Relatively Dead Read online

  Ned was watching her. “Had enough? There’s no rush.”

  Abby stood up. “Can we walk around it?”

  “Sure.” He stood too, and they moved slowly around the green in companionable silence. When they had made the circuit back to the car, Ned said, “Ready for more?”

  Abby nodded. “On to Concord.”

  They took off along the road on the south side of the green. They drove at a leisurely pace, despite the impatience of other drivers, and Ned pointed out various landmarks along the way. “A lot of these houses are open for tours, if you’re interested. And there’s plenty of documentation about the battle—you know, who did what where, step by step. I can find it for you, if you want.”

  Abby nodded noncommittally, watching the trees flow by. Before they reached another town, Ned took a left fork, and a couple of minutes later pulled off the road. “Walden Pond,” he said, pointing off to the left. “Want to get out and walk?”

  “Sure.” Abby clambered out again. “Do we have to go all the way around?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.” They crossed the road and descended the hill to reach the water. “Henry David Thoreau’s cabin was over at that end.” He pointed toward the far end of the pond. “It’s long gone. There’s actually a public beach on this end now.”

  “Not exactly wilderness, is it?” Abby mused. “Was it more isolated when Thoreau was camping out here?”

  Ned smiled. “Not really. The popular mythology has got it wrong. Downtown Concord is about half a mile from here. Thoreau neglected to mention that he could walk over to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s house for dinner whenever he wanted to. He wasn’t exactly roughing it in the wilds.”

  Abby laughed. “One more cherished myth shot down in flames.” She looked out across the water in time to see a train speeding by at the far end. “Civilization is too much with us. How about Concord?”

  “You up for some lunch?”

  “Sure. Lead on.” Abby was surprised to find she was hungry. And that she was having a good time.

  7

  After a short drive into town, Ned led Abby to a small restaurant. She was absurdly pleased that it wasn’t a chain, but there didn’t seem to be any tacky fast-food places in downtown Concord. In fact, all the shops looked very upscale. After lunch, they strolled the main street, mainly window-shopping. Ned described the town as it had looked in 1775 and pointed out the two old cemeteries in eyeshot.

  “Ready for more history?”

  Abby sighed. “There’s more?”

  He laughed. “We’ve barely scratched the surface. Come on, just one more stop—the bridge.”

  “Yes, sir.” Abby allowed herself to be escorted back to the car for the short drive to the bridge. They pulled into the parking area.

  Ned scanned the scene and said, “Thank goodness, no tour busses. This place is much nicer when there aren’t a lot of people around.”

  He led the way across the road onto a broad, tree-lined path. Abby could see a statue on a pedestal, and beyond it an arched wooden bridge. When they reached the statue, Ned spoke again.

  “The statue’s by Daniel Chester French—he had a studio here in Concord. The bridge isn’t original, of course—that one’s long gone—but the general shape is all right. The British approached from the town, the way we did. The patriots were on the other side of the river, there.”

  “Were the odds any better here?”

  “Somewhat. The British didn’t really want a fight. They just wanted to seize or destroy the rebels’ munitions and supplies and go back to Boston. But the rebels hid as much as they could, and then fell back that way, to wait and see what happened. There were about four hundred of them by nine o’clock in the morning, and more kept trickling in from the surrounding towns, as word about what had happened at Lexington got out. They could see smoke from the town, but they couldn’t see what was burning. So the patriots decided to move toward the bridge. By then, they actually outnumbered the British troops. The colonists were ordered not to shoot, but the British fired first, and our side let loose. By the time they reached the bridge, the British were spooked—they turned around and headed back to town. The battle here took about three minutes.”

  “Wow. What happened next, teacher?” Abby grinned at Ned.

  “The British hightailed it back for Boston, harried by local militia all the way. And more militia kept showing up as the word spread. Amazing how fast the word got out, considering the state of communications in those days. You could almost feel sorry for the Brits, except that they were so arrogant. They didn’t expect a fight—they thought they’d just march in and intimidate those pesky rebels and be done with it. They weren’t ready for resistance. What made it worse was that they had been embarrassed by a ragtag bunch of amateurs. That did not sit well with the powers that be. So we got a war, and we won, and here we are. That’s the CliffsNotes version, anyway.”

  “It certainly is different, seeing the real places. Knowing just how long it would take to walk from here to town, for instance. How far is it to Boston?”

  “Fifteen miles, maybe?”

  “And in modern wars, we just push a button and kill people a whole lot farther away than that. Doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

  Abby meandered around a bit longer, looking at the view, and at the sluggish, leaf-clogged river. “What’s that house?” She pointed up a low rise.

  “The Old Manse. Lots of the local literati spent time there. Most of them are buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, if you’re interested.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ned ticked off on his fingers, “The Alcotts, the Hawthornes, the Thoreaus, and the Emersons—all very chummy, on Authors Ridge. Want to meet them?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “You mean you aren’t off cemeteries now?”

