“Why the doll? Why didn’t she tell?” The questions repeated in his head until he thought he was going to scream. A thought unfolded in his mind like Morning Glory flowers do in the morning sun.
Glory loves me?
Once again Joey looked down in the shadows for the doll. He had to go get the doll.
Joey crept down the stairs and found the attic door open. He stopped to think. He remembered he had closed it with a bang and then gone back to lock it. His Mom had the key. Had she come up?
He continued down cringing at every creaky step and groaning floorboard. Instead of going through the kitchen to the back door he was distracted by a light in the library. His mother was not one to stay up late. Joey wondered what was going on.
Stepping quietly Joey made his way down the hallway. Peeking carefully into the library Joey saw his mother at the computer typing at a furious rate. After a barrage of clicks she would stop to think. Then she would begin the assault on the keyboard again. The floorboard creaked as he shifted his weight. Joey froze. Mrs. Johanaby was so intent on what she was writing that she didn’t hear. Relieved, he backed away and made his way outside.
Joey stepped onto the back step and carefully shut the screen door. The night enveloped him just like the water at the pond that afternoon. The water had been suffocating and frightening; the night felt fresh and welcoming. The crickets near him stopped their song a moment, but those in the distance sang on as merrily as ever.
He looked up at the stars. Sometimes they twinkled and pulsed as if they were happy. Other times they looked like part of something bigger trying to break through the confinement of the night sky. Tonight they just seemed thoughtful.
Joey didn’t have to search for the doll. It was lying on the ground in plain sight next to . . . Beezer’s rocket? Joey looked up into the branches to make sure it was the same rocket that had been hanging there for so long. It was. It was like they had fallen to the ground together.
“No way!” Joey almost laughed. Sitting down on his knees he folded the parachute into a rectangle, then rolled it up and pushed it into the rocket. He replaced the nosecone. It was far bigger than any of the rockets he and his dad had made. He could almost see his father sitting on the other side of the rocket as they prepared it for launch. He pushed the thought out of his head quickly. Thoughts of his father still made him feel empty.
Leaning the rocket against the tree he picked up the doll. None the worse for the fall she looked up at Joey with happy, unaccusing eyes. Joey ran a finger through her wild hair. He wondered if Glory had given her to him to keep or would she want her back?
A warm breeze, unnatural to the night, made a soft rushing sound through the branches above him. When it stopped the night was still again except for the crickets. It was like the tree had just cleared its throat to get his attention.
Joey looked up into the branches. The leaves glowed pale-green in the moonlight. The branches looked like dark tentacles hanging below a giant jelly fish. Laying his hand on the trunk Joey thought he could feel the tree’s pulse. It may have been another breeze, but the tree seemed to sigh with pleasure at his touch.
Joey began to climb by moonlight. As he got higher and the branches became fewer and thinner Joey’s breathing quickened. Butterflies danced in his stomach. He had been high on a Ferris wheel once, but it hadn’t been near as thrilling as this.
Joey got so high that the thin branches swayed with his weight. Although not at the top of the tree, he knew he was high enough. He sat down on a branch and took in the view. His home looked strange from this perspective. The window to his room was below him. He looked out across the night landscape. The woods and the fields formed soft textures in the shadows.
Joey looked up at the stars. They were beautiful, but they made him sad tonight. As high as he was in the tree, the stars were still so far away. He hadn’t really expected them to be any closer; still, he wanted them to be. Joey felt that old ache inside him—the ache that had been born when his father died. He was afraid he was going to cry again.
“How many tears do I hold?” He thought. He fought to hold them down.
After his father had died his mother had tried to comfort Joey. She said that Mr. Johanaby was alive just as he had been alive in this world, but now he was in the spirit world.
Looking at the stars he said, “The spirit world is as far away as the stars, so what does it matter if he is there or not?”
The sudden sound of his voice disturbed the darkness. A gentle gust of wind caressed Joey’s face and ran fingers through his hair. The tree sighed once more.
Joey felt that speaking out loud had been wrong. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the tree, to the night.
