Charlie’s Story

By: Dash

2/7/05

 

 

1805

 

Turning from the open window that allowed fresh air to help clear out the sick room smell, she came back and sat on the edge of the bed.  Gently picking up her husband’s hand, she stroked it carefully.  “Do you want some water, dear?” she whispered.  “I can get it from the ice house so it’s nice and cool for you.”

 

Charles opened his eyes tiredly for a moment and nodded, “Yes please.”  As she stood up, he reached out and took hold of her hand.  “Wait,” he said hoarsely.  Turning his head into his damp pillow and coughing for a moment, he turned back to his wife.  “I just wanted to say how wonderful you are.  I couldn’t have asked for a better wife or mother for my sons.  When you agreed to marry me, I never dreamed it would be this wonderful.”  He coughed again before adding, “I just wanted you to know that.”

 

Molly Whitson squeezed her husband’s hand, “It was the happiest day of my life and was just the start of a wonderful life.  Let me go get you the water and we’ll work on getting you better and start on the next twenty years.”  Letting go of his hand when he nodded, she smiled at him.  “I’ll return in just a moment.”

 

Watching her leave the room, Charles turned his head and looked out of the open window.  The sky was a brilliant blue and the air was clean and lightly scented with the remains of the field fires that must be going on now that the harvest was done.  Closing his eyes, his last thought was that Molly and the boys would be comfortable through the winter thanks to the large harvest and James McDonald’s careful bookkeeping.

 

 

 

The first thought when he opened his eyes was he had, somehow, miraculously survived the small pox and pneumonia that had wasted him.  The parlor was dark, lit only by a lantern turned virtually off so that only a small glow came through the glass.  Standing up stiffly from the padded wing-back chair he had found himself in, he walked to the table and turned the lantern on higher.

 

“I’m not sure you’re going to want to look,” a woman’s voice said from the darkness.

 

Charles spun around and peered into the corner of the room where he could just make out the shape of a figure.

 

Stepping forward a bit, the woman smiled at him before blowing on the candle in her hand and causing it to catch fire, adding to the small amount of light in the room.  “It’s not always pleasant to look,” she said sweetly.  Her voice was light and airy with a touch of Scottish accent.  “I regretted looking and it took me years to forget.”  Her long gray dress swept the floor as she moved forward, smiling kindly at him. 

 

“Look at what?” Charles asked, struggling to make his voice form even the simplest of questions.

 

She nodded at the far side of the room, “Yourself.”

 

He turned and saw for the first time the simple wooden coffin set against the back wall of the room.  Pots of incense burned slowly and a black cloth was draped over the large silver mirror that hung on the wall over the coffin.  “Who is there?” he asked, even as the answer formed in his mind.

 

“You know who is there,” she said matter of factly.

 

“Who are you?”

 

She smiled again, moving forward so she was in front of him.  Dropping into a small, perfect curtsey, she said as she rose, “You may call me Beatrice.  The rest was only important long ago, in a different time and different place.”  A shadow of sadness crossed her face as if she were taken back to that time for a brief moment.

 

“Are you a ghost?” Charles asked softly.

 

Beatrice smiled and gave an airy laugh, “Oh, that is the question of the hour, isn’t it?”  Walking toward the three formal portraits hanging on the wall, she held her candle up to them so the pictures were illuminated.  “I’m sorry Charles but I don’t have an answer for you.  I guess I am, as you said, a ghost.  But I’m not sure.  The one who welcomed me so many years ago had few answers and I admit that I have not been the most active of pupils in finding more answers for myself.”  Looking at the portraits, she gestured to them, “Are these your kin?”

 

“Yes, that was my mother and father and the young man was my younger brother.  There were four of us growing up,” he glanced again at the coffin as his voice dropped, “but now only two remain.”

 

“I always wonder where the others go,” she said softly.  “Or are only a few us not worthy to receive God’s grace and deserve an eternal reward.” 

 

"So what happens now?" he asked, looking at her.

