Ghost Letters (15 page)

“There once was a teacher named Bentnick,

Whose behavior was more than eccentric.

When his name was announced,

Bentnick pronounced:

‘I'm a few sandwiches short of a picnic!' ”

“They must have got angry,” said Gil, “but writing limericks still doesn't seem serious enough to get you thrown out of school. I mean, it's not something like plagiarism, is it?”

Prescott glanced up at his grandson with a sympathetic expression.

“Maybe not. But I suppose there are worse things than plagiarism too,” he said. “What made you do it?”

Gil shook his head, slurping up a forkful of spaghetti before answering.

“I hate writing,” he said. “I know what I did was wrong, but I just couldn't write a poem of my own.”

“Stealing words isn't quite like stealing money,” Prescott said. “But it's still cheating.”

“Yeah,” said Gil. “I guess I learned my lesson.”

“Why do you hate writing?” Prescott asked.

“It's hard. Whatever I write always sounds stupid.” Gil shoved his plate aside impatiently. “I mean, for you it must be easy being a writer. But for me, every word I write is painful, like squeezing a zit.”

Prescott pointed a finger at Gil and smiled. “If you wrote down what you just said, it would be a great sentence. Squeezing zits is a lot like writing, even for those of us who don't have acne anymore.”

“Yeah, but …” Gil shook his head in frustration. “It takes so
long to write a whole page. Before I even start, it feels as if I'll never get to the end. And then the teachers make us rewrite everything, which is even worse.”

“I know what you mean,” said Prescott, “but there's a lot of satisfaction in filling a page and knowing those words are yours and nobody else's.”

“Maybe,” said Gil.

“Poetry is even harder than prose,” said Prescott.

“Because you've got to make it rhyme and stuff?” Gil asked.

“Partly that, but you've also got to use fewer words and try to say twice as much in half the space,” Prescott explained. He'd finished most of his meal but there was still some food left on his plate. “I mean, look at this spaghetti. How would you describe it in three words or less?”

Gil thought for a moment. “Worms in sauce,” he said.

Prescott shook his head. “That's too easy. Not good enough. I want to see it through your eyes and hear it in your words. Try to describe this plate of spaghetti in a way that nobody has ever described it before. Take a minute to think about it.”

Gil stared at the smeared red sauce and the long strands of pasta curled together in tangled shapes. He tried to think what it looked like.

“Blood and guts,” he said.

Prescott frowned at him. “No. That's a dead metaphor. All you're doing is falling back on words and phrases you've heard before. I want something completely fresh. Surprise me. Make me visualize it through your imagination.”

Gil blew out his cheeks in frustration. “It's hard!”

“Of course it is,” said Prescott. “But just think how you came up with that simile of squeezing zits. I don't think anybody has ever described the act of writing in exactly those words.”

The half-eaten spaghetti stared back at Gil, as if it were a puzzle he had to solve, a riddle without a definite answer.

Shifting gears as she pedaled uphill, Nargis leaned forward, trying to make it to the top without slowing down. As soon as the dirt road descended again, she let herself relax and coasted until she came to a patch of muddy water. Though Nargis could have easily avoided it, there was something satisfying about bicycling straight through a puddle. After another short climb, she skidded around a corner and came to a stop in front of Trash Hill. It was a gray, overcast day, and the mountain of garbage and dead leaves looked like a ruined pyramid. The mailbox stuck out at an angle, its red flag raised.

As Nargis climbed over a pile of broken cinder blocks and the gutted remains of a box spring, she wished that Gil had come with her. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to open the mailbox again. Being alone didn't usually bother her, but today she felt more than a little spooked.