In response Joey heard a single note of the wind chime. He held his breath hoping for more. Two more notes sounded, and then three more. The notes danced in the air like fireflies.
The sounds came from nearby, as if they were in the tree with him. They were more beautiful than all the sounds, feels, and smells of the country night put together.
“Joey.”
The voice came from every direction as if the very night had whispered his name.
Joey soundlessly mouthed “Yes?”
“Joey.”
This time it was louder, yet still soft and gentle. He recognized it. It was the girl’s voice he heard at the pond.
“Joey.”
This time it was a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh making fun, but a laugh of delight. It came from the direction of the cellar.
Joey looked down and watched a beautiful woman walk through the cellar doors. She glowed in the darkness like a candle. Her dark hair hung in curls around her head. Her blue eyes shone in the dark. The hem of her voluminous hoop skirt dragged lightly on the ground as she moved.
“Henrietta!” Joey whispered.
She must have heard. Her eyes went to the tree and quickly found him. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose. He grew light headed. He wondered what she would do next.
She smiled. It wasn’t the ghastly smile of the dead, but a warm and charming smile. She looked happy to see him.
The night started spinning. For an instant he thought he was going to fall out of the tree. He closed his eyes and clung to the branch.
The wind chimes struck a sterner note. “Don’t do that,” Henrietta said.
Her voice stopped the spinning. Joey felt the tree bark cutting into his arms and loosened his hold. Opening his eyes he saw Henrietta walking toward him. She rose higher off the ground with each step as if she were climbing stairs. She walked right through the narrow hanging branches without disturbing them. When she reached the branch Joey was sitting on she turned around and sat down beside him. She had nothing to lean against or hang on to, yet she sat as comfortably as if she were in a chair. Her hoop skirt flowed through the branches. Part of it flowed over Joey’s legs like colorful fog. He felt coolness on his legs where the fabric rested.
Joey stared at Henrietta open-mouthed. Here was a ghost—a beautiful ghost—sitting in a tree with him. After Beezer’s stories, meeting Henrietta was like unexpectedly meeting your favorite movie star.
After she was settled she looked at Joey. Her face was pale, her lips red, and her eyes glowing blue. Her arched eyebrows lifted and an amused smile rose on her lips. “As a young girl I was taught it isn’t nice to stare.”
She spoke with a Tennessee accent and with music. Henrietta’s voice was the embodiment of all the chimes he had heard since he had arrived at the mansion. The sound of her voice sent shivers of happiness down his spine.
“I’m sorry,” Joey said, still unable to take his eyes off her.
Henrietta laughed delightfully. Chimes jingled merrily.
“Actually, I’d be surprised if you didn’t stare,” she said. “How often does a person get to see a ghost?”
“Especially one as pretty as you,” Joey said.
Henrietta’s face glowed a little brighter.
“You ar
e a charming young man,” Henrietta said. She reached out her hand and tousled his hair. Joey couldn’t feel her hand, but the hair on the top of his head blew in a soft breeze.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t quite so pretty when I was alive. It’s amazing what being dead does for a person.” She laughed again, but the chimes didn’t sound as happy this time.
Henrietta turned her blue eyes to the stars. Joey continued to gaze at Henrietta. She glowed soft like starlight, but was far more beautiful.
After sitting in silence for a full minute, it dawned on Joey what a strange situation he was in—sitting in a tree with a ghost. This had dream written all over it. Joey pinched himself on his wrist to see if he was really awake.
“Ow,” he said, pinching too hard.
Henrietta looked at Joey, curiously. “If you’ve bruised yourself I suppose in the morning you’ll blame it on the evil ghost, won’t you?”
“Evil ghost?” Joey asked, rubbing his wrist.
“The one you were so afraid of in the cellar this morning.”
Joey remembered his fear in the dark that morning. “Oh,” he hung his head. “I don’t think it was you I was afraid of. It was just so dark . . . and something bad had happened there once, and my imagination just went nuts.”
“Yes,” Henrietta said. She was looking down at the cellar doors. She paused a moment in thought. “Something bad happened there, at least for Uncle Orson it did.”