 

She gave a small smile and shrugged.  "I'm afraid I don't know that either.  I stayed around my home for awhile but it was too painful."  Beatrice glanced at the coffin again before continuing, "I was gone and even though Hugh mourned me, for him, life went on.  I could have watched my children forget me and when he remarried a young woman two years later …" Her voice trailed off as she shrugged again.

 

"But where is Heaven? Or Hell?"

 

The woman shrugged again, "I don't know.  I don't know if this is Hell.  It feels like it sometimes."  Peering at him with an inquisitive air, she commented, "You have a nice house and seem like a good man.  Were you?  Are you expecting to go to your final reward or do you deserve an eternity of torment?"

 

Charles nodded, "I was a faithful to my wife and a good provider for her and our sons.  I paid my debts and rarely drank.  I am of average character but one that, most I believe, would call good.” Looking at her, he tilted his head respectfully for a moment before asking, “And what about you Madame?  You’re here.”

 

Beatrice smiled at him.  “I don’t know either.  I was unclean when I died, childbirth.  It was not an easy time and after 2 days, I begged the doctors to open me up so that the babe could live.”  She placed a hand on her flat abdomen briefly as her face grew dark and angry.  “Maybe God does not consider that a worthy enough act.  Sacrificing ones self so that my precious daughter might live.”

 

“I don’t really know,” he stammered, embarrassed at the personal nature of the conversation.  “I would think so …”

 

“So you really only have two choices,” she said interrupting him, her voice hard and flat.  “You can stay here, like you are now.  Able to see but not be seen.  Able to hear them but they won’t hear you.  You can experience a hell far worse then any Priest could dream of and watch your wife be courted by men until the burdens you’ve left her with are too much to bear and she remarries.  Hear him take her in your bedroom; hear your sons call him Father; all the while being able to do nothing but watch and listen.”

 

Charles blanched at the harshness and truth in her words.  “What is my second choice?”

 

Walking over to the coffin, she rested her hand on the closed lid.  “You can accept your place and simply allow yourself to drift, sleep away the years until eternity passes.”  She gave him a small smile, “That’s where I was.  Just peacefully sleeping.  You awake once in awhile, like I did with you, to greet someone new and to tell them what it’s like.”  She gave a small smile and a shrug, “It’s not bad and rather peaceful.”

 

“When you sleep, what is there?”

 

“Nothing,” she said simply.  “And compared to this hell, that is a wonderful thing.”  Walking over to him, she leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek.  “I need to go.  I’m tired.  Go to your wife, see her.  Watch for awhile and you’ll see I’m right.”  Blowing out the candle she still carried, she faded back into the darkness as she walked from the room.

 

 

 

Sitting on the front steps of the house, Charles covered his face with his hands as if to hide the tears from the happy people milling around.

 

“Here they come!” someone in the crowd shouted happily.

 

“I can’t do this, please, help me.  I just want to disappear; go away somewhere,” he prayed silently.  “I can’t watch this any more.”  A childhood prayer sprung to his mind and he began to whisper softly as the door to the house opened, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep ….”

 

“Come on, dear,” James McDonald laughed, tugging at Molly.  “I’m getting covered in rice.”

 

 

 

The first thought that went through his mind was that something was tickling his nose.  Blinking against the bright sunlight, Charles looked around the dusty attic and saw sunlight pouring through the dirty windows.  A pile of newspapers were neatly stacked on the table next to his chair and he reached over and plucked the top one from the stack.  “April 1863,” he read out loud in the silence.  The last time he had awakened was two years earlier at the death of an elderly aunt visiting from Macon.  She, like the others before her, had not stayed.  Some had spoken to him, others had simply disappeared moments after appearing and the rest, like his young son, had never appeared at all.  The familiar tickling, fuzzy feeling he was now sensing had always marked death’s arrival in the house and near by fields.  Standing up, he stretched and yawned before walking to the window and looking out.  The fields in the distance were brown and unplanted, while the trees were full and green.  At the end of the long drive, he saw a wagon heading away from the house.  Charles made his way across the attic and into the upper floors of the house.  Somewhere down the hall behind one of the closed doors, he could hear the muffled sounds of a woman crying.  Walking down the hall, he came to his granddaughter’s room with its partially closed door, and slipped silently inside the room.     

