[The History Mystery 01.0] Time and Again

by Deborah Heal

  When the hymn was finished, they sat and his shoulder scraped against hers. She supposed he couldn’t help it that the chairs weren’t large enough. Heat was radiating off him, and he shifted in his chair as if trying to take up less space. Then she saw in horror that the skirt of her white eyelet dress had landed on his khakis and she hurried to tug it back in place.

  Another man came up to the pulpit and reminded the congregation to give generously, and not to forget the Building Expansion Fund, to which several people said heartfelt amens. He prayed and the plates were passed. The guy beside her put in a folded check and passed the plate to her, which meant she was forced to look at his hand again.

  There were other hymns and choruses and then the pastor came to the pulpit, prayed, and began to speak. The sermon was titled “God’s Grace in Time of Need.” She knew that because the bulletin said so. But when it was finished she realized she had no earthly idea what the sermon had been about, because the guy next to her had taken up all the oxygen in the room, leaving her with nothing to breathe but the scent of his cologne.

  Finally, everyone stood. Escape at last—but no. The family of eight in front of her was taking an inordinate amount of time to gather up Bibles, a diaper bag, coloring books and crayons, a baby bottle, five miniature boxes of raisins, a Tupperware container of Cheerios, and finally the baby in the infant seat. She marveled that the children had been so quiet and well-behaved. Of course, they could have been swinging from the chandeliers the whole time and she, in her own torturous little world, wouldn’t have noticed.

  Then, when the last boy had filed out, a smiling couple came up to block her escape. “Hi, I’m Mary and this is my husband George. We’re so happy you could worship with us today.”

  Not as much of that had occurred as she would have liked, but she smiled and said, “Hello, Abby Thomas. It was a great service.” She had never lied in church before. She wondered if it was worse than lying anywhere else.

  “I see you’ve already met John,” George said. Behind her, he said, “No.” His voice cracked a little as he added, “Not really.”

  Mercifully, George and Mary backed up enough to allow them to step into the aisle. She turned and saw that he was wearing a blue shirt that called attention to the blue of his eyes. He looked hot, his face as red as hers felt. He extended a hand and said, “Hi, I’m John Roberts.”

  As she had imagined, his hand dwarfed hers, but his handshake was gentle, like he was used to reining in his strength. Backing away, he said, “Nice to meet you, uh, Abby. But, I’ve, uh, got to go see someone before they leave.”

  Frowning, Mary turned to her husband. “Does he look feverish to you?” she asked with concern.

  “I bet he is,” George said, his eyes twinkling.

  “I hope he’s not coming down with a summer cold, bless his heart.”

  George and Mary introduced her to the pastor and lots of other people, who were all friendly and welcoming, and invited her to come back the next week.

  “It’s potluck Sunday,” Mary said, smiling. “You won’t want to miss that. We have the best cooks in town.”

  “Get here early,” George said, knowingly, “and you can sit with us.”

  She had spent so much time meeting everyone, that by the time she got to the parking lot, her car was practically the only one left. She rolled down the windows to let the built-up heat escape and took out her phone. At last—four wonderful bars. She had several messages, one from her parents, the others from college friends, including Kate, which meant she was back from Europe. Abby was dying to hear about her trip but knew her parents would be worrying about her.

  Her mom answered with a laugh. “Hi, Abby. Your dad and I were just this minute saying we wished you’d call and put us out of our misery. We’re dying to know how you’ve been managing.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I have to admit I wanted to pull my hair out a few times. But she’s coming along. Merrideth’s behind in some areas, but she’s no dummy, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ll have to bring her over for a visit.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I just want to say thanks. I don’t tell you nearly often enough.”

  “Why, what for?”

  “I’m beginning to see more than ever how lucky I am to have parents like you.”

  Her mother didn’t answer for a moment, and Abby thought she’d lost the connection. Then she heard her blowing her nose. Afterwards she said, “Oh, honey, that’s so sweet.”