A couple of seagulls circled overhead, their wings catching the air currents off the ocean.
Don't be a chicken
, Nargis said to herself.
It's probably empty.
She sniffed carefully to see if there was any trace of the spinster's hand, but all she could smell was a wet, muddy odor of moldering leaves. As far as she could remember, the red plastic flag had been lowered the last time they were here. Now it stood up like a warning.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, Nargis reached over and flipped open the front of the mailbox. This time it wasn't empty, but instead of the skeletal hand, she discovered three letters inside. They were stacked neatly side by side, as if someone had carefully arranged them there for Nargis to find. After glancing around to see if anyone might be watching, she took them out and read the addresses. The first was a large, cream-colored envelope. The handwriting was perfect, the graceful lines of each letter flowing together like an ornate design.

From: Camellia Stubbs

4 Hyslop Lane

Hornswoggle Bay

To: Mr. Ezekiel Finch

Upper Finch Tea Estate

Ajeebgarh, India

By the kind hand of:

Captain V. Tobbler

The second envelope was completely different. It was crumpled and badly stained. The handwriting looked childish, as if it were written by an eight-year-old boy who couldn't spell:

URGINT

Frum: Nun o' yer bisniss

To: Mr. Rodrick Sleemin Esq.

Upp'r Finch Tee Estate

AJeebgurh

The third letter was a plain, rectangular envelope, with the address neatly typed.

Confidential

From: Hermes

To: Lt. Col. W. T. Shepherdson

None of the letters had ever been opened, each envelope firmly sealed. There weren't any stamps, though they all seemed to have been carried through time and history. Holding them in her hands, Nargis felt a strange sense of possessing secrets kept for years. Tucking the letters into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, she scrambled back onto her bike and headed straight for the Yankee Mahal.

Gil was outside in the front yard, helping his grandfather trim the yew bushes near the front steps. The first snowfall of
the year had long since melted, though the grass was turning brown. Prescott held a pair of pruning shears, while Gil was piling the cuttings into a wheelbarrow. Kipling lay asleep on the front steps. He lifted his head drowsily when Nargis arrived.

“Hey!” said Gil. “What's up?”

“Nothing much,” said Nargis, though he could see from the expression on her face that she was dying to tell him something.

Prescott nodded to his grandson. “I'll finish up here. You can go inside.”

The two of them went around to the kitchen door and straight upstairs to the study with the rolltop desk. Nargis put the three letters down triumphantly.

“What's this?” asked Gil.

“These were in the mailbox on Trash Hill,” she said.

“You're kidding.” Gil cautiously picked them up.

“No, I'm not.” Nargis grinned. “I just came from there. We should open them.”

“I don't know,” said Gil. “We don't want to find any more genies, do we?”

“Yeah, but these are obviously meant for us. They must be letters that never reached the people they were written for. I'm sure the spinster's hand left them.” Nargis reached for the letter opener that lay in one of the pigeonholes inside the desk. The miniature scimitar shone in her hand.

“Which one first?” asked Gil.

“This one. It's from Camellia Stubbs. Check out her handwriting …”

“Yeah, but if we open it, maybe her hand will come after us.”

“I don't think so,” Nargis said, taking the envelope and slicing it open before Gil could stop her. When she took out the letter, it was covered in the same handwriting, but before they could read what was written, a lock of brown hair fell onto the desk. It was tied with a pale pink ribbon.

“What is it?” Gil asked.

“What does it look like?” she said. “Somebody's hair.”

Gil made a face. “That's gross.”

“Not as gross as a skeleton's hand.”

After reading the love letter, they picked the letter from Hermes next, with the typed address. Again the scimitar cut smoothly through the paper, with a dry whispering sound.

“Sick! More hair!” said Gil.

“Looks like a caterpillar.” Nargis poked at it with the paper knife.

“No, it's a fake moustache.”

“Now, that's disgusting.”

“But look at the message. It doesn't make any sense.”

“Must be some kind of code.”

Unable to decipher the message, they picked up the third envelope. “This one looks like something Kipling might have found,” said Gil, sniffing it.

“Some kid must have written it,” Nargis added. “I'm surprised the spinster's hand hasn't crumpled it up.”

