words: “After that, my father got to be a mighty rich man. Edison’s widowed mother, though, she was left poor as country peasants. I sent them some money, but Edison mailed it back to me with such a cruel letter. He let me know that he didn’t need my charity, and that, in some strange way, he blamed me — my family — for their misfortune. The two were not connected, but in his mind, they were.”
He sighs. I wonder why he’s telling me all this. Do ghosts carry around guilt forever? If so, I don’t want to die.
Nathaniel breathes heavily, and I sense that it’s hard for him to suck in breath; this air is not his natural medium, especially in this sweltering attic. I wait.
“The Pierces and the Larches, we were linked in so many ways.”
“Your fathers being in business and all,” I say, to grease the flow of words.
He strokes his stubble, a scritch that’s punctuated by a tree branch brushing the window. “More than our fathers,” he begins. “More than Edison and me being friends and cousins. You see, I was set to marry his sister, Constance.”
“Marry his sister ?” I’m surprised to feel a jolt of jealousy. I have no reason to be upset about a girl who is now long dead. But I can’t help it.
“You were engaged?” I demand.
“I was about to give Constance a ring, before I came to Gettysburg.”
I pull my hand out of his, crushed to hear this news. Feebly, I say the only thing that’s safe: “But you and Constance were cousins.”
“Distant. It was common in my day for cousins to marry.”
Then I blurt out what’s really on my mind: “Did you love her, Nathaniel?”
“She was a handsome young woman, pleasant, familiar. We grew up together. It was always assumed we’d marry. But love her? No. She wasn’t like you, free and vital.”
I jump slightly at his words, new to my ears. Is he saying he didn’t love her, but he loves me ? My cheeks are burning. He hardly knows me. And I have no idea how I feel about him, deep down. I keep these thoughts to myself, but then I can’t resist; Ihave to ask, trying to sound as calm as possible, “Whatever became of Constance Larch?”
“Word is she married a French blacksmith and moved to Louisiana. I suppose that put her on the opposite side of the War Between the States. We never met again, of course, because I was already dead.”
“You’ve never seen her in the spirit realm?” I wonder if ghosts sort of drift toward each other like lazy clouds. Did Nathaniel float up to Constance, asking her help to solve his murder? I feel that stab of jealousy again.
Nathaniel seems surprised by the question. “Why, no. I’ve never had reason to reach her. She’s gone; that’s all there is to that. And you are here.”
But where is here — on the kalunga line between the living and the dead? And how do we cross that line?
I take Nathaniel’s hand again, feeling its misleading warmth. We look at each other, and I want to tell him to go on with his story — and I also want to lean in close to him — but then I hear my mother shouting, “Lori!” downstairs and I remember I was supposed to bring her the towels and help with the new guests. Before I can apologize to Nathaniel — or wonder if I can make up an excuse to Mom to stay in the attic — he’s given me a quick smile and disappeared. Gone, again. For now.
I SIT BY the creek at nighttime, feeling more alone than I could ever imagine, listening to the screeching of a whippoorwill in a tree. Gertie is off with her new Chihuahua boyfriend, and Nathaniel seems to appear when it suits him. I sigh. Maybe I should just go back to the inn and Google Nathaniel, now that I know his regiment.
A light goes on in the lawn-mower shed up the hill, north of the house. Who’d be in there this late? Probably Dad scrounging around for some tools to fix the latest money-pit disaster.Something about the garbage disposal backing up; he must be looking for the heavy-duty plunger.
I scoot up the
He sighs. I wonder why he’s telling me all this. Do ghosts carry around guilt forever? If so, I don’t want to die.
Nathaniel breathes heavily, and I sense that it’s hard for him to suck in breath; this air is not his natural medium, especially in this sweltering attic. I wait.
“The Pierces and the Larches, we were linked in so many ways.”
“Your fathers being in business and all,” I say, to grease the flow of words.
He strokes his stubble, a scritch that’s punctuated by a tree branch brushing the window. “More than our fathers,” he begins. “More than Edison and me being friends and cousins. You see, I was set to marry his sister, Constance.”
“Marry his sister ?” I’m surprised to feel a jolt of jealousy. I have no reason to be upset about a girl who is now long dead. But I can’t help it.
“You were engaged?” I demand.
“I was about to give Constance a ring, before I came to Gettysburg.”
I pull my hand out of his, crushed to hear this news. Feebly, I say the only thing that’s safe: “But you and Constance were cousins.”
“Distant. It was common in my day for cousins to marry.”
Then I blurt out what’s really on my mind: “Did you love her, Nathaniel?”
“She was a handsome young woman, pleasant, familiar. We grew up together. It was always assumed we’d marry. But love her? No. She wasn’t like you, free and vital.”
I jump slightly at his words, new to my ears. Is he saying he didn’t love her, but he loves me ? My cheeks are burning. He hardly knows me. And I have no idea how I feel about him, deep down. I keep these thoughts to myself, but then I can’t resist; Ihave to ask, trying to sound as calm as possible, “Whatever became of Constance Larch?”
“Word is she married a French blacksmith and moved to Louisiana. I suppose that put her on the opposite side of the War Between the States. We never met again, of course, because I was already dead.”
“You’ve never seen her in the spirit realm?” I wonder if ghosts sort of drift toward each other like lazy clouds. Did Nathaniel float up to Constance, asking her help to solve his murder? I feel that stab of jealousy again.
Nathaniel seems surprised by the question. “Why, no. I’ve never had reason to reach her. She’s gone; that’s all there is to that. And you are here.”
But where is here — on the kalunga line between the living and the dead? And how do we cross that line?
I take Nathaniel’s hand again, feeling its misleading warmth. We look at each other, and I want to tell him to go on with his story — and I also want to lean in close to him — but then I hear my mother shouting, “Lori!” downstairs and I remember I was supposed to bring her the towels and help with the new guests. Before I can apologize to Nathaniel — or wonder if I can make up an excuse to Mom to stay in the attic — he’s given me a quick smile and disappeared. Gone, again. For now.
I SIT BY the creek at nighttime, feeling more alone than I could ever imagine, listening to the screeching of a whippoorwill in a tree. Gertie is off with her new Chihuahua boyfriend, and Nathaniel seems to appear when it suits him. I sigh. Maybe I should just go back to the inn and Google Nathaniel, now that I know his regiment.
A light goes on in the lawn-mower shed up the hill, north of the house. Who’d be in there this late? Probably Dad scrounging around for some tools to fix the latest money-pit disaster.Something about the garbage disposal backing up; he must be looking for the heavy-duty plunger.
I scoot up the
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