He ran. Not swiftly or well, but it felt good. He wore a soft brace on his left knee and labored to breathe evenly. It was odd to think he had once been an athlete. Track and baseball. An average fielder and below-average hitter, but a pretty fair middle-distance runner. Through sophomore year at Amherst, when he blew his knee out. He was supposed to use a treadmill or bicycle, but seldom bothered, and had gotten out of shape.
Muriel would say he was projecting his mood onto the weather. Gray and misting. The clouds seemed to sit right on the houses, swallowing the tops of trees. Millions of droplets danced sideways, gently soaking everything. His sweatpants and shirt hung heavily on him. At the three-mile mark he meant to turn back, but caught sight of the Congregational Church steeple. A narrowing white shaft, vanishing into the ghostly vapor. He slowed, but felt a nudge at his back. Will knew better than to look. He also knew better than to ignore the hint. He picked up his pace and followed the winding road into what passed for the center of town.
Had he missed an evacuation order? A few cars passed, but there was no one else on the streets. It was poor weather to be out in, though that never bothered the locals. He scampered across the road and under dripping oaks to the edge of the churchyard. Then entered through a remembered break in the stone wall, toward the rear. Near the graves.
There were older graveyards in town, but as Margaret Price noted, the seven families were late arrivals. The oldest stones here bore dates from the early nineteenth century, just when the Halls, Prices and the rest started showing up. He ambled over uneven ground toward the secluded and tree-shrouded back wall. The graves were smaller here. Pale and pitted, and covered in lichen and moss. An older woman in a light blue dress knelt in the corner where Will was headed. The first soul he had seen today. She was slim, with silver hair and graceful movements. No umbrella, but the rain had backed off, or perhaps the oaks were shielding them. She was plucking weeds from around one old slab and arranging some flowers. Will lingered where he was, turning to the stone nearest.
Nathaniel C. Branford
Born June 9, 1809
Died November 11, 1859
His wife, Dorothea, who outlasted her husband by fifteen years, was beside him. There were more Branfords scattered about, but Nathaniel and Dorothea appeared to be the oldest of them. The woman in the blue dress stood and turned her face to Will. Handsome, familiar. She smiled briefly, then wandered away. He watched her for a few moments. A proud and erect posture that he could almost place. Then he proceeded to where she had been kneeling. The final resting place of the Halls.
He was instinctively drawn to the stone she had been tending. It was the smallest here. Probably marble, and so badly worn now that he could hardly read it. But he knew this marker, the great-granddaddy of them all.
Samuel Isaac Hall
Died March 3, 1848
The first Hall to come down from Maine. Possibly the first among all the families to make the move. Why did he come? Why did the others follow, if that was indeed how it had worked? And what lesson might there be for Will in this knowledge? He was deep in thought when his pocket buzzed, making him jump.
The phone. He normally would not have taken it running, but he wanted Abby to be able to reach him wherever he was. He dug it from his wet pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hey, stranger.” Beth. Such a sane, friendly voice. How long since he had heard it? “How goes it up there?”
“Um, okay,” he tried. “I don’t remember when I last checked in.”
“Your mom had just come out of the coma.”
“Right.” At least he had reported that much. “That was, like, a week ago.”
“Exactly,” she laughed, or it sounded like a laugh. “How is she?”
“Doing much better.” He stood up and turned a slow circle, as if looking for spies. “Still weak, but a lot better.”
“She’s home?”
“Oh yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” she said. Implying that he did need to apologize to someone. “I’m sure you have your hands full.”
“How are classes going?” he asked, beginning to walk. Back toward the church. Gazing at gravestones as he passed them.
“Under control. I told you Bryce took over American Lit.”
Thomas Samuel Hall, died 1917. Old Tom’s grandfather, who built the house.
“I remember.”
“He’s shown up twice. Figured out pretty quickly I was doing all the work.”
“Good,” Will answered mechanically. “And the seminar?”
She laughed again. It was a sweet laugh, but seemed a bit nervous or self-conscious now.
