Eleanor, Alice, and the Roosevelt Ghosts

by Dianne K. Salerni

  No one is expecting the sudden flash of white near the ceiling either. Aunt Bye stiffens, Eleanor squeaks, and Alice gapes as a handkerchief floats gently through the air and onto the sofa. “Thank you.” Aunt Bye’s voice rises at the end, as if it’s a question rather than a statement. She picks up the handkerchief and unfolds it slowly, making sure it’s nothing more than what it seems.

  “What about the ghost?” Alice asks. “The Vengeful, I mean. Not this one.”

  Aunt Bye dabs at her eyes. “The eruption caught us by surprise while we were grieving.”

  When she doesn’t offer any other information, Eleanor asks, “Who was the ghost’s progenitor?”

  “We don’t know. We evacuated the house and never went back.”

  Eleanor makes a small noise, as if starting to say something and then changing her mind. It’s Alice who continues the questioning. “That ghost is really strong. Why wasn’t anything done to fade it? It doesn’t look like the furniture was even removed!”

  “It’s dangerous to go in there, Alice.”

  “That’s why there are specialists.” Watching her pregnant aunt cringe, Alice feels a twinge of guilt, but there’s something about this conversation that reminds her of a fish wriggling on a hook. She’s not about to stop reeling it in.

  “It’s expensive to empty an Unsafe house. Your father was a widower, with an infant child, and unexpectedly burdened with our family finances. He decided to wait out the haunting. I know that house is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and he’s waited far too long. But your father is stubborn. You know that.”

  Alice does know that. It’s a trait he passed to all his children.

  “Even an empty house doesn’t guarantee the quick fading of a ghost,” Aunt Bye goes on. “An alternative is selling the property to a developer who will tear the house down and rebuild. But that’s our childhood home, Alice. We don’t want to see it razed.”

  Alice understands. It’s why she doesn’t want Aunt Bye to abandon this house and rent another. This brownstone is Alice’s childhood home.

  Nevertheless, the explanation bothers her. Her father and her aunts don’t want the house torn down, but they don’t mind seeing it rot under the influence of a Vengeful? Alice looks across the room at Eleanor, and her cousin stares back, trying to telegraph a message. Alice has no idea what it is.

  Her hesitation creates a hole, which Eleanor jumps in to fill. “Thank you, Aunt Bye. We feel so much better, knowing the truth. It must’ve been a horrible time for you, and I’m sorry if we’ve made you relive it.”

  “Darlings,” Aunt Bye says, squeezing Alice’s hands and gazing across the room at Eleanor. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry you imagined the worst. The truth is terrible enough, and I’ve had a horror of ghosts ever since. The one in this house gives me the chills even when it does something kind.”

  She indicates the handkerchief, but Alice isn’t convinced that was meant as a kind gesture. On the surface it seems so, but when the handkerchief first fell from the ceiling, Alice had the distinct impression that the ghost was mocking her aunt’s tears.

  “I’m going to have a lie-down before afternoon tea.” Aunt Bye pushes off the arm of the sofa to stand and presses one hand to the small of her back. “Eleanor, will you stay and join us?”

  “Thank you, but Grandmother will be looking for me.” After Aunt Bye kisses her and leaves the room, Eleanor strides directly to the sofa like a girl with something on her mind and sits down next to Alice. “I don’t think she was telling us the whole truth. You know who else died in that house? Years before we were born?”

  Alice nods slowly. “Our grandfather. You think he’s the progenitor of the Vengeful?”

  “It would explain why they’ve never mentioned the ghost. And why they left the house untouched. They don’t want his reputation tarnished. I think they kept the whole thing as quiet as possible and sacrificed the house and everything in it to keep the secret safe.”

  That scritch-scratch voice Alice heard, calling to her through Miss Barnstable’s wall—was it her own grandfather, taunting her?

  “Alice, what did you hear in Miss Barnstable’s house that I didn’t?”