 

She glanced up as if sensing his presence but a moment later turned back to the window, putting the crumbled telegram on the table

 

Charles studied her, the twisting and unbalanced reality of his existence giving him pause as it always did.  His granddaughter was now almost twice as old as he was, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and the beginnings of wrinkles around her eyes despite lavish measures to protect her skin from the harsh Georgia sun.  She was still thin even after six pregnancies and, when he looked closely, he would swear he could see traces of Molly in her upturned nose and clear blue eyes.     He turned around as the bedroom door opened and a young slave walked into the room carrying a tray.

 

“I brought some tea, missus,” she said softly.  “I thought you might like some while you wait.”

 

Claire Perkins nodded and smiled slightly, “Thank you Hattie.  That sounds wonderful.”  She glanced out the window again and said almost to herself, “They should be bringing him home soon.  I always dreamed how wonderful that day would be and what it’d be like.  We’d have roasted pork and cornbread and that wonderful bread pudding that Sally makes.”  She turned to her servant, asking, “You know which kind I mean? With the thick bread and cream?”

 

Hattie smiled as she put the tray down on the table, quickly removing the telegram, “Yes ma’am, I do.  And you’re right.  Mister Jon always loved that bread pudding.  I remember him sneaking into the ice box at night and eating out of the pan.”

 

“Yes, he was always hungry,” the older woman agreed with a nod.  Wiping away a tear, she quickly turned back to the window.

 

Charles watched as the young woman poured a cup of tea before stepping back and pulling the telegram from her apron pocket.  Unfolding it with a sad shake of her head, he watched her drop it on top of the dresser.  When her attention turned back to her mistress, he walked over and read the short message.  ‘Body on 10:30am train. Please arrange pick up.’  Another telegram was folded on the dresser, tucked underneath the edge of a framed miniature.  Glancing back in the direction of the two women to make sure they weren’t watching, Charles pulled the older telegram out and unfolded it.  He smiled despite the situation, pleased with his growing strength and new abilities.  His smile quickly disappeared as he read the already feared contents.  ‘Jon killed – Chancellorsville – quick – did not suffer.   I am fine – will write soon.  Pray for us Love - Edward.’ 

 

“We’ll be sure to make that bread pudding when Mister Edward comes home,” Hattie said.  “I remember him down in the kitchen right next to his brother, spoon in hand.”

 

Turning from the window, Claire smiled, “That we will, Hattie.  It will be a fine day for sure and one that will deserve celebration.”

 

“And we’re all praying that day is soon, for sure we are,” the slave added.

 

The older woman nodded and smiled in agreement before resuming her vigil at the window.

 

Charles yawned and glanced around the room, idly wondering if Jon, whom he assumed he was supposed to greet, was coming home now or if that young boy’s spirit now walked the fields of Virginia.  Unsure of what he was supposed to do in the mean time, he slipped out of the room and went downstairs.  The back kitchen door was open and he quietly went outside, heading toward the back of the property and the family graveyard.  Five minutes later, he carefully brushed leaves off his son’s gravestone, the stone cold and rough under his fingertips.  Standing up with a sigh, he looked down and remembered watching the life slip away and the sound of his wife’s crying and the double pain of watching her being comforted by someone else.  It was at that moment that he knew he had made the right decision to sleep away the time and that watching life go on without him would have been, as Beatrice had said, unbearable and his own version of Hell.  The sound of talking jerked him out of his memories and he turned, watching two servants bearing shovels heading in his direction.

 

“Mister Thomas should be back from town in an hour or so and he said to have the grave prepared before tonight,” one of the men said as he opened the iron gate surrounding the clearing.  “I’m not sure what the rush is, the poor boy’s been dead for going on a month now.”

