Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story: Chapters 11–15

I followed Hannah under a rose trellis and came to a stop so quickly I almost tripped over my own feet.

Her lawn was so overgrown anything could be hidden in the weeds and brambles.

Face solemn, Hannah brushed away a tuft of moss growing in the L on Lucy’s stone.

I tried to shoot the way she had, but my aggie rolled feebly out of my hand. It didn’t even come near a miggle.

“Goodness, don’t look so glum. It’s a game, Andrew, not a matter of life and death.”
I turned away quickly and began gathering the marbles. The things the Tylers said in ignorance were downright scary.

Sooner or later the Tylers were bound to think I was a complete lunatic. They still mentioned George Foster from time to time, though never deliberately in my hearing. The Fosters had sent George to the county asylum—what if Mr. Tyler decided to do the same with me?

Feeling slightly queasy, I clung to a limb and gazed at barns and houses, fields and woods, cows and sheep, the river behind the house, railroad tracks shining silver in the sunlight.

Cattle lumbered to their feet, horses raised their heads and galloped away, a flock of chickens scattered in all directions.

When the dog didn’t obey, she spotted me walking slowly toward the house. “Andrew, stop lallygagging and do something with this animal.”

The next thing I knew I was sprawled on the grass and a woman was bending over me.

“I heard you call out. Then I saw you stagger and fall.”

In her white dress, she was as prim and proper as any lady you ever saw.

Slightly placated by his generosity, I stared at the menu.

He expected me to do something outrageous too. They all did—the whole family was watching, waiting for me to mortify them.

“I can’t believe he’s the same boy. Do you suppose some other child put that glue in my metronome after all? Surely it wasn’t this dear angel who drew a mustache on my bust of Beethoven. Nor could he have been the rascal who climbed out my window on recital day and hid in a tree.”

Beside me, Theo seethed. He was blaming everything on me—the scolding, the music lessons, Mrs. Armiger.

Before we left Riverview, John insisted on taking our picture. “We have to preserve this moment for posterity,” he said.

“Hannah has entirely too many unladylike notions already. Voting, for instance. She wants me to join those suffragettes, but if you ask me, some things are better done by men.”

“This is my sister’s shooter. Are you stealing from her now?”
“Of course not!” I glared at him, furious he’d think me capable of such a thing.

“Come on, Drew, no more dawdling. Let’s play.”

“At least you’ve studied history, you know something about how life used to be. How do you suppose it felt to wake up in a hospital surrounded by newfangled machines Jules Verne never even imagined?”

The sun shone down through the leaves, dappling the ground with shadows.

Hidden in the foliage, locusts buzzed and droned.

“Will you ever be yourself again, Andrew?”
“I hope so.” I said it so fervently Hannah looked at me oddly.

A crow called, another answered. Like sentinels, they passed the word along—two boys and a dog were coming.

It’s no fun getting in trouble all by myself. I could’ve gotten a real walloping from Papa if Mama had told on me.

I scuffed along, watching grasshoppers jump out of my way.

Edward gave him a shove that sent him reeling backward into a pyramid of canned food.

“That’s enough of that, you young ruffians,’’ he bellowed. “I’ll not have rowdy behavior in my store. No excuses—out you go!’’

Like a fool, I sat in the middle of the road and watched Edward saunter away.

I trudged home by myself, worrying about the trestle.

“Come back here, you wretched cur!”
Buster never was what I’d call an obedient dog.

Mrs. Armiger was in the lead, brandishing a parasol, her face scarlet.

I honestly don’t think Andrew himself could have stopped Buster. He was in a frenzy, tearing around in circles, panting, trying to shake the hat off.

Just then, Hannah poked her head outside to see what was going on. Her bewildered face made me laugh.

Rising warily to my feet, I glanced at Theo.

Like condemned prisoners, we followed Papa to the back porch.

Papa then repeated Mr. Trot’s version of the events: Theo had knocked down a display of canned goods, we’d been sent outside, we’d brawled in the street like common hooligans.

You not only failed to control Buster but you laughed at his antics and actually encouraged his destructive behavior.

Concentrating on his sketch, he said, “Before I got sick, Edward dared me to jump off the trestle.”