  Eleanor’s clear blue eyes fix worriedly on Alice’s face. It occurs to Alice that her cousin might read her far better than Alice can read Eleanor. “In that house? It was probably mice in the walls. Or snakes.”

  Eleanor sighs in exactly the same way Mother Edith does when she knows Alice is lying.

  U.S.S. MAINE EXPLODES IN HAVANA HARBOR

  OVER 200 OF HER CREW MISSING, PRESUMED LOST

  TREACHERY, ACCIDENT, OR SUPERNATURAL AGENCY?

  Havana, February 16, 1898—At quarter to ten o’clock last evening, a terrible explosion took place on board the United States battleship Maine in Havana Harbor. Many of the crew were killed or wounded, with over 200 men still unaccounted for.

  The explosion shook the whole city, breaking windows in houses.

  An Associated Press correspondent who interviewed surviving sailors reports that they cannot account for the cause, having been asleep at the time of the explosion. An investigation is underway to determine whether the tragedy on the warship was the result of accident, supernatural agency in the form of a Vengeful, or an act of foreign treachery.

  SEÑOR DE LÔME

  Señor de Lôme, the Ambassador of Spain to the United States, said that there was no possibility that the Spaniards had anything to do with the destruction of the Maine. “The explosion must have been caused by an accident on board the warship or perhaps by a ghost.”

  THE MAINE’S VISIT TO HAVANA

  The Maine sailed to Havana on Jan. 24, and was the first American warship to visit that port since the outbreak of the Cuban rebellion against Spain. Its presence signaled the continued trade between the U.S. and Cuba, despite outside hostilities.

  The Maine was commanded by Capt. Charles D. Sigsbee, who was injured in the explosion but is expected to survive along with several other officers. The enlisted men sleeping in the forward part of the ship and those on late-night duty took the brunt of the blast and are primarily among the missing and dead.

  Reports of a Vengeful aboard the warship are rumored, but cannot be confirmed.

  A Naval Court of Inquiry has been ordered, and the U.S. Department of Ghost Diagnosticians is sending representatives to consult with the Cuban diagnosticians already on the scene.

  President McKinley has committed “whatever resources necessary” to investigate and resolve the incident.

  11

  ELEANOR DEFIANT

  THIS morning is the day I speak to Grandmother about my schooling. I’m inspired by Alice, I think, and the way she charged across Manhattan to confront her family secrets. By comparison, I’ve been dawdling and delaying, waiting for the perfect moment to have the conversation and finding excuses to not even try.

  After looking through my clipped editorials and newspaper articles, I decide not to complicate matters by debating the merits of female education. All Grandmother cares about is the money and the logistics. To counter that, I will present my three schools in a planned strategy: Allenswood, Linden, and then Wadleigh.

  Breakfast is toast and tea, as always. Grandmother raises her eyes to me when I join her at the table. “You’re looking flushed. Are you unwell? You should put yourself back into bed, and I will send Rosie upstairs with a tonic.”

  I shudder. Grandmother’s tonics are bitter and oily and make me claim immediate improvement solely to ward off a second dose. Which may very well be their purpose. “I’m not unwell. I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  Her eyebrows rise, but she does not stop buttering her toast. “What matter has you in such a state, then?”

  “I want to continue my education.”

  “We have already spoken about this, Eleanor.”

  “
I intend to speak about it again.” I intend pops out of my mouth instead of I wish or I’d like, and for a moment I tremble, thinking Alice has influenced me too much. But Grandmother does not interrupt, so I continue. “I have looked into a number of schools, and my favorite is the Allenswood Academy in London. The headmistress, Madame Souvestre, has an excellent reputation.”

  “A school in London, run by a Frenchwoman. I suppose you’d like me to buy you a Swiss castle while I’m at it? What are you thinking, Eleanor? Have you discovered Bluebeard’s treasure in the basement? The travel costs alone would send me to the poorhouse.” Grandmother launches into a litany of the obstacles to and dangers of traveling abroad. She lingers on the likelihood of an ocean disaster because she knows I have never gotten over the terror of being lowered into a lifeboat with my parents after the S.S. Britannic collided with another vessel when I was not quite three years old.