“Uncle Orson?”
“Colonel Horsebaum,” Henrietta clarified.
“But, it was you who was . . . was,” Joey didn’t know if it was rude to say it.
“Murdered,” Henrietta said. A flat, dull chime sounded. “Yes, it was me that was murdered. But that was only sad—sad for me and those who loved me. It wasn’t ‘bad.’ What was ‘bad’ was what Uncle Orson did. He did something he could never make right, not in life or in death. Doing something like that is ‘bad.’ Poor Uncle Orson.” The saddest, loneliest chime Joey had ever heard sounded.
“You feel sorry for your uncle?”
“Yes,” Henrietta said with a spark. She looked at Joey. Her blue eyes went smoky for a moment. “Having your life taken early is sad, but something even as sad as that can be set right. The act of taking life, if done willfully and with sound mind, cannot be set right. The thought that my uncle might suffer his grief for eternity breaks my heart.” Chimes, each out of tune with the next, sounded in dissonance.
Her glow dimmed. She put her face in her hands. The ghostly fabric over Joey’s legs grew cold. Joey wanted to put his hand on Henrietta’s shoulder to comfort her, but he didn’t dare.
“I’m so sorry,” Joey said.
“Sorry?” Henrietta slowly moved her hands away from her face. “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry that your Uncle did something that makes you so sad.”
Henrietta looked into his face. Her glow returned. He saw translucent lines shining on her pale face. Ghost tears.
“That is a start, Joey Johanaby. Feeling for someone else, it makes you special.”
Hearing such kind words from Henrietta’s ghostly lips sent a surge of joy through his body. His face burned in such a blush he wondered if it shone like Henrietta’s.
Joey wanted to linger in the warmth of her kind words. He wanted to be special. The dark memories of the previous day didn’t allow this joy long. They rolled in like dark clouds and snuffed out his joy like sudden gust of wind putting out a candle.
“But I’m not so special,” Joey said, hanging his head. It felt important for him to get this out in the open.
“Tell me why,” Henrietta said. She didn’t stare at him. Instead she gazed across the shadowy nightscape.
“I think you know why,” Joey said, staring down into the misty fabric over his legs.
“Tell me,” Henrietta said again, her voice soft and compelling.
Joey searched for words. In the year since his father had died this was the first time anyone had asked him how he felt. People had told him how to feel. They had told him that he must feel very sad, that he must feel lost without his father, that he must be very brave to help his mother now that his father was gone, but no one had ever asked him how he felt.
“I’m just so afraid all the time,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll never see my dad again. I was afraid of things even when he was alive, but he gave me hope that I could learn to be brave. Now I can’t even hope anymore.” Joey stopped here and wiped tears from his eyes. I’m also a crybaby, he thought.
Henrietta, comfortable with silence, sat waiting for Joey to go on.
“Today proved it,” Joey said, finally going on. “I was afraid of the dark. I fainted.” Joey said the words bitterly seeing no need to try to lessen the truth. He looked over at Henrietta. She still gazed to the west seeing something in the dark Joey could not see.
“I abandoned Glory and Story.” Joey wiped his nose on his hand. “Glory drives me crazy,” he said, but it was more of an apology than a complaint. “Somehow I always lose to her. I always look bad to Mom because of her.”
Joey thought a moment before going on more quietly. “I think Mom loves her—loves her and Story—more than me.” Joey paused and looked out where Henrietta looked before going on. “Maybe she should. There’s something bold and strong about them.”
Henrietta turned her head slowly and looked at Joey with softly lit eyes. Still she said nothing.
“You were at the pond, weren’t you,” Joey said, his voice quivering with shame. Henrietta nodded slowly.
Joey looked away from her eyes because in them he could see it all again—Glory’s pale face breaking the surface of the green water. He heard her cough and choke as she went back under. And he just stood on the bank afraid to help her.
“I saw you save her, Joey,” Henrietta said.
