Ghost Soldier (7 page)

I tried to concentrate on fumbling through my duffel bag for my sweatshirt, but I couldn't help wondering. “What do you mean—out-of-timers?”

“I'm set in my time in Fort Stedman,” he explained. “Other people come and go, from different times: out-of-timers. They see the fort, and they sometimes even pause as if they sense the battle, but they are not part of my time. You're an out-of-timer, but you were able to witness the battle. You're not like the others.”

I shivered as the terror of the battle flashed across my mind. I quickly pulled the sweatshirt on and tucked my hands inside its baggy sleeves.

The ghost looked at the rainbow-striped logo on the front of the shirt and laughed a little uneasily. “That's a funny-colored apple,” he said.

How could you explain an Apple computer to a ghost from 1865? I didn't bother trying. I just kicked off my running shoes and climbed into bed. I didn't think he'd hurt me, and I had to do something to get warm. Besides, sleeping would be a good way to get away from him.

In a sudden gust of icy air, the dinosaur wind chime loudly clattered against the glass windowpane. “What are these creatures?” the ghost asked. “Dragons?”

“Dinosaurs,” I muttered sleepily, “and computers. You're the out-of-timer, Richeson.”

I slipped my hands out of the sweatshirt sleeves long enough to pull the dinosaur quilt up as high as I could, then stuck my head under the pillow, hoping to muffle his response. If he made one, I didn't hear it.

Huddling under the covers, I drew my knees up to my chest, trying to hang on to every degree of heat I could. My head ached from the bitter orange tang nobody else could smell, and my eyes felt dry and gritty. I twisted in Carleton's extra bed, tugging the dinosaur quilt closer around me, but I couldn't seem to get warm.

I stand in bone-chilling water and my running shoes are no protection at all. I wish I had my snow boots. First it snows, then it sleets, and then it rains. I play cribbage on a handmade board under a plank roof while the sleet hammers on the boards above my head—which feels weird, because I've never played cribbage in my life. It's one of those games you hear about that only old people play. But now I know all the moves.

I shuffle a deck of playing cards, the stiffness all worn out of them and the faces softened and rubbed to the point where I can hardly see the difference between diamonds and hearts in the smoky oil light. I listen to distant voices—not ghosts—real voices, reading poetry and novels of gallant soldiers and ladyloves left at home. And always in the background, I hear the roar of cannon and smell the smoke.

Sometimes I stand ankle-deep in icy water, hoisting a heavy shovel full of frozen dirt. Sometimes I march, my numbed feet stamping the ground in time with the other soldiers. In between moments of snowy camaraderie with the others, I see glimpses of a farmhouse with a neat front lawn and beds of bright flowers circling the wide veranda of the freshly painted house—white walls, with a dark green door and matching green shutters at the windows. I hear laughter—a girl's laughter. And I hear a father's voice—stern, but laughing, too. I don't hear a mother's voice, though. I feel something damp on my cheek and wonder if I'm crying because my mother's gone, even in my dreams.

“Why did you sleep with your clothes on?”

I blinked at the daylight, then quickly looked around for the ghost. Carleton was the only one in the room, sitting cross-legged on his bed and squeezing his red stuffed tyrannosaurus. “You're all wrinkled,” he added.

I looked down at my sweatshirt and jeans. He was right—they made me look like a prune.

Feeling a lump near the end of the bed, I pulled the squashed green stegosaurus out from underneath the covers (how in the world did it get down there?), climbed out of bed, and stumbled toward the bathroom. I couldn't believe I hadn't woken up in time to run.

I could go out and run now, but I felt too exhausted. It was as if I'd lived a whole life in the night—someone else's life, in a farmhouse, with a sister who laughed. I didn't know where the snow and the cribbage boards and the card games fit into that life. I didn't even know whose life it was. Could the ghost haunt my dreams now?

*   *   *

There was no sign of the Hambricks when I got downstairs and the van had disappeared—maybe they all went to church. There was also no sign of Dad, and I didn't want to look for him. I was afraid I'd find out he'd gone with them. I made a fresh peanut butter and marmalade sandwich for breakfast and headed out onto the porch.