  I wait until she takes a breath and proceed as planned. I never expected her to agree to Allenswood. I am merely herding her in the right direction. “Another excellent option is Linden Hall in central Pennsylvania. No ocean crossing required.”

  “I’ve heard of that one,” Grandmother snaps. “Run by Moravians. I would be a poor guardian indeed if I sent you to the wilds of Pennsylvania to be schooled by an obscure religious sect.”

  The Moravians have been educating girls at Linden Hall since the 1700s, which seems highly commendable to me.

  “Your duty is here, Eleanor.” Grandmother raps her knuckles on the table. “To me. I took in your family when you had nowhere else to go and accepted the burden of guardianship for you and your brother after the lamentable deaths of your parents. The least you could do in return is attend your grandmother in her old age and infirmity.”

  Infirmity? Grandmother is as sturdy as those ocean liners she claims sink with regularity. “Then you will like my third choice,” I tell her. “Last year, the New York City School Board authorized the founding of a high school for girls, the Wadleigh School. The city will be constructing a new school building for it only a few blocks from here.” It’s more like a hundred blocks, but I’ll break that news later. “Tuition would be minimal or free, but most importantly, I can live here.” She shakes her head while I’m talking, but I press on. “Grandmother, it is ideal. I can take classes and stay here with you, at almost no cost.”

  “They’re not going to build that school,” she says.

  “They are. It was voted on and approved.”

  “Then it will be unapproved. No one is going to waste resources building a high school for girls when the country is at war.”

  I stare at her blankly for a few seconds. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you not read this morning’s newspaper?”

  My eyes travel to the folded paper beside her elbow on the table. “You know I haven’t.” Is that Alice coming out of my mouth again?

  A gleam lights her eyes as she hands me the newspaper. I scan the headlines first, and the words explosion, treachery, missing, and dead jump out at me. My heart turns to stone and drops into my stomach while I read the whole article carefully. “It may not have been an attack by Spain,” I say hoarsely. “It could’ve been a Vengeful. Or a gas explosion.”

  Grandmother flattens out her lips. “It will be neither of those if war is more profitable. Mark my words. Your uncle will go to Cuba, of course.”

  At first I think she means Alice’s father, but then I realize she’s referring to Uncle Will. “No,” I whisper. He can’t go. Aunt Bye is expectng a baby. They have a ghost in the house.

  How can I have been so selfish, thinking about my own ambitions this morning, while my aunt’s world was falling into a deep, dark pit?

  “A shame,” Grandmother says, but there’s satisfaction in her expression, as if she’s already imagining my aunt as a war widow.

  I stand. “I have to go to Aunt Bye.”

  “Absolutely not. They have enough to deal with. I will not add you to their burden.”

  I am always a burden. A burden to her. But also a burden to anyone who takes me away from her. Lips trembling, I repeat myself. “I am going to Aunt Bye’s.” Then I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

  “Eleanor! Come back here at once!”

  I hear her rising from her chair. Does she mean to try to stop me? I grab my coat and dart out the front door before she makes it into the hallway.

  Slamming the door behind me, I rage silently at my mother for leaving my father all those years ago and bringing us here to live. And at my father for giving her cause. From there, my thoughts unravel. Should I also blame my mother for dying and taking my brother Elliott with her? Surely my father deserves a share of my anger. He left us in Grandmother’s care after their deaths, too caught up in his own grief to consider ours.

  Stopping on a street corner between my house and Aunt Bye’s, I wipe my eyes. I defied Grandmother Hall once before, when I was nine. I still bear the marks from a hickory switch on the backs of my legs. Traffic pauses, and I surge across the street with the rest of the crowd, wondering if I would submit to such a punishment now. Tonight, if called on to do so, will I let her have at me? Or will I snatch the switch from her hand, toss it aside, and tell her, No more?