 

“Think about it,” the other man said with a grimace.  “It’s been a month now and I’m not sure what kind of preserving they’re able to do up at the front.  Mister Thomas probably isn’t so sure what kind of condition poor Jon is going to be coming back in.  I’m sure he and Miss Claire would like to lay the boy out proper but that might just not be possible.  It might be best to put the coffin in and lime the whole area.  They can have their service then once he’s nice and covered.”

 

The first man nodded as he jammed the shovel into the ground, scooping up a large clump of red clay.  “You’re probably right, Joshua.”

 

Walking back to the house, Charles sat down on one of the many porch rockers and waited for the wagon to arrive.  He yawned again, weariness seeping into his bones as he relaxed in the warm sun and he closed his eyes.

 

“That rocker’s moving on its own.”

 

He opened his eyes and found three female slaves staring at him. Or at least, he thought to himself, where he was sitting.

 

“It’s just the wind,” the second one said dismissively.  

 

“I bet its Mister Jon, he’s come back home,” the first one said quietly.

 

Reaching over, the third and oldest, woman cuffed her hard on the head.  “Don’t let me catch you talking such nonsense around this house again.  Do you know what Mister Thomas would do if he heard you? Or how such stupid talk would make poor Miss Claire feel?”

 

The first slave rubbed her ear, glaring but shook her head.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.  My grammy use to swear though that she’d see lights up in the attic sometimes and hear footsteps in the house when there weren’t anyone there.  She said those lights always marked death around here and only appeared when someone died or was about to.  She swore this house and the one that used to be here was haunted.  Since they’re built on the same foundation and all, the ghosts spirits came with the new house.”

 

“I remember her talking about those lights,” the second slave chimed in.  “She’d live here with Miss Claire’s granddaddy and grandma.  She’d swear on a stack of Bibles that Miss Claire’s granddaddy, who was the first owner of this land and who died here, never left the house.  He loved this land too much, she said and was too proud of being a landowner to ever leave.”

 

Charles smiled at the words, pleased to be remembered and also curious about the lights that had been seen.  He’d never noticed any unusual lights around him or any of the other ghosts he’d met but it sounded like the old woman’s tales were true.

 

The oldest slave chuckled, “From what I hear, old Mr. Whitson was a drunk who ran out of England before he could be arrested for gambling debts.  His family was more then happy to see him leave and be an ocean away.”

 

“Hey!” Charles said in protest, standing up.  “That’s not true, at all!”

 

The women, of course, ignored his protests and continued to laugh and chat as they continued on their chores.

 

Frowning, he watched them walk off, debating if he were strong enough to actually touch them.  He was able to move objects now and make small things appear but he hadn’t tried to touch anyone for years.  Shuddering, he remembered the cold vacuum that had occurred the first time his hand had gone through someone as they bumped into him.  That experience had been enough and, during his Greetings, he steered clear of the living to avoid being bumped into again.  In the distance, he saw a wagon turn into the drive and make its way toward the house.  “Finally,” he said, “it’s about time.”  Even though ghosts were not tied to their bodies, most, in shock over their situation, stuck close.  He wasn’t surprised to see the shape of a young man sitting on the coffin as the wagon got closer.  Raising his hand in greeting, he smiled.

 

The figure sitting on the coffin stared for a moment then tentatively raised his own hand in a half wave before dropping it back into his lap.  As the wagon pulled up to the house, his eyes met Charles’s and he gave a small smile.  “Hi,” he said softly.

 

“Come on,” Charles said firmly, adopting the tone and air of the Wise Guide he always took with new ghosts.  “You don’t need to be here right now.  Come with me and we’ll talk.”

 

The front door opened and Claire came out, trailed by Hattie.

 

“Thomas,” she said in a quivering whisper, “is that really our Jonathan?”

 

The older man sitting in the front of the wagon nodded, “Yes, it is.”

 

“Did you actually see him,” she said, coming down the stairs and heading toward the coffin.