The ghost was standing in the backyard, floating just above the patch of poison ivy. “This yard needs tending if you expect to put in any crops,” he said, his tone disapproving. “Is this what you meant when you said you needed help also?”

I dropped my sandwich and stumbled back inside, but the ghost was suddenly beside me in the hallway.

“Red—listen to me. I know you can hear me. I need to know about my family. You can understand that, can't you? All I need is a little help—then you can forget you ever saw me.”

I understood—but how could I help him? I headed into the kitchen and was surprised to see Nicole at the refrigerator, pouring herself a glass of apple juice.

“What is this, return of the living dead?” she asked, looking me over as she sipped her juice.

A brisk breeze suddenly swirled around the wind chimes, setting the butterflies and hummingbirds pealing at full volume. Nicole almost dropped her glass.

“Make it stop!” she shouted.

I swiped my hand at the chimes, tangling them, then jerked the window down. The racket level dropped as if I'd hit the volume control on a remote.

I turned and saw tears in Nicole's eyes.

“So what's with all the wind chimes?” I asked, looking away.

She set the glass down and swiped at her eyes. “Mom … always liked them,” she said softly. “She told me she liked the precision of the notes in the wind and the fun shapes the chimes come in. Daddy knew it, and he'd look for new chimes he thought would make her smile. We'd go together to flea markets or novelty stores, and he'd see something and show it to me. ‘Do you think Mom would like this one?' he'd ask. Then he'd buy it for her.”

Her voice quavered, and Nicole picked up the glass and took a long drink. “After he died, Mom and I were going through the things in his workshop, and we found all these boxes of chimes—more than a dozen—that he hadn't even given her yet. She sat down on a stool and cried. Then she hung the chimes up—everywhere. I hate them! I wouldn't let her hang any of them out on the porch, because that's my place to sit. But she's put them everywhere else.”

She glanced at me, then quickly looked away. “Having them all up means he's never coming back,” she said.

I didn't know how to tell her I knew just what she meant. I searched the entire house after Mom left, thinking she must have left something for me—an explanation, a birthday present for my tenth birthday. Something. I didn't see anything at all, so I thought she must be coming back right away.

I guess finding all those wind chimes made Mrs. Hambrick feel better. Maybe she knew how much her husband had loved her. He meant to stay around long enough to give each box of chimes to her. But it seemed to make Nicole feel worse. Even if he hadn't meant to leave, her father was lost for good.

But I didn't know how to say any of that, and Nicole just muttered, “It's freezing in here.” She grabbed her glass and walked out of the kitchen.

“It's hard to lose someone you love,” the ghost said quietly, and I jumped, not realizing he was still there. “I thought my heart would never mend from losing my mother. And when I realized my sister was gone, and everyone else in my family, I knew I could never rest until I found them.”

We'd both lost the people we loved best in our families. If things had been different, maybe we could have been friends. But how could I be friends with a ghost soldier who had somehow dragged me through the window into his battle—and his death?

I tried to take a deep breath, but the icy air hurt my throat. “I'm really sorry about your sister and your mother, but I just can't help you. Please—can't you leave me alone?”

He didn't answer in words. There was just a whirl of cold air that wrapped itself around me.

It was a long afternoon. If I sat on the porch swing, the ghost sat above the railing and complained about the overgrown yard. If I sat indoors, the ghost set the nearest of the wind chimes tinkling like crazy. And I'd slept so long, I couldn't hide under the covers and escape from it all that way.

What if I really was supposed to help him? What if that was why I had come to North Carolina? And what if I failed? Maybe that's why Mom left me—because I was scared to try things.

Mom was always talking about new things she wanted to try, like flying an airplane. “Wouldn't it be wonderful to fly free up in the sky? Dipping and soaring all alone?” I thought it sounded exciting, but I liked hearing her talk about doing it more than I liked the idea of doing it myself. Mom would have welcomed the ghost. I felt ashamed to admit it, but I was scared of getting too close to that icy cold, scared of the minié balls whistling over my head and the bayonet flashing in the sun. I was scared of trying to help him, scared that I wouldn't be able to. I wished I wasn't special enough to see ghosts. But that didn't make him go away.

