The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed

by Bruce Coville

  Here it is:

  December 2, 1920

  My Dearest Sister,

  How can I find the words to tell you of the tragedy that has overtaken this house? As if the war, and the wounds Cornelius suffered, were not enough, so many new sorrows have come to us in the last month that I can hardly bear to write this. Yet you must know all, for if things here do not change, I may soon be forced to intrude on you and beg your charity.

  I have so much to tell that I scarcely know where to begin. So I shall state the very worst first and then try to explain how all has happened.

  Our beloved child, Alida, is dead.

  Oh, Edith, how it costs me to write those words. For even now I do not want to admit that this is true, and writing it down somehow makes it more real, gives me less chance to pretend it was a dream. Yet if you are to understand my desperate circumstances I must tell you everything.

  Here, then, is the story of our tragedy.

  As you know, my husband returned from Europe a man much changed. Not only was he nearly crippled by the explosion that maimed his legs. He was changed in spirit. A man once so filled with joy, of such sunny disposition, he was now possessed of the darkest humor. I feel it was not only his physical wounds that caused this damage. In truth, he recognized that he was luckier than many, for unlike those men who could no longer earn their way, he could still paint, even if he could not stand for long periods of time. In these efforts he has had help from the Potter boy.

  Though the projects themselves have not been to my liking, I felt they were of help to Cornelius. I hoped that by painting, he could cure the wounds the war had left on his soul, which were deeper and fiercer even than the wounds to his body.

  So I watched with sorrow but said nothing as the brush that once gave shape to such sweetness and joy now painted only images that were dark, somber and tragic.

  Of all things, only our dear Alida seemed to give Cornelius any joy during these dark days.

  Toward the end of November my husband finished a picture he called “Early Harvest.” I know this work has greatness in it, but so filled is it with the evil of war that I can scarce stand to look at it.

  No sooner was “Early Harvest” done than he began work on a far grander project, one that even now I shudder to remember, and will not describe to you.

  “The Lost Masterpiece,” whispered Chris.

  I looked up, nodded, and went back to reading the letter.

  As if all this were not enough, he chose to hurl himself into the political arena—as I imagine you well know, since his drawings appeared in magazines all across the country.

  I know that what he has shown in his work is true. But why, why, could he not have let someone else be the one to present that truth?

  We fought about this often.

  Late in November the influenza struck here, as it did in so many places. There was much panic, and you could see many people walking through the streets with handkerchiefs pressed against their faces to try to ward off the disease.

  Sometimes I do believe that ill luck invites more ill luck to join it, for the sickness came to this house. Unwelcome visitor, after the darkness that had already descended upon us! I fell victim to it, as did our dear Alida.

  Dr. Dillon phoned a prescription to the pharmacy. As there was no delivery immediately available, Cornelius decided to go for it himself. I lay in my bed, consumed with fever, and he came to me to whisper good-bye. Then he went to Alida’s room. Desperately afraid that she would die before he returned, he bent over her bed and whispered, “I am going for medicine to make you well, my dearest. Wait for me. Wait for me!”

  This I know because he told me of it afterward.

  From my bed I could hear the thud of his crutches as he went down the stairs. Then the door closed, and he was gone.

  Outside the wind howled, driving the rain against the windows. Alida moaned occasionally, as, I fear, did I, before I finally drifted into a feverish sleep.

  I was awakened by a pounding on the front door. I opened my eyes and blinked. The room was light—very light, for during the night the rain had changed to snow, and now the brightness of the sun reflecting off it seemed to flood the room.

  So much light for the darkest day of my life.

  More pounding at the door. Trembling with fever—and with fear—I drew on my robe and made my way down the stairs. I wondered where Cornelius was and why he had not woken me when he came home.

  More pounding. I reached the door and drew it open, leaning against it for support. However, even with the door to support me I could not stand against the terrible sight that greeted me, and I fell to the floor in a faint.

  When I woke again, the image I had seen still burned in my brain. That image was of our neighbors from down the hill, Mr. Parker and Mr. Johnson. They stood side by side in my doorway, holding my husband between them. His head, bruised and bloody, lolled forward. His legs hung limply behind him.

  Thank God for the kindness of neighbors. While Mr. Parker tended to Cornelius, Mr. Johnson helped me to a chair, where I sat, staring in horror at the sight before me.

  “What happened?” I asked when I could finally find voice to speak. But my kindly neighbors did not know, for they had found my husband in this condition only a short time before. It was not until much later that Cornelius was able to tell me that he had been set upon by a gang of thugs who objected to his drawings—set upon, beaten, and left for dead.

  Oh, sister, why are men so cruel? Who would beat a man near to death because they disagree with what he has to say?

  “I tried to come back,” he whispered. “I tried, Amanda. I crawled all the way to the top of the hill. But I could not reach the lock. I could not open the gate. I could not pass the wall.”

  Nor could he walk, even with his crutches, for his wounded legs had been frozen and were now without life at all.

