Being Dead (14 page)

Someone tapped at the still-closed shutter. "
Ssst,
Emily," Mary hissed. "Drake's coming. Better get a move on."

John stood, with that scared look, but didn't disappear.

Emily got rid of her own tears. "Yes. Almost ready," she lied. How could she have forgotten the Harvest Festival? Hayrides in the meadow, minuteman maneuvers on the green, apple bobbing in the town square. All sorts of extra programs. Lots of visitors before the closedown for the season. Mr. Drake would be semihysterical all weekend and breathing down everybody's neck.

They could hear Mary's footsteps hurrying down the path as she continued on her way.

"Right," John said to Emily. "What needs doing?"

"Mugs out," Emily said, "cider poured, shutters opened ... Oh, damn!" She'd nearly tripped over a box that one of the workers had brought in some time before she arrived.

John had already gone behind the bar and was getting the mugs. "What?"

"Snickerdoodles."

He gave her a blank look.

"They're these colonial cookies—"

"I know what they are," he said, sounding exasperated.

"I'm supposed to make some." She started pulling supplies out of the box: ingredients, bowls, cooking utensils. The cider was provided year-round; the snickerdoodles only for special occasions, like Harvest Festival Weekend.

"This is an
inn,
" John objected.

"Yes, but we don't have a license from New York State to serve alcohol, so we serve cider and snickerdoodles instead."

"'New York
State'?
" he repeated in amazement.

She shook her head, indicating there was no time to explain, and started measuring out the sugar.

John opened the shutters, started the cider heating, and tossed a handful of cinnamon onto the fire, which made the tavern smell as though she'd been baking for an hour. She smiled at him, and he blew her a kiss.

A moment later, as the first tourist started to push open the door, he was gone.

"Why are the people who come here dressed so oddly?" John asked.

Emily, who was just closing the door behind the day's last sightseers, jumped.

"I'm sorry," he said, seeing her startle. He went to put his hand on her shoulder, then yanked it away as cold seeped between them. "I'm sorry," he said again. Getting that panicked look in his eyes. Again.

"It's all right," she assured him, though she imagined this was what advanced frostbite felt like, and she had to work to keep the pain off her face. Doubly so now. Her head had been throbbing all afternoon from the stress of cooking, and answering the same questions over and over, and remembering to smile. "John. It's all right." She had to fight her own inclination to offer a comforting hand. "John, I want to try something." She opened the tavern door. "Can you leave this building?"

"I don't know." He went out onto the stoop. Then, looking back at her, he stepped onto the gravel.

Almost giddy with relief, Emily followed; and they started down the walkway, which circled the commons, away from the dark woods whose shadows grew longer daily with the approach of winter.

John shook his head in amazement. "It's so changed. These buildings weren't here."

That was encouraging. "I thought you couldn't remember the Ballston Spa Tavern."

"I"—he realized what he was saying—"can't." He got that faraway look he sometimes did, as though he was listening to internal voices, or was on the verge of remembering something. "No," he said, slowly. "I
do.
Samuel..."

"Who?"

Finally he met her eyes again. "My brother, Samuel, and I. We came to Ballston Spa to deliver a horse my father had sold to a man named Darius Bartlett. Why couldn't I remember that before?"

"I don't know," Emily said. "Did you deliver the horse?"

He thought about it "Yes "

"And then what?"

Again the hesitation. But this time John shook his head.

"Did you meet Bardett at the tavern?"

Just when she was about to give up, he said, "No. At his house."

Robbery?
she wondered. Had Bardett killed him for die horse? She asked, "Did he—"

"We left the house," John interrupted her, but he was speaking slowly again, as though having trouble reconstructing what had happened.

"And came..." she prompted, "to the tavern?"

He bit his lip and shook his head. "I don't remember."

"It seems as though whatever happened must have—"

"I don't remember." He had stopped and now closed his eyes as though in pain.

"What is it? John?"

