What the Dead Want(31)

Gretchen could tell he’d experienced firsthand some of the things she’d seen. She shuddered thinking about their horrible little hands. About the rope she found in her suitcase, the pain of those razor-sharp little teeth in her side.

“Why are they so angry?” Gretchen asked. “What do they want?”

“No one,” Hope said, “can know what the dead want.”

As if by some silent consensus, the three of them hopped into the car. Hope and Hawk got in the front, and then Hope pulled out of the barn and onto the low-shouldered road.

“Our mother was writing about the fire at Calvary Church for years,” she told Gretchen. “She spent a lot of time interviewing Esther, looking through her family archive. She said late one night on the anniversary she felt the whole congregation there. Sad, confused, scared, angry. Wandering around. She never saw them—just like me, she never saw a ghost—but on that day she said she felt their presence. The undeniable weight of history, she called it.”

“It’s ’cause you choose not to see them,” Hawk said to his sister.

“Choice has nothing to do with it,” Hope said, raising her voice just a bit.

Gretchen had to agree—she certainly had no choice in the matter when she saw Celia and Rebecca the night before, or when she and Hawk had watched the crowd of people out by the trees. She wanted to tell Hope and Hawk about the other creatures but her throat felt tight when she thought of them—of the thing near the darkroom, of her aunt’s face contorted in pain after drinking the chemicals. Her words in the moments before, Mona . . . she was here.

The countryside flew past as they drove, the woods dark and cool flanking the road. Hope had gone completely quiet, but looked more determined than ever. Hawk looked dreamily out at the forest. Gretchen thought of the people who must have hidden there, trying to make their way to the church. As she thought of Fidelia’s description of bringing people to safety, she reached up and touched the ivory hair clip. And suddenly had an urge to sharpen it, to make the tines as deadly and useful as a knife. What a badass that woman must have been.

Just like Esther, who had stayed alive for almost one hundred years even though she clearly thought about killing herself every day for the last forty. There had to be a reason Esther did what she did—planned it like this.

On a hunch Gretchen asked, “When is the anniversary?”

Hope looked at her brother in the rearview mirror, and then he cleared his throat.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said.





★ THE MAYVILLE EXPRESS ★

Reporting Above the Fold Since 1820 ? June 4, 1863

AXTON FAMILY BECOMES SOLE EXPORTER OF COTTON FOR THE NORTHEAST

Heir to the Axton fortune George Axton has been granted a cotton permit by the government to continue his work as a shipper and trader, purchasing the coveted commodity from at least three states in the Confederacy.

Responding to a reporter’s questions, Axton said he did not believe trading with the South was aiding the enemy and keeping slavery afloat.

Axton buys cotton for ten cents a pound in Mississippi, reselling it in the North for seventy cents a pound.

“We can’t ignore the wealth the cotton trade is bringing to our community,” Axton said. “Wealth is strength and strength will win the war. I’m not aiding any enemy.”

But many disagree with Axton, pointing out that Confederate General Kirby Smith has bragged of using cotton money from the North to turn back two Union campaigns.

“The more cotton the North buys, the more our boys die,” said Governor Horatio Seymour.





Dear James,

I agree. The irony is awful. I know you feel strange using the money from Axton Cotton to build the church. And yes, I agree with everything you have written. But think of the people we have helped. Without your parents’ money—without the transports coming out of Georgia—we’d never have been able to bring Jack and his family here to safety. We are fighting great powers and at the moment must do it by any means necessary!

My parents of course see something else in the church. The other night when I came into the parlor after I’d finished my sewing my mother said, “That would be a lovely, simple church for you to get married in.” I let her words pass over me.

I wanted to tell you: When I saw George last week he looked tousled and sullen and was not quite himself. We sat for a long time on the porch. I believe it is hard for him sometimes, especially now that he’s taken on nearly all of the management of Axton Cotton. He is rich indeed but I think he still sees himself standing in your shadow.

There was another fire, outside the town in Honeoye. And there have been gatherings of the WCP. People say it’s because Honeoye is such a backward place, so full of racists, and it’s true, but I know those evil sentiments are everywhere. Just as sentiments like ours are everywhere.

I have heard the WCP riding and have gone out on the porch to see them. Awful cowards so full of hate. Like ignorant children out of control. It strikes fear in my heart—and also rage. I try to keep the anger back but sometimes it is overwhelming. Valerie said every time it happens she expects them to ride right up to her house.

Later I was talking of these things with George. He took me on a walk to the church and we looked at the site and talked to the men who were building it. He knew them all of course, and they were so friendly, and amusing.