 

Moving quickly, the older man intercepted her and held her arms firmly in his before pulling her into a tight hug.  “You don’t want to look, Claire. Trust me, it’s our son.”

 

She collapsed against her husband, all pretenses of control and quiet dignity forgotten, as she began to sob.

 

“Come on,” Charles repeated to the figure that was standing there silently watching.  “You don’t need to see this.”

 

The figure looked at him and nodded slowly.  A stray tear slipped down his cheek and he blinked hard, trying to prevent the ones swimming in his eyes from escaping.  Silently following Charles away from the house, he sniffled and brushed away another tear.

 

Settling on a bench in the quiet kitchen garden away from the house, Charles looked at him and held out a hand.  “Hello Jon, I’m Charles Whitson, your great grandfather. I know how hard it can be to see your mother crying like that; I hope you’re alright.”

 

The figure shook the offered hand and then glanced down.  “Actually, Sir,” he said hesitating.  “I’m not Jon Perkins.  My name is Franklin Tafone from near Montgomery, Alabama.”  He tried to smile and shrugged, “I’m sorry.”

 

Charles stared at him, “You’re not Jon Whitson Perkins?”

 

Franklin shook his head, “No, Sir.  Sorry.  I was killed at Chancellorsville too, though, like Jon.  I actually think I know who he was.  We weren’t in the same company but I think in the same battalion and we’d been together for awhile before the battle.  When I …” He struggled for the word.

 

“Woke up?” Charles supplied.

 

“Yeah, that’s a good way to put it.  When I woke up, I was in some train depot and I read the name on the coffin that I was in.”  He shuddered at the memory before continuing.  “The tag on my chest said Jonathan W. Perkins – Clayton, Georgia.  I tried to tell someone but no one was listening.  I looked for my own name but there were so many ...”  His voice trailed off again at the memory. 

 

Reaching out, Charles laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder and squeezed it.  “It’s OK.  It’s hard, I know.”

 

Silently nodding, Franklin ducked his head again, wiping away another tear.  “I didn’t know what else to do, Sir.  No one would listen to me.  I met a few other people who, I think, were like me but half were sobbing or screaming and the other half just seemed to be sitting there, staring into space.  They loaded my body onto the train and I really didn’t know what else to do, so I just came with it.”  He looked up, “Was that wrong, Sir?  Should I have stayed in Virginia?  Do I have to go back there?”  His voice rose in panic, “Please, Sir, don’t make me go back there.  I don’t want to back, I can’t go back up there again.”  A sob escaped his throat and he seemed to crumple slightly.

 

“No, no,” Charles said as he moved closer and awkwardly hugged the other man, “it’s OK.  You don’t have to go back.  You did the right thing by coming back here.  This isn’t your home but it’s a lot closer to home than Virginia.”  He smiled, pulling back slightly and making Franklin look at him, “Plus, from what I can tell, you don’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of Yankees for eternity, now do you?”

 

Sniffling a bit, the other man wiped his cheeks again and shook his head.  “No Sir, I don’t.  I dreamed about coming home within days of leaving over two years ago.  And you’re right; Georgia’s a lot closer to home than Virginia.  We used to come through Atlanta every year on the way to my mother’s folks in Charleston.  Have you ever been to Alabama, Sir?”

 

Charles smiled, “You don’t have to call me Sir.  My name is Charles and I don’t think I’m much older than you are.  And no, I’ve never been into Alabama.  When I was alive, the land was part Georgia and part of the Mississippi Territory.”

 

“How old are you, Sir?” he asked curiously.

 

“Well,” Charles started, thinking, “it depends now.  Do you mean how old was I when I died or do you mean how long have I been around in one shape or another on this great Earth?”

 

Franklin thought for a second and then shrugged, “I guess both really.”

 

The other man laughed, surprised to hear the sound come from his lips after so long.  “I died at the age of 26 and a third.”   He turned and pointed off toward the clearing of the cemetery.  “I’m buried in the family plot, we can go look if you’re really curious.  That was in 1805, so almost 60 years ago now.”