“Asa Waite seized control from the first day you were out,” said Beth. Succubus girl. That figured. “They’re a pretty self-propelled group. I wouldn’t worry about the seminar.”
“What should I worry about?” he asked.
“Dean Wagner.”
Anne, beloved wife of...rests with the angels...
“What about him?”
“Will,” she said firmly. “There’s a right way to do this, and you’re ignoring it.”
“I spoke to him before I left.”
“That was fine. It was an emergency—everyone understood. But it’s ten days now, and you’ve checked in exactly once.”
Alice Elizabeth Hall.
Will stopped short.
Born April 30, 1912
Died August 11, 1919
“Hello?” said Beth. “Anyone there?”
“What do I need to do?” he asked, gazing at the grave of his childhood playmate. If he believed Samantha.
“Apply for an official leave of absence. Did you get the forms I emailed?”
Emails, right. The wide world.
“My mother’s computer is crap. There’s a dial-up connection, but it takes ten minutes. I haven’t seen anything.”
“You haven’t read any emails?”
“And I’m still alive,” Will replied. “It’s a miracle.”
“Sarcasm isn’t necessary.”
“I don’t mean to... It’s like you said... I have my hands full. There’s more stuff going on here than I expected.”
“Sorry to hear it,” she answered, sounding tired of the conversation. He didn’t blame her. “We’ll survive down here, but you’re pushing it with Wagner.”
The dean of faculty was gruff, short-tempered and formidable looking, and everyone was afraid of him. Yet Will noticed that his decisions were never malicious or arbitrary. He sensed a basically decent soul who had grown a tough skin. Of course, he could be wrong, but Will had been unconsciously trusting his academic future to this instinct about the man, a fact that had only become clear to him now.
The next grave stopped him again. It was the newest in this section and at the top in large letters it simply said HALL. Below and to the left it was inscribed:
Jane Marian, wife of Thomas
Born October 22, 1910
Died November 1, 1970
To the right was inscribed: Thomas Isaac, Born May 23, 1913 with space below to list the date of death. But it was Jane’s name that drew his eye back. Healer, herbologist, glue of the family, who had died too young. An image sprang to mind, and a sickening unease rose up in him.
“Beth, I have to go.”
“I’ll snail mail the forms. Deal with them. And for God’s sake call Wagner.”
“Thanks for everything. Really.”
“Yeah, right.”
The connection was broken. He put the phone away and looked around for the older woman, but she had vanished. Without thinking, he began walking quickly toward the break in the wall by which he had entered. But someone was there. Standing right in the open space. Will turned away quickly. He did not want to know who or what it was. He made for the front of the church, past the newer graves. The ground had changed since he had last been here. New stones had gone in, trees and bushes had grown up, yet he suddenly realized where he was. He stopped, reversed a few yards and went over one row to stand before a polished granite slab. Looking as fresh as it had that day. The last day he had visited this church, sixteen years ago.
Christine Rebecca Jordan
February 20, 1970
September 30, 1987
They had only known each other a couple of years. Had only been going out for six months or so. He could not say who she was as a person, who she might have become. It was this tragic thing that had occurred in his past. He hardly mentioned Christine to anyone. Good friends of his didn’t know he had a girlfriend who died in a car crash in high school. And yet hardly a day went by that he did not think of her. He might see her face in the face of one of his students, or a girl in a coffee shop. He might smell privet or honeysuckle, scents she had made him aware of that summer. He might simply dream about her. Alive again, happy, full of plans for both of them.
No one had blamed him. Her mother did not speak to him at the funeral, but she didn’t speak to anyone. Her brothers had been kind, patting him on the back, saying words he did not remember. But her father had pulled him close and spoken kindly in his ear. Nobody is putting this on you, Will. Understand? Don’t you do it either. It’s just one of those things that happen.
Did he blame himself? Not consciously. He was not in the car with her. He had not even asked her to come over that afternoon. It was her idea. Yet the fact remained that she had flown off the road on the way to his house. To see him. Had she not been his girlfriend, she would be alive today. Judgments aside, that simple truth was inescapable. Haunting.