  This was the first time he had mentioned what had happened the day before. “No. I don’t expect to run into anyone I know. Although it might be kind of fun to chat with Louisa May Alcott.” Abby figured she might as well test her radar here, on neutral ground. In any case, it sounded like an unusual place.

  Back in the car, Ned retraced their earlier route, but then went around the small green with its war memorials and ducked down a road between the old Town Hall and a church. When the road emerged, there were cemetery gates in front of them. He passed through and drove slowly along the narrow winding roads. Although they had passed some old slate stones near town, clearly most of this cemetery was newer, Abby realized. As though he had read her thoughts, he said, “Sleepy Hollow was founded in the later nineteenth century. It was one of the earliest of the ‘garden’ cemeteries—created almost as a park, where people could wander and contemplate their mortality. Some have fountains, and benches so you could stop and ponder.”

  “Death as entertainment? The Victorians were a creepy lot, weren’t they.”

  Ned wound through the cemetery, over a small hill, then around to the left. The road dead-ended in a tiny cul-de-sac with parking for at most three cars. He stopped there.

  “This is it.”

  A discreet sign pointed up a flight of steps. Abby climbed up and found herself surrounded by some of Concord’s most famous dead, as Ned had promised. She knelt down for a moment for a closer look at Thoreau’s stone, which had been ornamented with a collection of offerings, apparently from children: she noted a drawing of a pumpkin, a pencil, and a few pennies. Curious, but kind of touching. She strolled a bit further along and came upon Ralph Waldo Emerson’s stone, a pompous chunk of natural pink quartz that only reinforced her opinion of Emerson. What a time they must have had, living cheek by jowl in nineteenth-century Concord! What fascinating dinner-table conversations they might have spun. For a moment, Abby wished that she could channel the past, just to eavesdrop on the locals. She laughed inwardly: fat chance. I’d probably end up in the wrong household altogether and find out how the local butcher was cheating his customers.

  She looked out over the cemetery beneath he
r. The label did not lie: the authors and their families lay together on top of a ridge, and below stretched a garden of Victorian and twentieth-century stones. At least the place looked well-filled, and certainly well-tended. Ned was lost in contemplation of another group of stones, and Abby aimlessly wandered down a convenient pathway toward the little valley below, stopping now and then to read an inscription or to admire a particularly elaborate carving. On this fine autumn day, there were no other tourists here—most of them were probably out chasing leaves somewhere.

  She reached the row of stones at the bottom of the hill, bordered by the road, and laid her hand momentarily on a large granite stone to steady herself. Suddenly the air around her was filled with figures—men, women, children, who overlapped and flowed through each other. Abby was frozen in place, yet she knew she was invisible, as these insubstantial figures swirled around her. She grabbed at what order she could: she noted that the people appeared to belong to different eras, judging by their varying dress. And she didn’t think they could see each other. There were layers of them, if layers could be three-dimensional. And temporal: it was as though she was seeing a series of events, all superimposed, existing in the same unreal space. With a start, she realized that she recognized one of the faces: it was her great-grandmother, whom she barely remembered from her childhood, but whose face she had seen in many family pictures. But she was dressed in a style that would have been appropriate in the 1930s, and she was young, barely older than Abby was now.

  And this time there was more. At the cemetery in Waltham, the grief she sensed had been old, muted; here the pain was palpable. It came in waves as she watched generations come together to bury their dead, the dead whose remains now lay under Abby’s feet. It was as if the pain had soaked into the hard granite of the headstone and was now seeping into Abby through the hand that she had no power to move.

  “Abby? Are you all right?” Ned’s voice was sharp behind her and cut through the swirling fog of half-seen people. Abby realized she had closed her eyes, and with an effort forced them open again. And somehow found the strength to tear her hand from the stone. Ned’s hand on her elbow steadied her, and, eyes open, she saw nothing but the peaceful scene of the cemetery.

  Without letting go, Ned came around to face her. “Here, sit down,” he said gently, guiding her to the high stone coping of a nearby plot. She sat without protest. “What happened?”

  Abby swallowed and tried to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know.” She realized her face was wet with tears. “I was walking along and I put my hand on that stone, and then . . .” She was having trouble putting into words what she had seen. It was like a fever dream—fragmented, incoherent. “I saw people, lots of people. I saw my great-grandmother. And there was so much sadness . . .” She realized she was still crying. Silently Ned handed her a clean handkerchief. Poor Ned, he kept having to scrape her off the floor, one way or another. Finally she was able to give him a watery smile. “I’m sorry. I keep doing this.”

  “It’s all right, Abby.”

  “Maybe I should see a doctor. Maybe I’ve got some neurological problem, or I have a brain tumor. Or I’m completely losing my mind.”

  “Abby, you can do that if it will make you feel better. You should certainly eliminate any physical causes. But . . .” He fumbled for words.

  “I should see a shrink?” she asked, hating the edge of hysteria to her voice.

  “No. No, that’s not what I was going to say,” Ned protested quickly. “I just think we should look into all explanations.”

