The Ghost Belonged to Me (14 page)

One of the diggers threw up half a spadeful of dirt almost at Mrs. Van Deeter's feet. Sharper-eyed than all the rest, she cried out, “Stop!” Then she pointed a gloved finger and said, “Examine that clod!”

Uncle Miles bent down and scooped up the damp clay. Something was stuck in it and glittered. He crumbled the dirt away, and his spectacles slipped down his sweaty nose as he studied the object, cupped out of general view.

Every eye was on him when he held the thing up. I'd never seen his hand tremble, but it was unsteady then. He raised it higher and higher, like Father Ludlow giving a benediction. The sun caught the little oval in his hand.

It was a brooch, the one that belonged to Inez, and the glass on it was smooth and unclouded. Beneath it were the little flowers fashioned out of human hair.

I squinted up at it there, held against the sky in Uncle Miles's gnarled old hand. And it was the same brooch I had seen by moonlight in the loft. The tears came to my eyes, possibly because of trying to look into the sun. I remembered Inez's words about the brooch,
This is all he left me. And this is how you will know me.

One of the reporters yelled out, “Bingo!” And the rest of them scratched notes in their pads. Father Ludlow worked his way to the front circle and cried out, “The lost is found; let us pray!” But then G. K. Rafferty, the motorman, muscled forward and called out, “Keep a-diggin'!” There was a pounding of feet approaching across the gravel, which I took to be the class deserting Miss Winkler.

The soil was flying up in smaller clods now, and the gravediggers' heads were down level with the yard. There were sweat stains spreading on their shirts. The brooch was closed in Uncle Miles's fist, and he stared down into the pit as stern and unflinching as if he was looking into his own grave.

Then both the diggers stood up and thrust their spades aside. One of them called for a broom, and presently it was passed to them over the heads of the crowd. People climbed higher on the piles of dirt, holding their hats and bending double, trying to see past the laborers.

One of them dropped to his knees to scoop back the dirt while the other manned the broom. Then somebody above them gasped and pointed. I didn't mean to look but did. There was a flash of white beneath the broom, and bone by bone a skeletal hand lay bare, flush with the yellow clay.

“There she is,” a voice came, and echoed back through the pushing crowd. When more of the dirt was cleaned away, the bones of the hand were seen to be resting on a small skull. It looked no bigger than a squirrel's, but I knew it was Trixie.

A reporter held a camera out over the pit and squeezed the bulb. Sunlight flooded the grave like a halo as the gravediggers stood back. Then I cut and ran.

 

 

 

 

W
hen I got as far as the back step, wondering if I was sick or only sorry, a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I was turned around to face an oversized man staring down at me from a great height. How he had blended into the crowd I did not know. He wore a white linen suit, a string tie, and a large Panama hat. His face under it was the size and color of a sugar-cured ham.

“As you are makin' for the house,” he said, “I take it you are the Armsworth boy.” I nodded at that. “I can see you are in haste, and I can divine why,” he said. His straw hat bobbed in agreement. “To look upon the bare bones of a sweet soul with whom you have evidently communicated not many days past is a natural shock, hardly an experience suitable to be shared with curious strangers.”

That was a good way of putting it, coming though it did from one of the curious strangers. “I am from a part of the world where such experiences as yours are treated with more understandin'. Permit me to introduce myself-Mortimer Brulatour of New Orleans. I confess I too am a newspaper man, but trust I possess finer sensitivities than my Northern brethren.

“I am as keen after a story as any of them, but am up here on an errand of compassion besides.” He leaned nearer and looked confidential. “It is my plan to personally accompany the bones—remains of Mademoiselle Dumaine back to the New Orleans cemetery of her ancestors and forebears.

“As this expedition is financed by my newspaper, I am compelled to find in the somber journey a story to be featured by the New Orleans
Delta Daily
.

“Though there is a lively interest in the spirit world down home, stories like this one do not crop up two for a penny. And so I will be in your debt if you will grant me an exclusive interview. I am prepared to make it worth your while as I have already laid out a sum of money to one of your little neighbor girls to be given an exclusive tour through the barn. Are the pair of you in cahoots?”