 

“Is that where they’re going to bury me, do you think?” he asked softly, looking in the direction Charles indicated.

 

Charles nodded, “Yes, I saw them digging the hole this afternoon.”  He reached out and patted the other man’s shoulder, “But it’s OK.  No need to worry yourself about that now.  What’s done is done.  The easiest thing for you to do now is to do what I’ve been doing on and off for these last 60 years.”

 

“What’s that?” Franklin said, interrupting.  “Do you live somewhere else with other ghosts?”

 

“No,” he said carefully, “it’s much easier and peaceful to fall asleep and just float away.  This way you don’t have to watch your family and friends grieve for you or to watch them move on and continue living while you are trapped here.”

 

Franklin eyed him skeptically, “I don’t know about that.”

 

“It’s much better, believe me,” Charles insisted.  He eyed the younger man in front of him for a moment before saying, “You know, you haven’t asked me the one question that everyone else always has.  And maybe it’s because you’ve been dead for going on a month now but aren’t you curious why you haven’t gone to Heaven?”

 

Letting out a light laugh, Franklin grinned and blushed slightly.  Ducking his head, he said, “Well, the truth be known, Sir, I honestly never expected to go to Heaven.  My father and our minister had pretty much convinced me that that destination was permanently out of my reach.  I’m honestly just glad not to have gone any further south, if you know my meaning.”

 

Trying hard not to laugh, Charles smiled and shook his head slightly.  A strange feeling bubbled up inside of him and he felt an almost popping sensation deep in the pit of his stomach.  “I think many fathers say the same thing to their sons.  I know my own predicted similar fates when I left the family home back in England to come to the Colonies and begin my new life.”

 

Franklin glanced over Charles’ shoulder as a cloud passed over his face, his smile vanishing.  “May we go watch?” he asked quietly.  “I know the words aren’t going to be spoken for me but …” His voice trailed off as he continued to watch the funeral precession making its way to the cemetery.

 

“Of course,” Charles said, standing up from his seat on the bench.  “I attended my funeral. It makes it feel real some how.”

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, they stood off to one side as the mourners slowly walked away from the grave.

 

“Do you think my parents are holding something similar over the body they believe is me?” Franklin asked softly.

 

Charles put an arm around him, “I don’t know, Franklin.  I honestly don’t know how these things are handled.  In my day, bodies were rarely shipped home at all.  They were buried with their comrades where they fell.”

 

“They do that now too,” he explained.  “I guess if they can ship them home and they know who they are, the Commanders would rather do that than to bury them.”  He watched Claire walk away crying and being supported by her husband.  “I don’t know how anyone could stand to watch their mother in such a state and not be able to reach out and comfort her.”

 

“Now you know what I mean when I said it’s easier to simply sleep away the time,” Charles said.  “When I woke up for the first time, the ghost who greeted me told me the same thing and I didn’t believe her.  I wanted to stay around, I wanted to watch my sons grow up and continue to be with my wife.  It was two years of hell that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

 

“But this isn’t my family,” Franklin said, “and I want to see what happens.  I want to see how the War turns out.  I want to see how my younger brothers and sisters turn out.  Alice’s beau went off to War with me and I want to know if he comes home safely and they get married.”

 

Charles nodded, “I understand Franklin, I do.  I felt the same way but how will you feel if her beau doesn’t come home?  You’ll see her crying and not be able to comfort her.  How will you feel if your brother goes down the wrong path and mixes with the wrong crowd?  You’ll be able to watch and hear everything but you’ll be utterly powerless to do anything.”

 

The other man frowned, “But I don’t want to just stop being.  I’m too young, I haven’t done enough yet, it can’t be over already!”  His voice broke and he angrily wiped away tears.  “God, I can’t stop crying.  I don’t cry for 22 years and now I can’t stop.”  He held up his hand as Charles opened his mouth to speak.  “I’m sorry, Sir.  I don’t mean to be rude but I just need to be alone to think.  When I was on the train, I was too stunned to think and I was too confused to even wonder what the next day would bring.  Now, I’m here and the reality is starting to come crashing down on me.  I appreciate your wisdom and your help but I need to be alone right now.”