He had taken a step back. His hand closed convulsively at the opening of his shirt, over where his heart would be. If ghosts had hearts.

"John?" She was getting scared now. "It's all right," she said. "It's not important. You don't have to remember."

"I can't go any farther," he whispered.

She saw that they were almost at the covered bridge, which led out of the exhibition area of the museum, away from the old buildings, toward the modern. "All right," she told him. "We'll go back."

"I can't"—he took another step back—"go any..."—and another.

"John-"

He dissolved.

"—don't go," she finished in a whisper. She realized that her headache must have gone, because now it was suddenly back.

Mary, coming up the path from the log house, said, "Zoo day, huh? See you tomorrow."

Emily watched as Mary walked through the bridge and cut across die green toward the gift shop. She hadn't seen him.

She hadn't seen him.

Silently Emily followed, and it wasn't until halfway through dinner that she remembered she hadn't banked die fire in the tavern, or cleaned up at all.

After thinking that she would never fell asleep, Emily was dreaming about John Mellender. On one level she knew she was asleep. She replayed moments with him over and over, recapturing looks, nuances: the slight catch in his voice when he stepped away from her that first time, apologizing for frightening her; the shy smile; die way he always seemed to be hugging himself for warmth; glancing up, for the briefest moment, before saying, "I think that I may have died." She lingered, consciously, unable to let it rest.

But on another level it seemed so real—so very real. So that when she started to fantasize, when she started to embroider what had happened and take it a step further, she could feel her heart quicken, her breath catch. She imagined his warm breath as he came close, closer than he had ever really come. His lips touched hers, gently, lovingly. He caressed her hair, her shoulders. He told her she was beautiful, which she knew she was not. He told her he loved her, which ... Oh, God. She replayed the smile, the fleeting glance. Which maybe...

Maybe.

His breath quickened to match hers. She felt his heart beating as he held her, kissed her neck. She flung her arms around him and clung to him.

And then she awakened.

Her father, or her mother, snored softly in the next room. The hall clock ticked. A car passed outside.

Emily held herself very still, forcing herself not to make a sound.
How stupid,
she thought. She was
dying.
What was she doing falling in love?
Obviously
this relationship had no future.

And he was already dead.

That in itself, she told herself as she got up to get some medicine for her headache, probably pretty much ruled out a traditional church wedding.

Sunday morning.

The last day the museum would be open until spring.

Her last chance to see John Mellender.

At breakfast her father said, "Your mother and I think you should stay home today."

Her mother had the sense not to be in the room at the time.

"Why?" Emily demanded.

"We think maybe you're working a bit too hard, getting a bit overtired."

"No," Emily said.

"All the same." Her father sipped his coffee as though that had settled that.

"I want to go to work," Emily said. "It's all I have."

"Nonsense," her father said. "You have us. You have your school friends. Take the day off. Relax."

"I
need
to go to work today."

Her father frowned. She knew he hated confrontation. He said, "Surely they can get along without you."

"Of course they can get along without me," she said, mentally adding,
They'll have to get along without me in the spring.
But she didn't say anything about leaving them short-staffed. Instead she said, "This is something I need to do for myself. To give myself a sense of completeness, of closure." Support group was always good for psychobabble.

"It's just, you get so caught up in it," her father said, but he was weakening, she could tell. "Your mother says that yesterday you came out to the parking lot without your jacket."

"I was talking to somebody and I forgot," she explained. "I wasn't cold until Mom started telling me how cold it was. Please drive me there."

She saw her father glance upward—asking for divine advice or gauging if Emily's mother was about to come downstairs and demand to know why her orders were being questioned. He sighed, and she knew she had won one more day with John.

Somebody had taken care of both the hearth and the cleaning, Emily noted guiltily. Had to have been Norm. Poor overworked, underappreciated Norm. Well, she appreciated him, but the board of trustees didn't She hid her winter coat behind the bar, with the jacket she had left there yesterday.

"John," she called.

"Emily." He appeared out of nowhere.