  “Like what?” Abby sniffed, but at least she had stopped crying.

  “All right, I’ll say it, if you won’t. Like some psychic connection.”

  “But I’m not psychic!” Abby protested.

  “How do you know?”

  She looked at him mutely and shook her head.

  “Look,” he pressed on, “I’m not going to try to sell you on some mumbo-jumbo about astral links or whatever. I just think we should do some basic research on how all these people are connected to you—the Flaggs, and whoever is here. And on psychic phenomena in general. Can’t hurt, right?”

  “I guess not,” Abby admitted, feeling like a sulky child.

  “Do you know who’s buried in that plot?”

  “No, I came up from behind—I never even saw the name on the front.”

  Ned stood up and peered at the stone. “Reed. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Ned sat down beside her again. “Abby, I promise I will tell you if I think you’re going off the rails. I know you don’t know me very well, so there’s no reason you should trust me or believe me. And I know you’re going to say that I don’t know you very well, so how I am supposed to know what normal is for you? But I don’t think you’re demented. I think something is happening to you, something you don’t understand. Maybe it was there all along and the recent changes in your life just brought this to the surface. Or maybe it’s new—I don’t know. But before you panic, can we just look at it a little more closely? You can set a deadline, whatever you’re comfortable with, and if we don’t find anything useful, then you can go find a shrink and pour your heart out. But I think there’s something more going on here. And I’d like to help, if I can.”

  Abby didn’t respond immediately. She was calmer now, and she could look at what had just happened more rationally. She took a deep breath and looked around her. Then she looked at Ned.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind, especially in not telling me I was loony tunes and running the other way. And like I said at the Waltham cemetery, this doesn’t feel like any kind of mental illness. It’s breaking in, from outside of me. And I want to know what, know why. I wouldn’t say yes to what you’re suggesting if this scared me. I mean—they don’t scare me, but the way this is happening does. But somehow, even when there are strange things milling around my head, I don’t feel scared. This time, I felt sad. There was a lot of pain there, but it wasn’t mine—it was all those other people’s. They don’t threaten me, but I want to know why they’re suddenly in my life. So let’s find out.”

  “Good for you.” He looked at his watch. “The day’s about shot. Do you feel okay now? Should I take you home?”

  “What time is it? Good heavens, it’s nearly five.” And Brad hasn’t called, even though my cell has been on all day. “I suppose I should get home. We’re supposed to be going out for dinner tonight.”

  “Fine.” Ned stood up and Abby followed suit. He waited to be sure that she was steady on her feet. “Let’s go.”

  Driving back to Waltham, they were both largely silent. Halfway there, Ned spoke.

  “Have you said anything about this to Brad?”

  Abby considered her answer. “No,” she said slowly, “because I don’t think he’d believe me. He’d tell me I needed a pill, or more exercise, or a job. I don’t think he’d consider any other possibilities. And I don’t want him to laugh at me. You might have noticed, he can be a rather . . . dominant personality.”

  Ned laughed. “I understand. But if this is a problem for you, you really should talk with him—he should know.”

  Abby sighed. “I know. But can we find out a bit more first?”

  As he pulled into her parking lot, Abby prepared to jump out. “You don’t need to come up. And, Ned? Thanks again.”

  He gave her a long look. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days. You can start doing some digging on the Reeds of Concord. And I think you really need to find out something about your family history. Who knows, there might be a witch somewhere up the line.” With a smile and a wave, he pulled away.

  Witch, indeed, thought Abby. But this was Massachusetts. Maybe it came with the territory.

  Upstairs there was still no Brad, so Abby decided to take a shower. Brad arrived an hour later, full of apologies but bubbling over with good cheer after his hefty dose of NFL football. “Where do you want to go, baby? Your pick.”

&nb
sp; “Let’s explore Waltham. There’re a couple of places that look interesting.”

  “Okay. Let me put on a clean shirt. Hey, how was your day with what’s-his-name?” He disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Fine,” she called out. “We went to Lexington and Concord. And Walden Pond. I learned a lot. Ned’s a good guide.”

  Brad came out of the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. “Seemed kind of wimpy to me. Is he gay?”

  Abby stared at him. “I don’t know. It didn’t exactly come up in conversation, you know.”

  Her sarcasm was lost on Brad, as he replied, “Well, I’m glad you had a good day. Let’s go!”

  8

  Brad had already left the next morning when Abby awoke. They had spent a pleasant evening and had been happily surprised by the restaurant they had stumbled upon. It was definitely one they would revisit. Brad had been attentive—having apparently had his fill of “guy stuff” for the weekend—and Abby had had as much fun as she could remember since they had moved.

  But now it was Monday, and she was on her own again, and she had to figure out what she was going to do about the strange visions she was having. Ned had suggested a two-pronged strategy for research: tracing the people she had been seeing and investigating the general idea of psychic phenomena. She wasn’t sure which one was more difficult, or more interesting.