The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed (10 page)

I passed the box to him.

He looked it over and said, “It's rusted shut. I'll be right back.”

After he had dashed down to the cellar, Chris turned to me. “I can't believe you went to Phoebe's house without me!”

“What was I supposed to do? Drive over and get you?”

“You weren't supposed to do anything. It just makes me mad. Not at you. Just mad. I wish kids could drive!”

“Now that,” said my father, coming into the room with a handful of tools and bottles, “is perhaps the most frightening idea in what has already been a long, frightening night. Nine, go get some old newspapers, will you?”

We spread the papers on the table. Dad squirted some stuff into the hinges and the latch area of the box, then began tapping at them with a tiny pointed tool. He sticks his tongue out when he's concentrating; at one point he was concentrating so hard, I was afraid he was going to bite it off. Finally he whispered, “Come on, come on, that's the way!”

When the latch came free, he smiled and turned out his hands, like a waiter presenting a meal in a fancy restaurant. I could tell he felt smug about getting the box open. He was also saying that now it was my turn.

I opened the box. Inside lay a packet of letters, tied together with a faded red ribbon. Underneath the packet were some loose envelopes and some scraps of paper.

I took out the packet first.

My hands shook a little as I untied the ribbon. “They're all to Amanda Fletcher,” I said after a moment. “The address is the same as Phoebe's house.”

I took out the first letter and unfolded it. The paper was worn, the ink faded. But the handwriting was beautiful, an odd combination of cursive and printing. Some of the letters were formed in a way I had never seen before. Even so, they were clear and easy to read.

“An artist's handwriting,” said my father when I showed it to him.

“Read it aloud,” Chris said.

I cleared my throat and began. This is what it said:

March 23, 1918

Somewhere in France

My Dearest Amanda,

It is raining, and the entire world seems to be made of mud.

In the distance I hear the boom of cannons as the bombardment continues.

The trench in which I sit is seven feet deep and a yard wide. It runs north and south for nearly a quarter of a mile, our own little world below ground, where we lurk while we wait for the Hun to attack—or for the orders that will send us once more to attack him.

These trenches cut across most of northern Europe now, as if the devil himself had plowed the fields with a finger of fire.

A few feet from me lies a man who is dying. He was wounded this morning, but there has been no way to get him medical attention. The stub of his arm, which was blown away at the elbow, is bound with a strip torn from my shirt.

I find I like to tend the wounded, though I have little enough skill at it.

Oh, Amanda, you and Alida are ever on my mind. I long to see you, touch you, hear your voices. I need to remember goodness, for it seems to me now as if the entire world has gone bad. Or maybe only mad, for what I see all around me are good people doing bad things. As am I.

I do not know if this letter will reach you. I do not know if I will ever reach you. If I do not return, know that I love you, as I have, as I always will. Please kiss Alida for me, and tell her that her father loves her, too. More than he can say.

Your husband,

Cornelius

On the back of the second page of the letter were some sketches Cornelius Fletcher had made of the things he saw around him. They were pretty depressing.

The other letters in the packet were all fairly similar to the first one. But the loose papers in the box were very different. The most interesting was a long letter that looked a little like the rough drafts I write for school: lots of inkblots and crossed-out lines. It wasn't from Cornelius; it was from Amanda, to her sister Edith.

Here it is:

December 2, 1920

My Dearest Sister,

How can I find the words to tell you of the tragedy that has overtaken this house? As if the war, and the wounds Cornelius suffered, were not enough, so many new sorrows have come to us in the last month that I can hardly bear to write this. Yet you must know all, for if things here do not change, I may soon be forced to intrude on you and beg your charity.

I have so much to tell that I scarcely know where to begin. So I shall state the very worst first and then try to explain how all has happened.

Our beloved child, Alida, is dead.

Oh, Edith, how it costs me to write those words. For even now I do not want to admit that this is true, and writing it down somehow makes it more real, gives me less chance to pretend it was a dream. Yet if you are to understand my desperate circumstances I must tell you everything.

Here, then, is the story of our tragedy.

As you know, my husband returned from Europe a man much changed. Not only was he nearly crippled by the explosion that maimed his legs. He was changed in spirit. A man once so filled with joy, of such sunny disposition, he was now possessed of the darkest humor. I feel it was not only his physical wounds that caused this damage. In truth, he recognized that he was luckier than many, for unlike those men who could no longer earn their way, he could still paint, even if he could not stand for long periods of time. In these efforts he has had help from the Potter boy.

Though the projects themselves have not been to my liking, I felt they were of help to Cornelius. I hoped that by painting, he could cure the wounds the war had left on his soul, which were deeper and fiercer even than the wounds to his body.

So I watched with sorrow but said nothing as the brush that once gave shape to such sweetness and joy now painted only images that were dark, somber and tragic.

Of all things, only our dear Alida seemed to give Cornelius any joy during these dark days.

Toward the end of November my husband finished a picture he called “Early Harvest.” I know this work has greatness in it, but so filled is it with the evil of war that I can scarce stand to look at it.

No sooner was “Early Harvest” done than he began work on a far grander project, one that even now I shudder to remember, and will not describe to you.

“The Lost Masterpiece,” whispered Chris.

I looked up, nodded, and went back to reading the letter.

As if all this were not enough, he chose to hurl himself into the political arena—as I imagine you well know, since his drawings appeared in magazines all across the country.

I know that what he has shown in his work is true. But why, why, could he not have let someone else be the one to present that truth?

We fought about this often.

Late in November the influenza struck here, as it did in so many places. There was much panic, and you could see many people walking through the streets with handkerchiefs pressed against their faces to try to ward off the disease.