This time the blade of the letter opener didn't slip in as smoothly, and tore a ragged line along the fold. There was hair
inside this envelope too, a handful of red curls that looked as if they'd never been combed. Brushing these onto the desk beside the neatly tied brown lock and the black moustache, Nargis squinted at the awkward writing.

“The ransom note!” she said.

For the past two days, Kipling had been listless. When Gil tried to get him to go for a walk, he wagged his tail but refused to go beyond the yard. He didn't seem interested in eating, either, which was unusual. Sunday morning he was sprawled on the kitchen floor, in his favorite place next to the radiator. When Gil headed out the door to rake leaves in the backyard, he noticed the old dog's feet were twitching and he gave a couple of muffled barks, probably dreaming that he was chasing a postman.

Within an hour, Kipling died in his sleep. Prescott found him when he came into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He noticed Kip wasn't breathing. Kneeling down and placing a hand on his side, Prescott knew it was over. After a few minutes alone, he went outside and called Gil, who could tell something was wrong from the tone of his grandfather's voice.

“Kip sounded wheezy this morning,” said Prescott, blowing his nose into a checkered handkerchief. “I was thinking about taking him to the vet.”

Gil stared down at the lifeless dog. He felt awful and wanted to say something to comfort his grandfather but couldn't speak for a minute or two.

“How old was he?” Gil asked at last.

“Fourteen,” said Prescott. “Almost a hundred in human years.”

“He was barking in his sleep when I came past him this morning,” said Gil.

“Must have had a heart attack.” Prescott put a hand on his grandson's shoulder. “If you've got to go, there isn't a better way …”

“What are we going to do?” Gil said.

“I guess we should bury him. Sooner the better,” Prescott said. “I'll get something to wrap Kip in, and you can bring the shovel from the garden shed. We'll find a place out back.”

Gil was glad to get outdoors. He felt a little dizzy, and the clean fall air was cold in his lungs. He choked back his tears as he walked across the leaf-littered lawn, half of which he'd raked into piles. Though he'd known the dog for only a couple of weeks, it seemed as if he'd lost a friend. Gil felt much worse for his grandfather, knowing how close he'd been to Kipling. Even if the dog went peacefully in his sleep, it seemed a terrible thing to happen, so suddenly without any warning. Gil couldn't stop thinking of Kip's paws kicking less than an hour ago, as if he were trying to run in his sleep. Now he was gone.

When Prescott came out, his eyes were red and swollen. Just looking at his grandfather, Gil felt a lump in his throat.
Awkwardly, they walked around the edge of the yard, trying to find a place to bury Kipling.

“Maybe back there,” said Prescott, pointing to a stand of birches with papery white trunks. A couple of gold leaves still clung to the thin branches, but otherwise the trees were bare.

Gil raked away the dead foliage. After choosing a spot where there weren't too many rocks, he began to dig. At first it was easy, the shovel plunging into the soft layers of mulch and earth, but after he got down a foot or more, there were rocks and tree roots. He and his grandfather took turns. It was a relief having something to do, the exertion of digging clearing his mind. Gil had never dug a grave before, and it felt strange, knowing that this was where Kipling would soon be laid to rest. It wasn't a very large hole, two feet across and three feet long, but the deeper it got, the harder it was to shovel out the dirt.

“Another six inches,” said Prescott as Gil wiped the sweat off his face. “Do you want me to take over?”

“No, I'm fine,” said Gil, feeling the shovel strike something hard. “Here's another stone.”

He dug around it first, so he could slide the blade underneath, then pried it up. But as soon as he saw what he'd unearthed, Gil stopped abruptly.

“Geez!” he said softly.

Prescott let out a low whistle.

As he lifted the shovel, more of the dirt fell away, revealing a rectangular box. Without saying anything, Prescott reached out and took it, then brushed away the rest of the soil. When he opened the box, Gil blinked in astonishment and caught his
breath. Inside was the gold inkstand from the portrait of Ezekiel Finch. Even though it had lain underground for more than a century, the rubies and emeralds glinted in the autumn sunlight.