I was marveling at the honeyed tongue of this Brulatour fellow when suddenly a rumbling from the direction of Jake's hearse caused him to jerk around and narrow his eyes.

Brulatour made off around the corner of the house, and I followed. The back doors of the hearse were standing open, and Jake was pulling out a polished-wood box. It was not as large as a coffin or the shape of one. It appeared to be a somewhat superior-type packing crate, fitted up with bronze handles. Jake had all he could do to manage it by himself as he staggered past us.

“One moment, my good man!” Mortimer Brulatour said, and Jake replied that he had no time because he had to collect the deceased. “When you have done so,” Brulatour said, “kindly deliver her without delay to the depot, since I will be catching the 4:30 train.”

Jake thumped his burden down on the grass and turned to confront the stranger. Though Jake has a farmer's face, his hands are as white and smooth as milk. He planted these hands on his hips and said grimly, “I don't know as we have met.”

“Mortimer Brulatour of the New Orleans
Delta Daily
. I have undertaken to accompany the body south.”

“I do the undertaking here,” said Jake, “and you do not figure anywhere in my plans.”

“Now see here,” Brulatour replied on a rising note, “the city of Miss Dumaine's birth has some claims upon her, and as a representative of that city, I—”

“You are off your turf now, mister. The body will lie in my funeral parlor for as many days as I see fit so that the public can come and pay their respects. A good many people have not turned out today, thinking there would be nothing to it. But they'll have their chance to mourn the departed in my first-class establishment. The lid will be shut, of course, but I plan some floral offerings and organ music. You go about your business, and I'll go about mine.”

Their voices carried across the yard. Several people who had stared their fill at the grave drifted over in search of fresh diversion. They made another circle around Jake and Brulatour, who looked to be squaring off for a fight.

Brulatour's face was shading to purple. “I have no doubt that such a public display would benefit your business no end. However, I have a deadline to comply with and can't accommodate you.”

Jake took a step closer. “You can accommodate me and yourself by being on the 4:30 train. And I will ship the deceased at a later date in my own good time.”

“I will have justice,” Brulatour bawled, “even in this god-forsaken crossroads village and—”

“WHO IN THE DAMMIT TO HELL IS SQUABBLIN' OVER THAT GIRL'S BONES LIKE A PAIR OF STARVED COYOTES?” Uncle Miles pushed his way up to the front of the crowd and glared.

“Now what?” Brulatour asked, exasperated. “Who is this rustic?”

Uncle Miles ignored him and turned on Jake. “Listen, McCulloch, that little gal was robbed of her fortune by Thibodaux fifty years ago. I'm here to see you don't rob her of her dignity now. This here is one time you don't cash in on the dead.” Jake glanced nervously around at the gathering crowd of future clients and looked mortified.

“Quite right,” said Brulatour. “My sentiments exac—”

“And as for you,” Uncle Miles jerked around, “you got no stake in the matter whatsoever.” He smacked his eighty-five-year-old hands together like he might stretch Brulatour out on the lawn.

“You see this boy here?” he said, jabbing a finger toward me. “Me and him is the Alpha and Omega of this whole business. I raised that hitchin' post over Inez Dumaine in 1861 and this boy communed with her spirit here lately. If anybody is going to see her safely to her restin' place, it'll be him and me, which is what we're goin' to do.”

And which is what we did, though I had not foreseen the possibility of making a trip to New Orleans with Uncle Miles, and I doubt if he'd thought of it before that moment himself. In the midst of the listening throng, I saw Blossom Culp watching, her eyes as black as ebony and both ears cocked.

“Out of the question!” Mother said from the sidelines. She'd stepped up in time to hear Uncle Miles's closing remarks. “Alexander will not be accompanying you to New Orleans or any other place, Uncle Miles. What a harebrained idea!”

“Surely it is time the boy saw something of the world.” The voice came from someone standing just behind Mother.

“I never heard such a crazy notion,” Mother said, turning to see the speaker was Mrs. Van Deeter. “Oh, do you really think so? Perhaps you're right.”