He turned away from the grave, turned a slow circle again. No older woman. He was alone. What had she been trying to tell him? Why had his steps directed him to this place? Only one idea occurred to Will.
She opened the door after his second ring. He hadn’t seen Molly Jordan in ten years or more, and was startled by how much she had aged. Her face was thicker, her hair grayer, and she gazed blankly at him for a moment or two. Then smiled. It was a brittle smile, but did not seem false, nor did she appear surprised.
“Will. You’re soaked.”
He looked down at his wet clothes. Why had he come here like this? Why hadn’t he gone home and changed? It was as if he traveled to her doorstep in a dream and was only waking now. Yet if he had thought too much, he would not have come.
“Sorry, I should have called. I was out running and saw the house...”
“Come in.”
She stepped back and pulled the door open farther. The big wooden door, still painted forest green, with that useless little window near the top.
“I don’t want to interrupt anything.”
“Really, it’s fine. Please come in.”
She put a dish towel on a kitchen chair and made him sit. Then busied herself making tea. More tea. If he got out of this town alive, he would never drink tea again. The kitchen was as he remembered. The creamy beige walls, blue Dutch tiles around the counters and appliances. He could vaguely remember Christine moving about in this space, but only vaguely. She was slender, wasn’t she? He was not certain anymore. He had looked at her picture in his high school yearbook the night before, and been surprised to find it not quite matching up with the one in his dreams. He was losing her, making her up.
Molly brought the cups to the table and started talking, about anything. She didn’t mention the divorce, but Will had heard about it. Her older son, the banker, had moved from Boston to Charlotte. Which meant seeing less of her grandchildren. The younger son was doing something with an environmental group in Boulder. She didn’t ask why he had come, though the question hung in the air between them.
“How is Abby?” she finally said.
“She’s doing really well,” Will assured her. “Almost back to her old self.”
“I have to go over and see her,” Molly said firmly, as if trying to convince them both. “It’s been so long.”
Molly had been a core member of the spirit circle, but her relationship with the Conner family had not survived her daughter’s death. She had been friendly to Will the two or three times he had bumped into her since, but she avoided Abby’s house.
“Will you leave now?” she asked, looking at him closely. The way all the women around here seemed to do. “Now that she’s better?”
It was not such a strange question, but her leaping to it so swiftly felt odd. Lines were forming. The people who wanted him to stay and figure things out. Which was really only Sam and himself, although you might throw the Price women in there. And the people who wanted him gone. Which was pretty much everyone else.
“Not yet,” Will answered, returning her gaze as steadily as he could manage. “She needs me a little while longer. And maybe I need to be here.”
“Do you like coming back?”
“There are people I like to see. But not really, no.”
“You were smart to get away,” she said, breaking eye contact. Sipping her tea. “I don’t know why I don’t leave.”
“Some people feel attached to the place. Like they couldn’t live anywhere else.”
“The old families, yes. But that’s not us. My sons have gone. My husband too, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Just me now, and this house is too big for one.”
“You don’t want to leave Christine,” he said, his mouth ahead of his brain. But her expression turned warm, and she put her hand on his knee.
“That’s right. I think that’s just what it is. It’s nice that you understand.”
“She’s very...” Will fumbled for the right word. “She’s very present to me when I’m here. Well, all the time, but especially here.”
“You don’t still...” A worried look came over Molly’s face and she squeezed his knee, seemingly without knowing. “You’ve moved on, haven’t you? You have a girlfriend or fiancée or something?”
“Sure,” he replied awkwardly. It was weird having her ask him these questions. Weird, too, that he had not thought of Helen once since he’d been home.
“It was so long ago. Of course, you meant the world to her. Dear God, she was mad about you. Wanting to spend every moment with you that she could. Picking colleges just to be close to where you were. It made me a little nuts.”
“She meant a lot to me too.”
“Oh, I know that. I know that, Will. It’s just that you were both so young. And it was useless for me to say that you don’t spend the rest of your life with your high school sweetheart. Or anyway, it doesn’t usually work that way.”
