it arrived, but the boarding process was so slow and deliberate, Charlie was glad Rain wasn’t armed.
They boarded. Rain ran upstairs to the pilot’s cabin with Charlie on her heels. A big sign said NO ADMITTANCE. A smaller sign said, DO NOT DISTURB THE PILOT. Rain ignored both and grabbed for the door handle. It was locked. She pounded on the glass.
Old Joe Charone, the ferryman, turned with a scowl. Then he saw his best friend’s granddaughter and his face immediately softened. Rain shouted through the glass, “Can we talk to you?”
“I’m workin’, Sweetie.”
“I need to ask you something.”
So inevitably, Joe opened yet another door for Rain Cacique. She and Charlie squeezed into the little cabin. Rain started to talk, but a HORN sounded, cutting her off. Old Joe picked up his radio and said, “Pulling out.”
Rain tried again, “Joe, I want to—”
“Let me get her clear of port, Sweetie, then we can talk.”
Rain did not take a deep breath and wait. She held out the photograph, demanding “Have you seen it before?”
Old Joe glanced at the picture, barely. “Once or twice,” he said, smiling. His focus immediately returned to the harbor, but he jerked his head to the left. Hanging from the bulkhead was another copy of the photo in an identical frame.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE STORM
Charlie gulped. Rain looked about ready to pop. “Then it is you,” she said. “You’re the Injured—the guy in the wheelchair!”
“The kid in the wheelchair,” Joe corrected. “Yeah, that’s me. Tail Gunner Joey.”
“And Papa?”
“Captain Sebastian Bohique. He was a real war hero, Sweetie. He was my hero.”
“The others?”
“The crew of the Island Belle. Here, show me that again.”
Rain held up the picture. Again, Joe merely glanced at it. But this time when he stared out to sea, his vision searched backward. He knew that photograph by heart. He knew everything about those years by heart. “Across the top that’s Lieutenant Billy Zekaris, our bombardier. And Pete Grier from Mississippi. He was top turret. Then your grandfather. And Big Harry Connors and Little Harry Eiling, our waist gunners. Kneeling down you got Lieutenant William ‘Bear’ Mitchell, our navigator. And Ducky Simpson, ball turret. Sergeant Lance Pedros, radio operator. Me. And Lieutenant Tommy McMinn, copilot.”
Yet again, Rain studied the now-familiar faces. ’Bastian’s writing on the back—even seeing the Eight spirits in person—had done less to bring them back to life than Joe Charone’s few nostalgia-laced words. She looked at young Joey C. Wounded but smiling—and now so obviously good Old Joe. And beside him, Tommy McMinn, the tall ghost who had “spoken” to her at the N.T.Z. Finally, her gaze returned to her grandfather. “And ’Bastian was the pilot?”
“Through twenty-five successful missions. Nine of them over Berlin. He kept us alive. We’d have followed him anywhere. In fact, we did.”
“When was this taken? I mean I saw the date on the back, but—”
“V-E Day.” Rain and Charlie exchanged looks and nervous shrugs. It was clear from Joe’s tone that this was something he thought both kids should know. He looked at them sternly. “Victory in Europe Day. Eighth of May, 1945. Day after the Nazis surrendered. There was still fighting in the Pacific. But we had flown our twenty-five runs. We were done. The war was over for us. Just one more mission left.”
“What mission?”
“Something ’Bastian set up. When it mattered, your grandpa was rock solid. Serious. No foolin’ around. But when it didn’t matter, when nothing was at stake, he liked to have a good time. He liked attention too. For him they went together.” Rain and Charlie stared at him blankly, so Joe clarified: “See, a little glory helped oil the gears for his fun.”
He grinned at them. Still nothing. His grin turned sour with annoyance. “With women! You kids are old enough to hear this, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.” But Charlie noticed Rain was wearing her “icky-face.”
“’Bastian loved the ladies. He used to say—and I certainly thought—that he’d never get tired of playing the field. Then of course, he met Rose, and everything changed.”
�
��You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Rain said, anxious to put him back on topic.
“True, true. Where was I, Sweetie?”
“The mission. The last mission.”
“Right. ’Bastian had this idea, see? It was unusual for a crew like ours to stay together from start to finish. There were injuries, illnesses, the occasional court martial. Guys went on leave or they had enough combat points to get sent home.”
Joe’s tongue took a quick circuit around his lips. “And there were fatalities, you know?” This time, he didn’t look at the two kids to make sure they understood. He knew they couldn’t. Not really. Not the way he did. Not at their age. Not in the world they lived in now. But that’s a good thing, he reminded himself. That’s why we fought.
He searched his mind for his train of thought. Caught it and boarded. “But here we were—ten of us—still together after twenty-five sorties. I got a little chopped up on that last flight, but we were all alive and eager to head back to the States. ‘Bastian just wanted a little fanfare for the journey.
“So he talked to the brass and convinced them we could still be of use to the war effort. They sent the Belle on a tour of the States to help sell War Bonds. There were ten stops. One for every member of the crew. We’d each get a chance to be the big man in our own hometown, or at least at the closest airfield.”
Rain looked down at the Belle’s crew in her hand. In her mind, the flashbulb went off and the ten sepia-toned men came to life, shaking hands, patting each other on the back. Everyone’s extra solicitous of the injured tail gunner, until the young man growls, “Leave me alone. I’m fine, see?” Then their captain steps forward, tilts his hat back with casual arrogance and says, “Boys, have I got a surprise for you.…”
“Lance and Tommy and Pete, they didn’t like the idea. They just wanted to go home and stay home. But it sounded good to the rest of us heroes, and even the naysayers weren’t gonna say nay to ’Bastian. Heck, I was so excited I talked the docs into letting me go along, head injury or no head injury. ’Course I had pneumonia by the time we got to New York—that’s where I’m from, you know; my dad piloted the Staten Island Ferry for forty-three years.”
