remembered throwing his arms around her headstone and howling with grief when he’d seen her name etched in the stone, eroded by time and weather:
Mary Rachel Elizabeth Kincaid Raven, Cherished Wife And Beloved Mother, Born March 17, 1824, Called Home To Heaven January 9,1879.
His mother had died of shock and grief five months after he’d been murdered in Egypt. He’d died in August of 1878, only he wasn’t dead. He knew that now, though he had no idea how. Raven was the one who was dead. He knew that, too, and it terrified him.
He heard Willie murmur in her sleep again, heard the quilts rustle around her. He crossed the dining room and stood behind the couch looking at her, saw her brow furrow in the pale moonlight pooling through the window facing the porch.
Last night he’d remembered Willie, too. Not as the grown woman she was now, but as the bright little girl she’d been with orange freckles and copper pigtails. She’d come in the summer when he did, with her brother, Whit, a surly boy with red-gold hair but no freckles. They would stay with the old woman who used to live in the house. Their grandmother. He remembered her, too, and realized she was dead now. He’d wept for her and for his mother, but mostly he’d wept for himself as he’d wandered the house remembering.
He used to trail Willie and Whit along the beach while they played pirates, paddled in the shallows, chased crabs along the dunes with sticks and hunted starfish in the tidal pools. He’d take off his boots, his socks and his vest and roll up his sleeves. He’d race across the beach with them and splash in the waves, savoring the feel of the wind in his hair and the wet sand squishing between his toes.
He’d kissed Willie once when a starfish stung her, gently on the tip of her pert little nose. He’d tasted sand and the salt in her tears, smiled as she’d sniffled and rubbed what must have felt like a tickle to her, then held his breath when she’d cocked her head to one side and squinted up at him. Could she see turn? Did she see him? He’d held himself perfectly still as she’d raised her nail-bitten, sand-caked fingers toward his face, but she’d patted the air a good six inches to the left of him.
The old woman had seen him before she’d gone away to the hospital in Boston to have the cataracts taken off her eyes. She’d had lovely eyes, green as the sea on a still, cloudy day, until the lenses had thickened and turned her eyes filmy and dim. He’d come in the winter, several times, he thought, when the sea was gray and heavy and the shutters were fastened against the cold.
He’d come once at Christmas, when the tree was up and twinkling with lights in the living room, when the house smelled of holly and bayberry and cinnamon. The old woman was in the kitchen making jelly from cranberries she’d picked herself before the bog had frozen over. She’d seen him in a corner watching her, smiled and wiped the thick magnifying glass she needed to read labels on jars and cans and said, “Well, there you are, Johnny. I wondered if you’d gone for good this time. Come taste the jelly and tell me if it needs more sugar.”
Johnny. That was his name. That’s what his mother and the old woman named Betsy had called him. Johnny. Oh, God. Thank God, thank God. He felt almost whole knowing his name.
He remembered tasting the jelly. He hadn’t swallowed it because he couldn’t. The old woman, Betsy, had held up a spoonful. He’d touched his upper lip to the still-warm jelly and smacked his lips, silently, of course, for he could make no sound. Betsy had laughed, pleased, and talked to him while she filled blue half-pint jars with thick, red jelly.
She’d told him Whit was in law school and Willie was in college. On the dean’s list, she added proudly, and dating a boy her father didn’t like. Betsy told him Willie always dated boys her father didn’t like, that she’d told Whit Senior Willie did it because he didn’t
Mary Rachel Elizabeth Kincaid Raven, Cherished Wife And Beloved Mother, Born March 17, 1824, Called Home To Heaven January 9,1879.
His mother had died of shock and grief five months after he’d been murdered in Egypt. He’d died in August of 1878, only he wasn’t dead. He knew that now, though he had no idea how. Raven was the one who was dead. He knew that, too, and it terrified him.
He heard Willie murmur in her sleep again, heard the quilts rustle around her. He crossed the dining room and stood behind the couch looking at her, saw her brow furrow in the pale moonlight pooling through the window facing the porch.
Last night he’d remembered Willie, too. Not as the grown woman she was now, but as the bright little girl she’d been with orange freckles and copper pigtails. She’d come in the summer when he did, with her brother, Whit, a surly boy with red-gold hair but no freckles. They would stay with the old woman who used to live in the house. Their grandmother. He remembered her, too, and realized she was dead now. He’d wept for her and for his mother, but mostly he’d wept for himself as he’d wandered the house remembering.
He used to trail Willie and Whit along the beach while they played pirates, paddled in the shallows, chased crabs along the dunes with sticks and hunted starfish in the tidal pools. He’d take off his boots, his socks and his vest and roll up his sleeves. He’d race across the beach with them and splash in the waves, savoring the feel of the wind in his hair and the wet sand squishing between his toes.
He’d kissed Willie once when a starfish stung her, gently on the tip of her pert little nose. He’d tasted sand and the salt in her tears, smiled as she’d sniffled and rubbed what must have felt like a tickle to her, then held his breath when she’d cocked her head to one side and squinted up at him. Could she see turn? Did she see him? He’d held himself perfectly still as she’d raised her nail-bitten, sand-caked fingers toward his face, but she’d patted the air a good six inches to the left of him.
The old woman had seen him before she’d gone away to the hospital in Boston to have the cataracts taken off her eyes. She’d had lovely eyes, green as the sea on a still, cloudy day, until the lenses had thickened and turned her eyes filmy and dim. He’d come in the winter, several times, he thought, when the sea was gray and heavy and the shutters were fastened against the cold.
He’d come once at Christmas, when the tree was up and twinkling with lights in the living room, when the house smelled of holly and bayberry and cinnamon. The old woman was in the kitchen making jelly from cranberries she’d picked herself before the bog had frozen over. She’d seen him in a corner watching her, smiled and wiped the thick magnifying glass she needed to read labels on jars and cans and said, “Well, there you are, Johnny. I wondered if you’d gone for good this time. Come taste the jelly and tell me if it needs more sugar.”
Johnny. That was his name. That’s what his mother and the old woman named Betsy had called him. Johnny. Oh, God. Thank God, thank God. He felt almost whole knowing his name.
He remembered tasting the jelly. He hadn’t swallowed it because he couldn’t. The old woman, Betsy, had held up a spoonful. He’d touched his upper lip to the still-warm jelly and smacked his lips, silently, of course, for he could make no sound. Betsy had laughed, pleased, and talked to him while she filled blue half-pint jars with thick, red jelly.
She’d told him Whit was in law school and Willie was in college. On the dean’s list, she added proudly, and dating a boy her father didn’t like. Betsy told him Willie always dated boys her father didn’t like, that she’d told Whit Senior Willie did it because he didn’t
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