“Stop! Just stop saying that,” Joey yelled. “That’s what Beezer said and it’s just not true. I wouldn’t have jumped in if you hadn’t made me. I would have stood there and watched her drown.” The weight of that truth struck him full in the chest. He put his head against the tree and sobbed.
Henrietta gave him a moment before speaking. “I didn’t push you into that pond, Joey.”
Joey heard her but sobbed on.
“Your sister would have drowned if you had not jumped in and saved her; and I did not push you into that pond.”
Her last words were intense, almost angry. Joey could not ignore them. Trying to check his sobbing, Joey said, “Okay, so I jumped in by myself.” Joey hiccupped from the crying. “But I wouldn’t have jumped in if you hadn’t told me to.” This was the truth; Joey knew it. If Henrietta refuted it she would be lying.
People always lied to make you feel better. His Uncle Steve had held his Mom just after Mr. Johanaby had died and told her everything was going to be alright. It was a lie. Everything had not been all right.
“Joey.”
Joey turned and looked into Henrietta’s eyes daring her to tell him he was wrong. Henrietta didn’t speak. She leaned in bringing her face closer to his. The light in her eyes went from a candle to a fire. She opened her mouth and exhaled. Her breath was visible like his on a cold morning. It sparkled in the moonlight. When it reached him the night dissolved.
He was standing in the cellar. He recognized the musty potato smell. The room was lit by a lantern sitting on a shelf. Cowering in a little cave dug into the earthen cellar wall was a black man, a woman, and a little baby the woman was holding. A curtain, that had covered the opening, lay on the dirt floor. Facing them and holding a pistol was a tall man in a grey suit. His black tie hung perfectly straight down the center of his white shirt. His mustache covered his upper lip and hung down on either side of his mouth.
“Colonel Horsebaum!” whispered Joey.
Beside him was Henrietta. She was just as pretty alive as she was dead. She was wearing the same curls and dress she was wearing now. Joey could see them speaking, but he couldn’t hear anything they said. Colonel Horsebaum�
��s face was red and he swung the pistol back and forth as he spoke. Henrietta put her hand on his arm as she pled with him. Colonel Horsebaum shoved her to the ground. The black man moved to help Henrietta. Colonel Horsebaum aimed the pistol at the black man to shoot.
Now Joey could hear. The black woman holding the child cried out, “Miss Henrietta!”
Henrietta, who had raised herself on her arms, threw herself on Colonel Horsebaum. There was a muffled gunshot. Henrietta, her eyes wide in surprise, sank to the floor amid her billowing hoop skirt. A wet, crimson stain blossomed below her left bosom.
Colonel Horsebaum stared down through the gun smoke in horror. The gun slipped out of his hand and he sank to his knees. He gathered Henrietta into his arms and pulled her close. Colonel Horsebaum spoke Henrietta’s name softly at first, then more loudly. He looked up at the floorboards and wailed in anguish.
Henrietta’s head lay back over his arm. She had died with her eyes open. Surprise and—was it fear?—showed in them.
The fear in her eyes bothered Joey. He tried to look away, but found his eyes locked to hers. He didn’t want to see the fear. Then he realized why—it embarrassed him.
Henrietta the ghost was serene and confident. Seeing her like this was wrong. He felt like he had accidentally come upon her half-dressed. He tried to shut his eyes. They wouldn’t close.
The cellar faded, but Henrietta did not. Joey found himself back in the tree holding the dead Henrietta in his arms. Her frightened, but lifeless eyes stared into his. Like Colonel Horsebaum Joey called out her name.
“Henrietta!”
The soft blue light flickered back into her eyes. The fear left her face and was replaced by gentle concern. Looking down Joey saw the crimson stain fading away until Henrietta was again whole as a ghost can be. With silent grace she sat up.
Joey wiped his eyes with his free hand. “Why did you show me that?” He heard anger in his voice.
“I didn’t want to die,” Henrietta said. “I was afraid,” She stared down thoughtfully at her skirt.
Joey felt awkward with her admission of fear. To him, fear was a shameful thing. “But you were so brave,” Joey said. “You saved that family with your life.”
Joey and the Magic Map Page 14