  Abby was a little teary-eyed herself by the time they finished talking and she disconnected. But Kate got her to laughing within mere seconds of hearing her voice.

  “So how was your trip?” Abby said.

  “It was fabulous. I got to see so many things. But I missed the tour of the Eiffel Tower. That…er…that was sort of my own fault.”

  Abby laughed. “Why am I not surprised? You’re so terrible about time. So is it true about the French being snooty to Americans?”

  Kate laughed. “Yes, but they treat everyone that way. So enough about me. How’s it going for you, Jane Eyre?”

  “Other than that my student doesn’t want me here, pretty well.”

  “Tell her she should be glad she’s not a fine young Spanish girl. They have to have their duennas with them everywhere they go until they’re eighteen or nineteen. Okay, so now for the good stuff. Have you met anyone down there?”

  “Of course. Just this morning I met a lot of really nice people at the church. There’s a couple named—”

  “Abby?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me have to come down there.”

  “Okay, so there was this guy I sat next to this morning.”

  “Yes, yes. Describe, please.”

  “His name is John. He has the most gorgeous blue eyes and brown hair, and when he smiles I can’t breathe right. And he’s got to be at least six feet two.”

  “I knew it! Tall, dark, and handsome! Did he ask you out, and if not, why not?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I just met him. At church. And besides,” she said primly, “it wouldn’t be right to begin a relationship while I’m on the job.”

  Kate sighed loudly. “Must you always be such a straight arrow?”

  Abby was still grinning when she walked into Pat’s kitchen. She was just taking a casserole dish out of the oven.

  “You’re just in time. I thought we’d have Sunday brunch.”

  “It smells heavenly.”

  “It’s sausage casserole. I didn’t want you to think I never cook. How was church?”

  “It was good. I think I’ll go back next week.”

  “I wish I could get Merrideth to go to church. We used to go when she was little, but lately…. Maybe you can talk her into it.”

  “I’ll try, but I don’t know…”

  “And as for me,” Pat continued, “it’s just that Sunday is my only day off, and I need the extra sleep, and since I still don’t know anyone—”

  “Hey, stop,” Abby said, putting her hand up. “Don’t confess to me. I have enough of my own sins to worry about.”

  Merrideth came in carrying Kit Kat.

  “Put the cat down, Merrideth. You’ll get cat fur all over the food.” Pat began dishing out the casserole “So, Abby, did you meet anyone interesting at the church?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I met a very nice couple named George and Mary. Everyone was friendly. They’re having a potluck next week. I’m going to ask my mom for one of her recipes. Do you want to go with me, Merrideth?”

  “No.”

  “No, thank you,” Pat added.

  “Right.” Merrideth rolled her eyes. “So, Mom, when are you going to take me to see Dad? You said we would go this summer. And guess what? It’s summer.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t take you right now.” Pat smiled stiffly. “Isn’t this sausage casserole scrumptious?”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “It sure is.”

 
“But you promised.”

  “I know, I did, honey. But I’m just too busy right now to get away.”

  Merrideth looked imploringly at Abby. “Maybe, could you—?”

  Abby looked at Pat who quickly said, “It’s not fair to ask Abby to take you, Merrideth. I just wouldn’t feel right about that.”

  Merrideth slammed her fork on the table, pushed her chair back, and ran from the room.

  Pat closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. She didn’t make any effort to go to her daughter.

  So Abby said, “Maybe I’d better go check on her.”

  When she got to Merrideth’s room, she found her flung across her bed, face down.

  Abby felt miserable. “I’d take you if I could, kiddo.”

  “I hate her.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I hate him too.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do, because he hates me. He never calls me anymore. And he doesn’t pick up when I call.”

  “Maybe he’s having phone trouble.”

  “Do you think?” Merrideth turned over and Abby saw that her lashes were damp with tears.