*   *   *

Mrs. Hambrick, Carleton, and Dad had gone to church. Dad never went to church at home. I felt kind of jealous that he'd gone with the Hambricks and hadn't taken me.

They had Sunday dinner in the middle of the afternoon, and Dad told me to help Nicole and Carleton set the dining room table. Nicole was spreading a lacy tablecloth over the large polished oak table when I got there.

“Here,” Nicole told me. “Follow behind and put the glasses out. They're just everyday ones, so it won't matter if you drop one.” She balanced a stack of dishes with delicate blue and gold patterns, and Carleton lugged an armload of silverware.

I followed Nicole, putting glasses out at the right-hand corner of each place setting she laid down, with Carleton behind me, carefully positioning the knives and forks and spoons.

The ghost stood at the end of the table, glaring at me. “You can't ignore me forever,” he said, his voice fierce, as if he were warning me.

I stared at the table settings, wishing I wasn't afraid and could just exorcise him or something. Then he moved suddenly, swooping behind Carleton.

“Hey!” the kid cried, dropping the silverware with a clatter. “That's cold!”

The ghost stared at me, and I looked away, trying to ignore my shaking hand as I put a glass at the place Nicole had just set.

Darting suddenly, the ghost appeared on the far side of me, beside Nicole. She shrieked, and the last dishes crashed to the table.

“What is it?” Mrs. Hambrick cried, running into the dining room. “Nicole—how could you?”

The bottom plate was fine, but the top one was cracked. Nicole looked at it, shaking her head, her eyes wide. Beyond her, the ghost looked at me.

“I didn't do anything!” Nicole told her. “There was this gust of cold air and—and—the plates suddenly turned cold. I mean—they felt like they'd just come out of the freezer or something! My hands felt numb, and I guess I just couldn't hold the plates. I didn't mean to!” She looked at me sharply. “Maybe
he
did something. I never broke anything before!”

Mrs. Hambrick sighed. “Don't blame someone else to excuse yourself, Nicole.”

“But—but—” Nicole spluttered. I just stood there holding the glasses. I couldn't tell them I was being haunted. Who'd believe me? But I felt bad. In a way, I guess it was my fault she'd cracked the plate.

Suddenly, the ghost turned and headed for the window. The sets of wind chimes hanging there exploded into noise, and Mrs. Hambrick jumped.

“What's going on?” Dad asked, appearing in the doorway wearing oven mitts. “Why's it so cold in here?”

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Hambrick said, unsteadily. “A freak wind, I suppose.” She glanced at me uneasily, then went into the kitchen with Nicole. I just stood there clutching the glasses, waiting for the ghost to swoop over me.

He faced me, his black eyes pools of sadness. “I can't just go back to Fort Stedman and pretend I didn't find you. I've been waiting for so long that my life before seems nothing but a dream, and the waiting is the only thing real. I have to tell you my story—and you have to listen.”

Part of me wanted to say okay, I'd do it. I'd thought seeing ghosts was wonderful, but having them need me to help them was frightening. I put down the last glasses and headed to the kitchen.

The ghost called after me. “I'll be waiting for you, Alexander.”

Chapter Seven

W
HEN
R
ICHESON
C
AME
M
ARCHING
H
OME

It was still light when I carried my recorder and sheet music out to the porch after we cleaned up from supper. It had been a slow meal, with lots of food I pushed around on my plate in between passing serving bowls. I could barely eat the country ham. It tasted salty and my mouth felt too dry. Dad and Mrs. Hambrick were talking about some computer company in a place called Research Triangle Park, and Carleton chattered away at Nicole. She was still steamed about the cracked plate, and I had to be extra careful myself, helping her load the dishwasher, because my hands were shaking. All I could think of was the ghost waiting for me.

I took my recorder so I'd have an excuse to go off alone, but I didn't need one. Dad and Mrs. Hambrick were sitting in the living room together, and nobody asked me where I was going. The smell of oranges drenched the porch when I stepped outside, and the ghost floated a little above the porch rail, as if he were sitting there. I wanted to tell him okay, I'd listen, but I couldn't frame the words.