Hologram: A Haunting

by James Conroyd Martin

  How long until the boards and timbers started falling in on her—trapping her—killing her as surely as little Claude had been burned to death on this spot?

  She could see now that the hole in the bottom of the door was big enough to get her head out—but would her shoulders fit?

  She had no choice but to try. There was no more time to turn her body around and kick again. This was her only chance.

  Lying on her back, Meg pushed her head through, taking in the clear night air, and tried to squeeze through the lacework of broken and rusty metal, ragged metal she felt cutting into her shoulders and upper arms. She thought she heard sirens.

  With a great effort, she pushed her shoulders through, the metal ripping through her blouse, tearing at her skin. Slowly, slowly, she moved with caterpillar-like movements out of the burning building.

  As she felt herself losing consciousness, someone gripped her arms now and dragged her away from the building.

  Her first thought was that it was Kurt.

  “Meg, hold on, for God’s sake! The ambulance is here.”

  Before descending into a welcome oblivion, Meg realized the voice was not Kurt’s.

  It was Wenonah’s.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Meg knew that she was in a hospital bed before she opened her eyes. She had worked in a hospital too long not to recognize the smells and sounds—even in the middle of the night. Not to mention the hardness of the mattress and coarseness of the linens.

  She sensed, too, someone sitting vigil nearby. She could hear the almost imperceptible breathing rhythm. She knew who it was. She pretended to sleep, putting off the strain of communication for the time being, preferring to let her mind drift, then find focus in good time.

  Was the boy all right? She sensed nothing wrong there, and he moved in her womb—she thought—as if to reassure her.

  Meg felt quietly victorious. She had met her nemesis—the ghost that stood between her and happiness in the house—and she had triumphed. Only now did she realize what a terrible gamble it had been. She had positioned herself against the unknown and non-physical world and into the bargain she had put her unborn at risk. Knowing what she knew now, she would never attempt it again.

  Alicia Reichart had suffered a horrific tragedy in the death of her little Claude. And she wasted years of her life in mourning and regrets—and the negativity did not end with death. She somehow held on to her son’s soul, too, holding him back from ascending to the next astral realm, keeping him tied to her own hell.

  Nonetheless, Meg realized that she still held a great empathy for the woman. It had become a part of her. She would not try to rid herself of it. She would instead store it away deep within her—and come to forget it. She prayed that little Claude had moved on—but she doubted she would ever know for certain.

  Meg’s body was bruised and torn, yet she felt a kind of serene happiness that stemmed from something more than victory over Alicia. She had taken away from her experience with the woman two things: the awareness of time and energy lost on things irretrievable and the ability to reevaluate her own life.

  For twenty years she had been full of regret for a love that had not been meant to be. All that was over now. Forever. Later, she would think the drugs she had been given fired her imagination, for she thought of her love for Pete passing from her now, becoming a kind of balloon of pale pink, imagined severing a string that anchored it to the ground, imagined releasing it into the air.

  Not with regrets. With relief. With a blessed happiness.

  As the balloon ascended, receding from sight, becoming smaller and smaller, disappearing, Meg became ebullient. She felt free—was free—for the first time in twenty years.

  She had let go.

  She could feel the warm tears streaming down her face. She thought back to her meeting with Dr. Peterhof—Krista—and the holographic theory. Meg felt more content than she ever had. She was but an image in a hologram, but her future felt as boundless as the universe that held that image.

  Meg felt her tears being brushed away. She opened her eyes.

  She found herself staring into two blue pools.

  “What is it, Meg?” Kurt asked. “Are you all right?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Forgive me for leaving you behind. I was stupid. I never understood your attachment to the house—how strong it is.”

  “And you do now?”

  He shrugged. “The how maybe—but not the why.”

  “I was pretty stubborn. What did you call it—my ‘whim of iron’?”

  “I’m getting used to that stubborn streak.”

  “The house is at peace, Kurt. I know it. The spirits—ghosts, rather—have moved on. The negativity is gone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, so is the coach house. To the ground. All we have to do is raze the foundation.”

  “I won’t make you stay, Kurt. We can move if that’s what you want.”

  “Actually, I was hatching a plot to buy a three-bedroom across the street from the condo—in Wenonah’s building, The Pattington. I know how much you admire it.” His eyes narrowed, assessing her reaction. “Would you like that?”

  Meg smiled tentatively.

  Kurt understood. “More than living in my condo—but less than living on Springfield Street?” His eyes narrowed. “Am I right?”

  Meg was silent for a minute, then said, “Life is compromise. I won’t make you live there.”

  “Meg, if I’m with you, I’m happy. Maybe I can get a job out here. —There’s just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “For the first year—no, let’s say for the duration, you run the washer and dryer.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Wenonah had not been out to the house since that night. Not that she hadn’t offered to come out, but she sensed Meg and Kurt were operating on a new level. They were having, it seemed, a kind of second honeymoon. The baby’s birth, however, called for an appearance.