  “I bet he doesn’t have a Rhapsody II, or even a Rhapsody I, does he?” Abby pulled playfully on Merrideth’s sneakered foot. “I bet he still has an old Quasar or some other piece of junk phone. No wonder you can’t get a hold of him.”

  Merrideth smiled crookedly and swiped at her eyes. “The one he has is not even as good as a Quasar.”

  “Just as I suspected. Hey, while you’re waiting for him to get caught up with the latest phone technology, I know just the thing to take your mind off it.”

  “What?” Merrideth asked suspiciously. “Long division?”

  “You wound me. No, let’s go exploring again. I have an idea where we can get more clues.”

  Merrideth was smiling when Pat came to the door and stuck her head in. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

  “Yeah,” Merrideth said. “Mom, we’re going for a walk. You want to—?”

  “Oh, that’s good, honey. I’ve got to go make some phone calls.”

  “But it’s Sunday.”

  “I know, I know. But it’s important.”

  “Whatever.”

  The plat map showed a little square with a cross on top, which Abby figured indicated a church. It was no longer there. But they stumbled, literally, upon the cemetery, which, as she had hoped, was behind it. Now, only gravestones remained standing, and most of them, having sunken unevenly over time, bowed crookedly like grieving mourners who had drunk too much sherry at the wake. Some were completely flattened, broken by the weather or possibly by vandals. Butterflies kept vigil, silently fluttering over the tall grass and wildflowers that had taken over the cemetery. Ironically, Miles Station Cemetery, of all their discoveries, did the most to make the town really come alive for them.

  One plot was enclosed by a black wrought iron fence. Flowing iron script spelled the name Arnold on the arch over the gate. Bouquets of gladiolas decorated several graves there, including one labeled, George, Beloved Husband of Susannah. Not a blade of grass dared touch any of the stones, and Abby smiled thinking of Mrs. Arnold ferociously whacking away at the weeds with her hoe.

  Throughout the cemetery, the inscriptions on the granite gravestones were crisp and easy to read, no matter their age. But the sandstone markers were worn, some past all recognition. Merrideth bent to one and traced the eroded words with her finger.

  Abby made her voice ghostly and dramatic:

  Because I could not stop for Death,

  He kindly stopped for me;

  The carriage held but just ourselves,

  And Immortality.

  “Did you just make that up?”

  Abby smiled. “I wish. No, it’s a poem by Emily Dickinson. She wrote lots of poetry about graveyards. I’ll show you when we get back.”

  A little smile played over Merrideth’s face. “So you thought taking me to a graveyard would cheer me up?”

  Abby grinned. “Is it working?”

  “I thought it would be scary…walking through a cemetery.” Putting her hand up to shade her eyes, she looked out over the gravestones around them. “But mostly it’s just sad. Someday the names will be completely gone, and no one will know who is buried here.”

  “I feel the sadness too, but—” Abby said.

  “See this one?” She knelt before a small tilted tombstone. “Clara-something—I can’t make out the last part. Born April 9, 1802, and died May 20, 1805. Only three years old. Just a name and two dates. But she was a real person, you know? Probably no one remembers her or even knows who she was.”

  Abby was startled by the gloom in Merrideth’s voice. She took it for granted that God would never forget. If he kept track of every hair on their heads, he surely knew who was buried in all the graves. Besides, the names were written down in his book. It was obvious Merrideth didn’t have that assurance.

  Merrideth gestured to indicate the whole cemetery. “And that’s just one person, one story. Over and over. Time doesn’t stop. People are born and die, born and die.”

  “Whoa! How old did you say you are? That sounds like something from my philosophy class, not an eleven-year-old. See, this is what I’ve been talking about. You’re one of the smartest kids I know.”

  But what did you say to a girl so intelligent and so morbid? Was there a Bible verse somewhere? “A time to be born; a time to die.” But reading Ecclesiastes probably wouldn’t be such a good idea in her frame of mind. Touring cemeteries was definitely unhelpful.

  “Let’s go home and think happier thoughts,” Abby said, patting Merrideth’s arm.