 

 

That's how Uncle Miles and I happened to be down at the depot that very day to catch the 4:30 train. Jake McCulloch washed his hands of the whole affair. So the box containing the bones of Inez and Trixie rode on the seat beside the Van Deeters' chauffeur. Mrs. Van Deeter shared the back seat of the Cadillac with Mother, who was glad enough to be seen driving all the way across town in such style and company. Dad took me in the Mercer, and Lucille and Lowell were on the back seat together.

Lowell was still covering the story, but every time I glimpsed behind, he and Lucille were sitting closer. And whispering. It was somewhat disgusting but a big improvement over Tom Hackett.

“You are to pay your own way on this trip, Alexander,” Dad explained to me. He'd given me two ten-dollar bills to pin into my underwear and a pocketful of change. “And keep your eye on Uncle Miles. Since he won't act his age, you'll have to be grown-up enough for two.”

 

 

 

 

U
ncle Miles sat upright in the day coach, and I sat across from him, looking out at the bean fields and black earth that gave way to the rocky yellow land of the southern part of the state.

When the conductor came through to look at our tickets, he told us we'd have to change at Carbondale for the Illinois Central's
Panama Limited
. Uncle Miles tried to look like he knew that already, though if he'd ever been over this route, I figured he'd be lecturing me on it. “We got a box in the baggage car ahead ridin' on our tickets,” he told the conductor who said it would be shifted at Carbondale and not to worry about it.

Uncle Miles replied, “I will worry about it as long as it's my responsibility. There's a feller back in the parlor car—a big, red-necked rebel, very mouthy, who will steal that box if he has half a chance.”

The conductor found that somewhat humorous. He looked Uncle Miles over, noting he wore an old blue suit under a pair of overalls, which was his complete traveling outfit. “So you reckon to be robbed by a parlor-car passenger. What are you shipping, a trunk full of gold-mine shares?”

“No,” said Uncle Miles, squinting at him, “a dead body.” The conductor moved on.

A candy butcher came through next, selling oddments off a tray. “Never buy eats on a train, Alexander,” Uncle Miles said. “They charge two prices. I had some sandwiches made up which will see us through.” He patted his tool kit that doubled as a valise. “I reckon your dad give you money, but it isn't for throwin' around.”

It was nearly dark when we pulled in at Carbondale. “We're gettin' into foreign parts now,” he said. “They call this end of the state Little Egypt, and they'd as soon cut your throat as to look at you. It's rough territory.”

The
Panama Limited
was waiting for our train, and quite a number of passengers crossed the platform to get on it. I recognized Brulatour by his white suit, skipping across from one parlor car to another. The box with Inez was already on a baggage cart, and Uncle Miles watched until it was put aboard. He told me to skin on up into the train and stake out a pair of facing seats. And that was how I happened to be looking out the window in time to see a surprising sight.

Just as the platform cleared of passengers, somebody jumped down out of the baggage car of the Bluff City train and rocketed across to the
Panama Limited
. In the dimness I saw it was Blossom Culp, swinging a bundle of her possessions tied up in a bandanna.

Then the platform was empty but for the trunk handlers who were rolling the carts away. And I knew Blossom had transferred to the New Orleans train the same as we had, only quicker. I'd told her already that she's everywhere at once, and she seemed bent on proving the point.

When I woke up next morning, palm trees were flashing past the train window, like the fluttering pages of a Sunday school paper. I'd slept with my feet out in the aisle and had sweated through my knicker suit. Uncle Miles was sitting up, very alert, but his teeth were out. “State of Mississippi,” he managed to say, “stinkin' hot and dirt poor.” The plush on the seat prickled something fierce, and with a sandwich in my pocket I set off to the washroom. When I was done in there, I kept walking through the train.

I stumbled along through four coaches and the dining car, and nobody stopped me. There were caged-off parts to the baggage car, but not locked up. I counted four coffins among the jumble of trunks before I finally spied the bronze handles on Inez's box. And unless I'd been having one of my visions back on the Carbondale platform, I figured Blossom was not far off in this traveling graveyard.