  She pulled into the drive now. The coach house was gone, foundation and all. She was glad for that.

  The house had been newly painted. A white that glowed luminously in the sunshine. It couldn’t have looked any better in 1910, she thought.

  Kurt met her at the door. Meg was in the dining room putting the finishing touches on the lunch. She was slim again, slimmer than she, damn it, and radiant.

  Of course, Wenonah knew what motherhood could do—not from experience, not yet. But body clock or no, she had not given up on the other half of the human race.

  Meg hugged her with all the old enthusiasm. The baby, a pink bundle with fine, flaxen hair and emerald eyes, was beautiful. He had a marvelous temperament, Meg told her. Indeed, as they ate lunch, he sang to them from the bassinet nearby.

  Kurt was happy, too, she could tell. Of course, he might be happier—and she’d like him a lot more—if his job didn’t support the new for-profit status of the hospital which entailed the elimination of dedicated health workers and the decline of patient care. And it was hard to forgive his leaving Meg alone that night.

  Watching them, however, made Wenonah vow to herself not to be so judgmental.

  She smiled now at something Kurt was saying about the child, thinking that one day he might see the light and that as long as he was good to—and for—Meg, she’d make the attempt to accept him.

  Not long after lunch, Wenonah made a move to go. The preparations for the meal and preoccupation with the baby had tired Meg.

  “I love ya, girl,” Wenonah said, as she embraced Meg.

  Meg and Kurt insisted she hold the baby for a few minutes, and doing so gave her more pleasure than she would have imagined. As she held him, she thought how such a little package w
as able to change the configuration of adult lives.

  After a while she gave the baby over to Meg to nurse.

  Motherhood had changed Meg, Wenonah thought as she moved toward the door. She hoped to stay friends with Meg—but she doubted that she’d ever be needed again. Passages in life were like this.

  There was something else about Meg, too, a deeper change that was unnamable and almost imperceptible. What was it?

  “Thanks for coming, Win,” Kurt said on the porch. “Meg really enjoyed having you here.”

  “He’s a beautiful child. You’ve got two to look after now, Kurt.” It was a passive-aggressive barb, and Wenonah cursed herself before it was fully out of her mouth. She was reminding him of past failures. She felt a twinge of shame—so much for killing off judgmental attitudes.

  “I know,” he said, evidently accepting her comment at face value.

  A large, unmarked truck was pulling up in front of the house.

  “Expecting something?” Wenonah asked.

  Kurt laughed. “We got what we expected, Win.”

  Wenonah laughed, too.

  The driver jumped from the truck’s cab.

  “Probably wants directions,” Kurt said.

  As the stout driver came up the walk, a second delivery man jumped to the ground and moved toward the rear of the truck.

  “Help you?” Kurt asked.

  “I need a signature from . . . ” Coming to the porch steps, the man glanced down at the form on his clipboard, then finished with, “Meg Rockwell.”

  “She’s busy right now. I’ll sign. I’m her husband.”

  When the man reached the top step, Kurt scribbled his name, his eyes searching the invoice.

  The man returned a copy to Kurt and retreated.

  Kurt studied it again.

  “What is it?” Wenonah asked.

  Kurt shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I know. All I see are model numbers.” He called now to the driver, who was boarding the lift at the rear of the truck. “Hey, what is it we’re getting?”

  “Oh, I figured you knew, buddy,” he called back. “It’s a piano.”

  Wenonah felt something foreign ignite and stir within herself now. “Sweet Jesus,” she said under her breath. Her heart raced. She turned to Kurt.

  His face was a mask. Inscrutable. Had he paled, just a little? Had the lines about his mouth curved a bit to reflect his reaction?

  And his eyes—those cool, blue fathomless eyes—they told her nothing.

  THE POLAND TRILOGY

  BY JAMES CONROYD MARTIN

  Based on the diary of a Polish countess who lived through the rise and fall of the Third of May Constitution years, 1791-94, Push Not the River paints a vivid picture of a tumultuous and unforgettable metamorphosis of a nation—and of Anna, a proud and resilient woman. Against a Crimson Sky continues Anna’s saga as Napoléon comes calling, implying independence would follow if only Polish lancers would accompany him on his fateful 1812 march into Russia. Anna’s family fights valiantly to hold onto a tenuous happiness, their country, and their very lives. Set against the November Rising (1830-31), The Warsaw Conspiracy depicts partitioned Poland’s daring challenge to the Russian Empire. Brilliantly illustrating the psyche of a people determined to reclaim independence in the face of monumental odds, the story features Anna’s sons and their fates in love and war.