 

Charles nodded, “I understand.  Take your time.  I’ll be up at the house for awhile.  Come up when you’re ready and we can talk about where to go.”  Giving the younger man a small smile, he turned and walked out of the cemetery.

 

 

 

“I’ve decided I need to go home,” Franklin said two hours later standing at the base of the stairs looking up at Charles sitting on the porch.

 

The other man nodded, “What do you expect to find?”

 

He shrugged, saying softly, “I don’t know.  I just know I need to go and see my mother.  I need to see how she is doing and I need to see if watching is as hellish as you say.”  He paused, searching for the right words before continuing.  “I can’t get past a sense of how unfair this all is.  I feel like I’ve been granted a second chance to live and it doesn’t seem right to waste that by sleeping through life.”  He glanced up at Charles, asking, “Does that make sense to you, Sir?”

 

Thinking for a moment, Charles slowly nodded, “It does make sense, Franklin.  I have never thought of this existence as a second chance to live and to experience a life that was cut short.”  He paused, mulling over the other man’s words.  “The one who welcomed me was so angry and sad, so bitter over being here, I think it colored how I saw this existence.”  He smiled and bowed his head slightly, “Thank you; you have given me something to contemplate.”

 

Franklin smiled back, “I’m glad that I’ve been able to give you something as a thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me.  I was scared and frightened when I was on the wagon traveling here.  I didn’t know what to expect and didn’t know what I would find or what would happen once my body was buried.  You’ve shown me that my life can go on and there’s nothing to be scared of.  I went off to War because I wanted adventure and to make a difference.  This is just another new adventure and experience and I intend to tackle it that way and wring every bit of excitement and joy from it before I move on.”

 

Laughing out loud, Charles smiled, “And I believe you will, Franklin.  I do believe you will.  You best be off then.”

 

“Will you be here if I pass through this area again?”

 

He thought for a moment and then shook his head, “Probably not.  As much as I admire your outlook and sense of adventure, I don’t think I can do it.  It’s too painful to me to be here alone and to watch my family live on without me and forget me. But you’ll be welcome back any time and I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

 

“Oh,” Franklin said softly.  He smiled and bowed his head, “Then please let me thank you again, Sir.  I wish you the best and if I am in this area again, I will stop by just in case you happen to be around.”

 

“I’d like that,” he confessed.  “I’ll be on the look out for you.”

 

 

 

Later that night, in the attic, Charles settled back in the old chair he had awakened in earlier that day.  Laying his head back, he closed his eyes and tried to relax.  Franklin’s words continued to run through his mind even as he struggled to empty it.  “Relax,” he muttered out loud, hoping the command would turn into reality.  Two hours later, he gave up and spent the rest of the evening reading the old stacked newspapers in the attic and catching up on the affairs of the country.

 

The morning dawned brightly as Charles yawned and stretched.  Glancing around the attic, he smiled, amazed to find himself feeling refreshed and more alive then he had in years.  In the past, Greetings left him feeling drained and weary and ready to slip back into the emptiness as soon as possible.  This time it was different and he was left feeling energized, happy and almost alive.  Walking down the stairs, he peaked into Claire’s bedroom.  The curtains were drawn and the shutters closed, blocking out the light from her room.  He could see her lying in bed on her side, and as he moved closer, he could make out a framed photograph of two young men clutched in her hand.

 

Hattie came quietly into the room carrying a tray of light food and tea. 

 

“Do you remember my birthday two years ago, Hattie,” Claire asked in the darkness.

 

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do,” the young woman said as she set down the tray and began to open the curtains in the room, letting in some of the light.

 

“No, leave them closed,” she ordered.  “Do you remember the roses that Jon and Edward brought me?  They filled my bedroom with them.”

 

Ignoring the order the younger woman continued to open the curtains.  “They were beautiful roses.  All different colors, if I remember correctly.  Yellows and reds and rich purples, I’d never seen purple roses before.  I remember how you could smell them all over the house for a week.”