  Oh, sister, it was just as well right then, for in not being able to walk he was not able to climb the stairs. And so it was not he, poor broken man, who had to make the terrible discovery that our daughter had died while he lay freezing outside our gate, clutching her medicine to his chest.

  This is a house of darkness. Cornelius has lost his legs—lost them to frostbite and the surgeon’s knife. Far worse, he has lost, I fear, his sanity. It is not always so; he has moments when he is lucid. But at other times I know him to be quite mad.

  This is why I must think of asking your charity, dear Edith. The truth is, I no longer feel safe here. Alida’s spirit seems to haunt the house, though I do not think Cornelius knows this, for he has never been upstairs since that night. His thoughts are absorbed in plans for his horrifying grand project. And I cannot care for myself, or him, as well as I might—for it seems that I am once more with child.

  Your loving sister,

  Amanda Fletcher

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Hangman

  None of us said anything for a few moments after I read this letter. I could see tears in my father’s eyes.

  Three letters remained in the pile. These were from Cornelius to Amanda; the first two had been sent to her in care of her sister in Pennsylvania. The first was very short:

  January 12, 1921

  My Dearest Amanda,

  Please return to me.

  Cornelius

  The second was longer, but hard to read because some of the words were blurred where the ink had run and smeared, as if drops of water had fallen on the page. Raindrops? Tears? It was impossible to tell.

  My Dearest Amanda,

  How can I——you what——my heart. There is work——must do, a story only I——tell. I do not have the wo——show what is in me, only the power of my brush——as simple as a quarrel between us. It is something——something inside me that must be taken out, shown to others. I pray——work——to prevent it all from happening again.

  Please come home to——miss you more than I can say. The work——gressing. I have fin——the section on the east�
��—Start the next——soon.

  Come home, come home.

  Cornelius

  The last letter was not in an envelope. It was simply folded up. It was very short. All it said was this:

  Dear Amanda,

  It is not finished. I cannot finish it. I am defea——

  The last word ended with a blot of ink. There was nothing else on the page or in the box.

  When we finished reading the letters, we were all quiet for a while. What could you say? It was all so sad, and there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.

  At least, not right then. But the fact that the ghosts were still hanging around indicated that maybe Chris and I could do something. What, I didn’t know. But something.

  “Probably the best place to start is with Phoebe Watson,” Chris said when we began to discuss it.

  “But she’s in the hospital.”

  “That doesn’t mean she can’t have visitors. In fact, she’d probably like some. Why don’t we take her the letters? They really belong to her anyway, and they would make a good way for us to start asking questions.”

  That sounded like a good plan to me. So after school the next day Chris took a bus over to my house. We had some slopnuggets and milk, then put Cornelius Fletcher’s metal box inside a brown bag and started for the hospital. The hospital is connected to the university, so it’s an easy walk from my house.

  It was a good day for a walk. The air had an October tang, and the sidewalks were littered with gold and scarlet leaves. When we were less than a block from the hospital, I heard a familiar voice say, “Are you being careful?”

  “Jimmy!” I cried, spinning around. I was really glad to see him. “Jimmy, what do you know about Cornelius Fletcher?”

  Jimmy’s eyes went wide. “I hung him,” he said.

  “You did what?” cried Chris.

  “Don’t be mad!” said Jimmy desperately. “They were all mad. But I only did what he wanted. I owed him that much!”

  “I’m not mad,” I said softly. Actually, I felt sick. I hesitated, then asked, “Why did he want you to hang him?”

  “Something terrible, something wonderful,” whispered Jimmy. “That’s what it’s all about.”

  He began to back away from us.

  “Wait!” I said.

  But he only moved faster. He disappeared into a clump of bushes. By the time we reached it, he was gone.

  “How can someone that old move so fast?” asked Chris in astonishment.

  “Maybe he didn’t move fast so much as move smart.”

  “Huh?”

  I shrugged. “He’s been living on the streets for years. He probably knows every hiding place in town.”

  “Jimmy?” called Chris. “Jimmy, can you hear us?”

  No answer.

  “Come on,” I said. “I doubt he’d tell us anything more even if we found him.”

  “Okay,” muttered Chris. “But I’d like to know what that was all about. Do you think he killed Cornelius?”

  “Maybe it was one of those assisted suicide things,” I said uneasily. “If you consider everything that had happened to him, it’s easy to imagine that Cornelius might decide to end it all. Since he was crippled, maybe he talked Jimmy into helping him.”

  “But why would Jimmy do it?” asked Chris.

  “I don’t know!” I said sharply. “Maybe because he’s crazy, too!”

  But that answer ignored two things. One, we had no reason to think Jimmy had been crazy that far back; two, from what I’ve been reading lately, it seems that some very sane people have gotten involved in things like that.

  We were still discussing Jimmy when we got to Phoebe’s room on the third floor of the hospital.

  Phoebe looked awful. She had her eyes closed when we walked in, and for a second I thought she was dead. Her skin was so pale, it was almost white. Her hair seemed thin and limp. The lines around her eyes and mouth were deeper than I remembered. I wondered if that was a sign of being in pain.