None of it was ill meant. She was just spilling things out of her bag of grief. Probably grateful to talk about it, and sensing the same desire in him. Yet he felt bludgeoned. Incapable of speech. As sick in body and spirit as if the news of Christine’s death had just reached him.
“I’m sorry, is this all too much?” Molly asked.
“No, it’s...”
“Do you see her?”
There were darting spots in his vision, and he closed his eyes. Trying hard to disappear from this place, but the pressure of her hand on his leg kept him tethered. Something both comforting and unsettling about that pressure.
“I see her sometimes,” Molly went on. “Or just feel her close by. Sometimes she’s hurt and needs my help. But I can’t help her.”
“I know,” he whispered. He tried to say more but all that emerged was a sob. And then she was holding him while he cried. Pulling him against her and making soothing noises while his whole body shook. He tried to stop several times but could not, until his ribs ached and he pulled desperately for air. At length he drew away from her. Shamed. Wanting to flee, but knowing that would not be right.
“What does it mean?” he asked at last.
“I’m not sure,” Molly mused. Looking a bit lost, or bereft. “I think it means we haven’t let her go. Maybe we’re holding her here.”
What a hideous thought. He did not want to believe it, but there was poor Alice. Wandering the woods. Who was keeping her?
“How do we release her?” Will asked.
“I don’t know, but we have to try. It’s not fair to any of us, going on like this. Poor Will, I think I’ve made you feel worse for coming here.”
“No, it’s all right.”
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes,” he replied after a moment. Looking at her again. “You can tell me what you were all doing the night Johnny Payson died.”
She nodded, unsurprised by the question. But the nodding motion mutated somehow into a shaking of the head.
“Of course you want to know. The only wonder is you waited this long. Or maybe you’ve been asking others?”
“Actually, you’re the first,” Will told her. “Believe it or not. I mean, besides my mother.”
“Lucky me. Well, I’m honored, but I can’t. I’m sorry. We agreed not to talk about it.”
“I was there, Mrs. Jordan.”
“Molly, please. I know you were there.”
“I was too young to understand what was happening, but it’s never left me. I have a right to know.”
She closed her eyes, pained lines gathering in her forehead.
“You have a right, no question. But you misunderstand. It wasn’t a casual agreement.” She opened her eyes again but looked away from him, thumb and finger rubbing the bridge of her nose. “More like an oath.”
“You swore an oath? Why?”
“It was his idea. We all went along. I can’t say any more.”
“Who is ‘he’?”
“I can’t say any more,” Molly replied harshly. Her head was clearly hurting her badly, and she had gone pale. He should stop now, but the deflection was driving him mad. Why did everyone have a right to know what had happened to him, except him? Maybe if she did not have to tell, but only confirm?
“You called something. Johnny brought a spell and you summoned something.”
“I didn’t know what we were doing,” she said. “Most of us didn’t understand.”
“But something came.”
“He said it didn’t,” she moaned. Closing her eyes again and rocking back and forth in the chair. “He said we failed. But there was this...”
“Go ahead.”
“After the lightning. Right after, while we were still in shock. Before we understood what happened. Something rose up in that room. We all felt it. Some powerful presence. It was—”
She bolted up from her chair and rushed to the sink, vomiting tea. Then sagged weakly against the counter. Will rushed to her before she reached the floor, and held her, unsure what to do. Within a few moments, he felt strength return to her limbs.
“Do you need to lie down?”
“No,” she said hoarsely. “Just help me back to the table.”
She hardly needed help and was fully under her own power by the time she sat again. But she was still pale, and very worn.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you like that,” he said.
“I had it coming. We all do, for whatever we did to you. I thought Christine was my punishment. I thought that would be enough. But I guess it doesn’t end.”
“Please don’t talk like that. Do you need help? Can I get you anything?”
“You need to go.”
He waited another half a minute, then stood.
“I’m sorry I troubled you, Molly. It wasn’t what I intended.”
“No, Will, I mean go. Get away from here. You want to understand, I know. You’re a seeker, just like...like some men are. But it’s better to let some things be, if you can. Let us alone—we’ve suffered enough. You’ve suffered enough. Leave this town. Just leave.”