 

“Yes,” she said dreamily.  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell roses without thinking of Jon and remembering how good he was.”  In the bed, she rolled over, burying her face into her pillow as she began to cry again.

 

“And how much he loved you,” Hattie added, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rubbing her mistress’s back.

 

Hearing his granddaughter cry, Charles began to feel the familiar sense of sadness and helplessness sink into his soul.  Giving his head a shake, he struggled not to give in to the feelings.   As he thought of what he could do, Claire’s words came back to him and he wondered if he could do it.  Closing his eyes, he called up the memory of the roses in his mother’s garden back in England.  The smell of them, warm and fragrant in the summer sun after a rain when the blooms were wide open and full.  Latching on to that memory and the smell, he concentrated hard as he had done years ago when he was trying to learn to touch and move items.

 

“Do you smell that?” Claire asked a moment later.

 

Not wanting to break his concentration, Charles resisted the urge to open his eyes and instead struggled to maintain his focus on the memory of his mother’s roses.

 

“Yes ma’am, I do,” Hattie said softly in the dim light.  “It smells like roses.”

 

“Is it possible? What do you think it means?” Claire asked, sniffling as she sat up in bed.

 

The young servant smiled, “I think it means that Jon’s here and wants you to be happy and to remember how much he loves you.  He wouldn’t want you to be sad and to give up like this.”

 

Opening his eyes slowly, Charles smiled, immensely pleased with both his idea and his abilities.  Slipping out of the room, the feeling of helplessness and sadness gone, he resisted the urge to whistle.  As he walked down the stairs, he thought for a second he couldn’t wait to tell Franklin how much his words had influenced him before he remembered the other man was gone.

 

 

 

A week later, Charles was sitting on the porch enjoying the beautiful sunset and the smell of fresh bread being baked for dinner.  ‘I bet I could eat,” he thought to himself as he rocked slowly.  “If I can move items and conjure up smells from thin air, I don’t know why I wouldn’t be able to enjoy bread too.’  Resolving to try his new experiment tonight after the house was dark, he smiled, pleased with himself.  In the distance, he saw a figure appear at the end of the driveway and begin the long walk toward the house.   A moment later, he felt his breath catch in his throat as he stood up slowly.  Watching for another long moment, he slowly raised a hand in greeting.

 

The figure approaching the house raised a hand in greeting, calling out a distant “Hello!”

 

“What …” Charles stammered as Franklin got closer to the house and started up the stairs.

 

The other man gave an embarrassed grin and shrug.  Sinking down into a rocker, he smiled tiredly.  “Hello Sir.  You have no idea how happy I was to see you standing on the porch.  I wasn’t sure at first until you waved.” He glanced up at the other man, “Sort of like when I first arrived.  I wasn’t sure of my welcome until you waved.”

 

Sinking down in the rocker next to him, Charles shook his head, “What are you doing here?  I thought you had gone home?”

 

Franklin glanced down at his hands and said, after a minute, “I think I am home.  I went back to Alabama and you were right.  It was too painful to watch my family and the house no longer felt like home.”  He paused, rocking gently for a few moments before continuing, “It felt like if I had stayed another moment, I would sink into this black depth of emptiness and nothingness and I would never be able to recover.  I fled and the further I got from there, the better I felt.  The closer I came to Georgia and here, the stronger and more life-like I felt.”

 

“How long did you last?” Charles asked softly.

 

“Ten hours,” Franklin admitted, “but it felt like ten years.”  He glanced over and gave a small smile, “You said, Sir, I’d be welcome back if I was ever in the neighborhood.  Is that still true?”

 

Charles smiled and held out his hand, “I did say that and I also said that I’d look forward to seeing you.  Both are still very much true.  Welcome home and now that you are home, call me Charles.”

 

“Thank you Charles,” he said shaking the other man’s hand with a smile. “This is going to be the start of something; I can feel it in my bones.”

 

 

The End