  As we stood there, wondering if we should wake her or just go home, her eyelids fluttered open. When she saw us, she smiled.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come to see me,” she whispered, reaching for my hand.

  Boy, did that make me feel guilty. After all, we wouldn’t have come if not for the letters. Now that I saw what our coming meant to her, I felt like some kind of fake.

  “How ya doin’, Phoebe?” I asked softly.

  She smiled again, although it wasn’t really much of a smile. “Better than I look,” she said. “Here, give me that button.”

  She motioned to a little control box attached to a thick cord. Chris handed it to her. Phoebe pushed a button, and the back of the bed began to lift, carrying Phoebe with it.

  “That’s better,” she said, once she was halfway to a sitting position. “Now we can talk. So tell me, how’s my baby doing?”

  I wondered if she was having hallucinations, until I realized she meant her cat.

  “General Pershing is fine,” I said.

  Phoebe patted my hand. “Norma told me that you were going to feed him. I appreciate it.”

  I wondered if I should tell her about the prowler in the house. I decided not to; what was the point of giving her something else to worry about right now? But I realized we had better also call the police to see if it looked as if anything had been stolen. It wouldn’t be good for her to come home to a ransacked house; that might give her another heart attack.

  Chris stepped in to fill the silence I had left. “Nine found something at your house last night. We thought you might like to have it.”

  Before she could hand Phoebe the box, someone knocked at the door. It was just a warning; no one expects you to get up and answer the door when you’re in the hospital. People just knock. If you say it’s okay, they walk in. If you don’t say anything, they usually figure you’re asleep and walk in to sit beside you. (I got all this from my father, who told me the ground rules we should know if we went to visit Phoebe.)

  A warning knock wasn’t enough to prepare me for the tall, slender man who stepped into the room. He was extremely handsome. But that wasn’t what took my breath away.

  It was the fact that I recognized his voice. I had heard it the night before, in Phoebe Watson’s house.

  I was face to face with the prowler.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Byron

  The man who stepped into Phoebe’s room was younger than I expected, probably in his early twenties. His thick, golden-brown hair hung down to his wide shoulders. His brown eyes were enormous. With his straight nose and square jaw he was about as gorgeous as a guy can get.

  But my heart wasn’t pounding so hard because he was handsome. What I was feeling was sheer terror. What was this guy doing here? Had he tracked me down? Had he come to do something bad to Phoebe?

  While I was trying to decide whether or not to scream, the newcomer crossed to the bed and said, “Hi, sweetheart. Who are your friends?”

  Phoebe grabbed his hand. “Byron!” she cried. “Oh, Byron! I’m so glad you were able to come.”

  I blinked in confusion. What was going on here?

  “It’s one of the few advantages of being unemployed,” Byron said with a grimace. “You can go where you’re needed.” He sank into a chair and crossed his long legs.

  Phoebe turned her head toward us and said, “Girls, this is Byron Fletcher. He’s what we call a shirttail relative.”

  “Third cousin, I think,” said Byron. “Though I usually get that mixed up.”

  Byron and Phoebe were related? Then what had he been doing prowling around in her house?

  “And these are my friends, Nine and Chris,” said Phoebe.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Byron once we got past the usual explanation about my name. “Are you old friends of Phoebe’s?”

  “New ones,” said Chris.

  “Those are good, too,” said Byron, smiling.

  “How is your work coming, dear?” Phoebe asked.
>
  Byron shrugged. “I like it. Unfortunately, no one seems to think it’s worth paying for.”

  “What do you do?” asked Chris.

  I was glad to let her carry the conversation while I tried to figure out what was going on.

  Byron smiled. “I’m a starving artist.”

  “He’s trying to carry on the family tradition,” said Phoebe, squeezing his hand. “He’s good, too—the best since Poppa.”

  Byron actually blushed. “Phoebe has always been my biggest supporter,” he said. “My parents think art is a waste of time. They want me to be a lawyer. They still haven’t forgiven me for refusing to go to law school.”

  “Or me,” said Phoebe with a sigh. “They think I encouraged you in your rebellion.”

  Byron laughed. “You did, you old scoundrel!” He squeezed her hand and winked at me. I thought for a minute that I might fall over.

  “When did your train get in?” Phoebe asked.

  “Last night,” said Byron. He looked troubled. “What a night I had! First, there was this awful storm going on. Then I thought there was a prowler in the house. Only I couldn’t find anyone, so I decided it was just my nerves. But just about the time I was settling down, the police showed up, saying they had had a report of a prowler.”

  Chris snorted. I began to blush. This was embarrassing. But since I didn’t want Phoebe to get all worried, I figured I’d better straighten things out.

  “I sent the police,” I said. “I was feeding General Pershing, and when you came in, I thought you were a prowler. Actually, what I thought was that I was going to die. I didn’t think anyone else was supposed to be there, so I called the police as soon as I got home.”

  I thought Byron might be angry, but he seemed to find the whole mix-up pretty funny. “It’s a good thing Phoebe keeps my picture on her dresser,” he said with a laugh. “I had to use it to convince the good officer I really did belong there.”