  When I find myself in front of Aunt Bye’s house, I push those questions aside. I can’t go in if I’m more worried about Grandmother than I am about my aunt. Taking deep breaths, I compose myself. Only then do I ring the bell.

  The door opens, and Maisie exclaims, “Oh! Miss Eleanor! Isn’t it terrible?”

  I am whisked inside, my coat and bonnet taken by a whirlwind, and directed into the dining room, where nobody is eating their breakfast. The plate in front of Aunt Bye is empty, and Uncle Will’s holds an intact congealed egg. Alice is there too, her face pinched, her plate pristine. Ida pours me tea, and I sit and stare across the table.

  “Your uncle,” Aunt Bye says to me, “is leaving for Cuba this morning.”

  “It is my duty to go,” Uncle Will replies, not to me but to his wife. “If the explosion was caused by an accident or a ghost, I’ll be home in a few days.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Bye agrees woodenly.

  Uncle Will puts his hand over hers. “You’ll be well taken care of while I’m gone. The solicitor is going to send a list of potential houses to rent. You can visit them and decide which suits you best, and by the time you’ve made up your mind, I’ll be back to help with the move. In the meantime, Alice will keep you company, and Eleanor—” He looks at me. “You’ll visit every day, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, thinking I might need to live here if Grandmother throws me out for my disobedience. But I doubt she will let go of me that easily.

  “The cousins are still coming tomorrow, aren’t they?” Alice asks.

  Aunt Bye puts her fingertips to her mouth. “Perhaps I should cancel their visit.”

  “Don’t,” Uncle Will says. “It will be better to have young people around, keeping your spirits up. And speaking of spirits, I’ll feel better knowing you have a strapping lad like Franklin here to handle incidents such as this morning.”

  I glance around the table. “What happened this morning?”

  “The ghost stacked all the chairs on the dining room table.”

  “Like a puzzle,” Alice adds, intertwining her fingers. “With the legs tangled together.”

  Uncle Will grunts in agreement. “Took me a few minutes to disassemble them without the whole structure crashing to the ground.”

  “Is that normal?” In books, Friendlies are helpful and charming, like invisible servants. This ghost did something in the attic to make Alice cry.

  “Apparently, our ghost is a mischief-maker.” Uncle Will looks worriedly at his wife. “Will you be all right, Bye? Tell me if you will not, and I will telegraph my superior and say I cannot come.”

  I hol
d my breath. What Uncle Will is offering to do is not done. A soldier doesn’t decline an order from his superior. For an officer of Uncle Will’s rank, it could mean the end of his career.

  Aunt Bye knows this too. “No, Will. You can’t do that.” She clasps his hands tightly. “You will be home before the baby is born?”

  “Long before he is born, my darling.”

  “Or she,” Aunt Bye reminds him, her eyes shining.

  “Or she,” he agrees, leaning close to her.

  I enjoy a good literary romance—the novels Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility are favorites of mine—but there is something about seeing it in person, between people of a certain age, who are related to you, that makes the whole thing embarrassing. I look at Alice. She flings her napkin to the table, and we flee the dining room before Aunt Bye and Uncle Will start canoodling right in front of us.

  “Your father won’t have to go to Cuba, will he?” I ask after we escape into the hallway.

  “His job as assistant secretary of the navy will require that he stay in Washington,” Alice says with just enough tartness in her voice for me to stare at her, not taking that as a full answer. After a moment, she exhales in exasperation. “But you don’t know my father very well if you think he’ll stay behind while everyone’s attention is on Cuba. If he could, Father would be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding, and the baby at every christening.”

  I want to protest her harshness, but I’m not sure she’s wrong. Before I can say anything, Uncle Will exits the dining room and strides toward us. “Girls, I am counting on you to look after Bye.”