Sometimes I do believe that ill luck invites more ill luck to join it, for the sickness came to this house. Unwelcome visitor, after the darkness that had already descended upon us! I fell victim to it, as did our dear Alida.

Dr. Dillon phoned a prescription to the pharmacy. As there was no delivery immediately available, Cornelius decided to go for it himself. I lay in my bed, consumed with fever, and he came to me to whisper good-bye. Then he went to Alida's room. Desperately afraid that she would die before he returned, he bent over her bed and whispered, “I am going for medicine to make you well, my dearest. Wait for me.
Wait for me!
”

This I know because he told me of it afterward.

From my bed I could hear the thud of his crutches as he went down the stairs. Then the door closed, and he was gone.

Outside the wind howled, driving the rain against the windows. Alida moaned occasionally, as, I fear, did I, before I finally drifted into a feverish sleep.

I was awakened by a pounding on the front door. I opened my eyes and blinked. The room was light—very light, for during the night the rain had changed to snow, and now the brightness of the sun reflecting off it seemed to flood the room.

So much light for the darkest day of my life.

More pounding at the door. Trembling with fever—and with fear—I drew on my robe and made my way down the stairs. I wondered where Cornelius was and why he had not woken me when he came home.

More pounding. I reached the door and drew it open, leaning against it for support. However, even with the door to support me I could not stand against the terrible sight that greeted me, and I fell to the floor in a faint.

When I woke again, the image I had seen still burned in my brain. That image was of our neighbors from down the hill, Mr. Parker and Mr. Johnson. They stood side by side in my doorway, holding my husband between them. His head, bruised and bloody, lolled forward. His legs hung limply behind him.

Thank God for the kindness of neighbors. While Mr. Parker tended to Cornelius, Mr. Johnson helped me to a chair, where I sat, staring in horror at the sight before me.

“What happened?” I asked when I could finally find voice to speak. But my kindly neighbors did not know, for they had found my husband in this condition only a short time before. It was not until much later that Cornelius was able to tell me that he had been set upon by a gang of thugs who objected to his drawings—set upon, beaten, and left for dead.

Oh, sister, why are men so cruel? Who would beat a man near to death because they disagree with what he has to say?

“I tried to come back,” he whispered. “I tried, Amanda. I crawled all the way to the top of the hill. But I could not reach the lock. I could not open the gate. I could not pass the wall.”

Nor could he walk, even with his crutches, for his wounded legs had been frozen and were now without life at all.

Oh, sister, it was just as well right then, for in not being able to walk he was not able to climb the stairs. And so it was not he, poor broken man, who had to make the terrible discovery that our daughter had died while he lay freezing outside our gate, clutching her medicine to his chest.

This is a house of darkness. Cornelius has lost his legs—lost them to frostbite and the surgeon's knife. Far worse, he has lost, I fear, his sanity. It is not always so; he has moments when he is lucid. But at other times I know him to be quite mad.

This is why I must think of asking your charity, dear Edith. The truth is, I no longer feel safe here. Alida's spirit seems to haunt the house, though I do not think Cornelius knows this, for he has never been upstairs since that night. His thoughts are absorbed in plans for his horrifying grand project. And I cannot care for myself, or him, as well as I might—for it seems that I am once more with child.

Your loving sister,

Amanda Fletcher

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Hangman

None of us said anything for a few moments after I read this letter. I could see tears in my father's eyes.

Three letters remained in the pile. These were from Cornelius to Amanda; the first two had been sent to her in care of her sister in Pennsylvania. The first was very short:

January 12, 1921

My Dearest Amanda,

Please return to me.

Cornelius

The second was longer, but hard to read because some of the words were blurred where the ink had run and smeared, as if drops of water had fallen on the page. Raindrops? Tears? It was impossible to tell.

My Dearest Amanda,

How can I——you what——my heart. There is work——must do, a story only I——tell. I do not have the wo——show what is in me, only the power of my brush——as simple as a quarrel between us. It is something——something inside me that must be taken out, shown to others. I pray——work——to prevent it all from happening again.

Please come home to——miss you more than I can say. The work——gressing. I have fin——the section on the east——Start the next——soon.

Come home, come home.

Cornelius

The last letter was not in an envelope. It was simply folded up. It was very short. All it said was this:

Dear Amanda,

It is not finished. I cannot finish it. I am defea——

The last word ended with a blot of ink. There was nothing else on the page or in the box.

When we finished reading the letters, we were all quiet for a while. What could you say? It was all so sad, and there wasn't a thing we could do about it.

At least, not right then. But the fact that the ghosts were still hanging around indicated that maybe Chris and I
could
do something. What, I didn't know. But something.

“Probably the best place to start is with Phoebe Watson,” Chris said when we began to discuss it.

“But she's in the hospital.”

“That doesn't mean she can't have visitors. In fact, she'd probably like some. Why don't we take her the letters? They really belong to her anyway, and they would make a good way for us to start asking questions.”

That sounded like a good plan to me. So after school the next day Chris took a bus over to my house. We had some slopnuggets and milk, then put Cornelius Fletcher's metal box inside a brown bag and started for the hospital. The hospital is connected to the university, so it's an easy walk from my house.

It was a good day for a walk. The air had an October tang, and the sidewalks were littered with gold and scarlet leaves. When we were less than a block from the hospital, I heard a familiar voice say, “Are you being careful?”

“Jimmy!” I cried, spinning around. I was really glad to see him. “Jimmy, what do you know about Cornelius Fletcher?”

Jimmy's eyes went wide. “I hung him,” he said.

“You did what?” cried Chris.

“Don't be mad!” said Jimmy desperately. “They were all mad. But I only did what he wanted. I owed him that much!”