"Are you all right?" she asked, which had to be the world's dumbest question. He was, after all, two hundred years dead. "What happened yesterday?" she asked.

He shook his head, rubbing his arms as though for warmth. It was freezing in here today. Norm hadn't been in yet, and this morning there had been a sprinkling of frost on the ground of the common. Emily gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering.

John leaned against the bar. He had gone from rubbing his arms to resting his hand at his open-necked shirt—to the place where a live man's heart would be. He saw her watching and seemed to suddenly become aware of what he was doing. He lowered his hand. Slowly.

Even clenching her teeth couldn't get them to stop chattering now.

He met her eyes. "I remember how I died."

Did she want to hear this?

"How?" she asked, so softly he might not have even heard but only guessed from the movement of her lips.

He looked down at his hand again. "I was shot." He closed his eyes and shivered. In a moment he'd regained control and shrugged as though apologizing for his weakness. His hand twitched once as he let it drop to his side.

Emily licked her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She wanted so much to take him into her arms. Her eyes filled with tears. -

"Don't cry," he said. "It was a long time ago." He forced a smile. "Even if I'm only just now finding out about it."

"Stupid war," she said. She'd never before thought of the American Revolution as being stupid, but that's just what it was.

John's eyes grew wide. "There was a war?"

"I thought..." But then she remembered what a loose confederation the colonies had been in 1775, and how slowly news would travel, especially to the smaller towns and villages.

John gave a low whistle. Unconsciously his hand went back to his chest as he paced the room. He glanced up sharply. "With the King?" he asked. "That's what you mean: a war of independence?"

She nodded.

"There was talk ... I never thought ... Who won?"

"Uh, we did. The colonies."

He nodded, biting his lip. "I don't think this had anything to do with that," he said.

"You weren't a soldier?"

"Lord, no!"

"Not involved with politics?"

He shook his head.

"What about this man Bartlett you mentioned yesterday?"

"I don't think he was the one "

She waited for him to say something else.

"I remember ... Samuel and I came here after delivering the horse." He paused, looking at the door. "I ... opened the door..." He shuddered. Turned away. "There was a man. Sitting..."—he indicated a specific spot—"here. I remember a gun..." He was clutching his heart; his breathing was loud and ragged. "The door opened. I ... The door opened—"

Someone kicked in the door.

Emily took in a breath halfway between gasp and scream.

"Sorry," Norm said. He was lugging in her supplies for the day's snickerdoodles and cider. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Now Emily had
her
hand to
her
heart. There was no sign of John. "Sorry about yesterday," she managed to say. "I forgot."

"That's okay," Norm said, too polite to ask how anybody could possibly forget something like putting out the fire. "Except..."

"What?" Emily pulled her shawl tighter, but that didn't stop the shivering. "Norm?"

"Drake was making the rounds with me."

Emily winced. "Mad?"

From Norm's expression,
mad
didn't begin to cover it. "He wants you to work the log cabin today with Barb. Mary'll be here."

"The log cabin!" Emily cried. She hated that. Spinning, she kept getting flax up her nose, and she wasn't good enough at weaving to keep from smacking the back of her hand on the loom. Besides, it was a two-person demonstration and she wouldn't have a minute to herself. "Norm!"

"Sorry." Not that it was his fault. "Drake said..."

"Drake said
what?
" she demanded when Norm hesitated.

Norm had obviously reconsidered, and he shrugged. "Well, you know Drake. Nothing important"

"Drake said what?"

Norm shrugged again and wouldn't meet her eyes. "Mary's more reliable. And Barb'll keep you on your toes at the log cabin. Sorry."

Emily stomped out of the tavern, never pausing for her jacket or coat.

Mary, just coming up the path, smiled apologetically, then said, "My gosh, Emily! Don't you have a coat? It's supposed to snow today."

Emily ignored her, though it was hardly Mary's fault Damn Drake. Today was the last day. Damn it For once she wanted to scream out her news:
I'm dying, dammit! Humor me!