  “I want to find where Colonel Miles is buried.”

  Where the engravings were still legible, they began to recognize names from the plat map: McPherson, Stubblefield, Logan, and other families once a part of Miles Station that had lived and died there over a hundred years before.

  Finally, working their way systematically through the cemetery, they found the Miles’ family plot. The colonel lay next to Eliza Stratton Miles, his Dearly Beloved Wife. Nearby were other Miles graves—sons or brothers, perhaps, with their loved ones.

  “But, why did it disappear?” Merrideth asked suddenly. “The town.”

  “I don’t know, kiddo. But we could see if the library has any information. I saw one this morning when I was touring Brighton.”

  “Can we go tomorrow?”

  “You know your mom wants us to focus on—”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, but in the afternoon, after we work on long division.”

  “I’ll do four million long division problems—without a calculator—only I want to find out more about Charlotte.”

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, Merrideth had reverted to her cranky self, balking at everything Abby set for her to do. Forget four million math problems. She’d be lucky to get her to do four. Nor did Merrideth care to do anything else Abby suggested, but kept begging to be allowed to go play on her computer. How she could want to after spending half the night at it was more than she could understand.

  Merrideth had settled herself in the computer room after dinner and stayed there for hours. She was still at it when Abby went to bed, promising her she’d shut it down “in a minute.” First, it had been Bubble Town, and every sound effect and precious bubble-head comment had gone straight to Abby’s brain as lay trying to get to sleep.

  Then it got quiet and Abby assumed Merrideth had gone on to bed. But apparently she had only switched to watching Charlotte’s window. She squealed in happiness every time she spotted her, which happened to be every time Abby managed to fall asleep. She had been about to go get Merrideth and chain her to her bed, when she finally heard her shut down the computer and shuffle off down the hall.

  Sometime around 3:30 the blue light had come back on to torment her. She was too tired to go turn it off.

  Now, she was starting the day without
enough sleep. As if it weren’t difficult enough to be perky and enthusiastic on a Monday morning.

  Abby was looking over Merrideth’s shoulder as she contemplated the sentence she was supposed to punctuate when Pat came into the kitchen carrying a large cardboard box.

  Merrideth looked up in relief at the distraction.

  “I won’t feel settled until I get my treasures out,” Pat said. “Can you girls help me figure out where to put these knickknacks?”

  “That’ll be a lot more fun than trying to figure out where to put commas,” Merrideth said.

  Abby helped Pat hang pictures, while Merrideth arranged various pottery pieces that she explained were souvenirs from past vacations in Colorado. She put a blue ceramic cat on top of the refrigerator.

  “It’s beginning to feel a little more like home, Mom,” Merrideth admitted.

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, I can’t stay to enjoy the feeling. I’ve got to go meet a client in Alton.”

  “But, I thought since you were home we could—”

  “You know someone’s got to bring home the bacon, honey. Besides, you need to get back to your studies this afternoon.”

  “Mom!” She drew out the word like it had fourteen syllables. “I’m sick of studying math and English.”

  “I thought we’d study history this afternoon,” Abby said. “Remember?”

  “Oh, right, history,” Merrideth agreed.

  The library was small but well organized, and when they got to the history section, Abby spotted The History of Macoupin County, Illinois right off. Published in 1856, it gave a fascinating account of the various settlements and towns in the county at the time. The book also included a “biographical sketch” for each major landowner, along with a charming portrait of his farm.

  “Aren’t the drawings cute?” Abby asked.

  “I guess.”

  “My brother Aaron said this style of art is called ‘American Primitive.’ See how the scale is not right.”

  Merrideth pointed to the name under the farm. “William Heal. You’re in the H’s. Keep turning.”

  Abby flipped a few more pages and found a three-page section on Miles Station. And there, on page 376, was Merrideth’s house. The caption under the drawing was The residence of Col. Jonathan Miles at Miles Station, Macoupin County, Illinois.