  NEXT FROM JAMES CONROYD MARTIN

  THE BOY WHO WANTED WINGS

  The Story of the First 9-11

  Release date: 2015

  In July of 1683 Vienna came under siege by the full brunt of the Ottoman Empire so that by 11 September it stood as the main outpost of Christian Europe. The citizens were starving and the walls of the city were giving way. Vienna was about to fall under the guns and mines of the Ottomans. Its collapse would mean plundered European cities, Christian slaves, and forced conversions. Allied European armies under the supreme command of Polish King Jan III Sobieski arrived not an hour too soon. The King descended the hill, riding at the van of his legendary winged hussars—armed with lances, pistols, and sabres—and an army of 40,000 against 140,000. Reputedly, the sight and sound of the wings of feathers attached to the hussars frightened both man and beast. Panic swept through the enemy and the battle was over within three hours. Europe had been saved from the enemy.

  The Boy Who Wanted Wings is the story of a young Tatar boy adopted into a Polish peasant household. Aleksy has a long-held dream of becoming a Polish Hussar, a dream complicated by a forbidden love for a nobleman’s daughter. It is only when the Ottomans seek to conquer Europe, coming at Vienna in 1683 for a monumental and decisive battle, that fate intervenes, providing Aleksy with opportunities—and obstacles.

  AN EXCERPT

  Despite sometimes being labeled The Tatar by some of his peers, as well as by some adults who snarled at him, Aleksy had been content to stay within the cocoon of Polishness he had come to know. Even though as the years went by and he became less fearful of venturing away from the family that had taken him in, he was afraid that doing so would hurt them. And so he had embraced Christianity and the Polish way of living.

  But then there were times like these when he felt removed from everything and everyone around him. Oh, he knew that the boundaries of class set a count’s daughter upon a dais and well out of his reach, but to think now that the fortune of his birth and an appearance that reflected a coloring and visage that reached back to parents and ancestors made the chasm between him and the girl in yellow so much deeper and—despite logic—somehow a fault of his own.

  Still, he thought, his acceptance of things Polish could be providential—should he ever have the opportunity—slight as it was—of meeting the girl in yellow.

  About halfway up the mountain, he came to a little clearing that jutted out over a cleared field. He dismounted. His eyes fastened on the activity below. This is what he had come for, and so he put the count’s daughter from his mind. Brooding on what cannot be, he determined, would come to nothing.

  The company of hussars on the field seemed larger today, at least fifty, Aleksy guessed. They were being mustered into formation now, their lances glinting in the sun, the black and gold pennants flying. There would be none of the usual games, it seemed, no jousting, no running at a ring whereby the lancers would attempt to wield their lance so precisely as to catch a small ring that hung from a portable wooden framework. Today they were forming up for sober and orderly maneuvers. He wondered at their formality.

  Aleksy took note of the multitude of colors below and the little mystery resolved itself. Whereas on other occasions the men, some very young and generally of modest noble birth and means, wore outer garments of a blue, often cheap material, today they had been joined by wealthier nobles who could afford wardrobes rich in the assortment of color and material. These men—in their silks and brocades and in their wolf and leopard skins or striped capes— gathered to the side of the formation to watch and deliver commentary. Some of these were the Old Guard of the Kwarciani, the most elite of Hussars permanently stationed at borderlands east of Halicz to counter raids by Cossacks and Tatars unfriendly to the Commonwealth of Lithuania and Poland. Their reviews would be taken, no doubt, with great solemnity. Every soldier would make every effort to impress them. In recent years the group’s numbers had been reduced by massacres and talk had it that they were eager to replenish their manpower. Perhaps a few of the novices below would be chosen to join the Kwarciani.

  Some place at his core went cold with jealousy. If only he were allowed to train as a hussar. He could be as good as any of them. Better. No one he knew was more skillful at a bow than he. He could show those hussars a thing or two about the makings of an archer—even though he had come to realize fewer and fewer of the lancers bothered to carry a bow and quiver. The majority had come to disparage the art of archery in favo
r of pistols, relying instead on the lance, a pair of pistols, and a sabre.

  Naturally enough, there was no disdain for the lance, the very lifeblood and signature weapon of the hussar army. Aleksy smiled to himself when he thought of his own handcrafted lance. Through his father he had made friends with Count Halicki’s old stablemaster, Pawel, who one magical day had allowed him to peruse an old lance once used by the count. Having fashioned his own bow and arrows, Aleksy was already an expert in woodcraft when he took the measurements of the lance and carefully replicated it, creating it from a seventeen foot length of wood cut in halves and hollowed out as far as the rounded handguard at the lower end, thus reducing its weight. The shorter section managed by the lancer was left solid wood for leverage purposes. Finding glue that would bind the two halves together had been a challenge, but an off-hand comment by Borys about a Mongolian recipe using a tar made from birch bark brought success.

  Aleksy’s thoughts conjured an elation that was only momentary, for he thought now how he had had to hide away his secret project under a pile of hay in the barn—and unless he should happen to be practicing with it one day in the forest when a wayward boar might come his way, he would never be able to use it. The thought of mounting a plow horse like Kastor with it instead of riding atop one of the Polish Arabians strutting below made him burn with—what? Indignation? Embarrassment? Humiliation—yes, he decided, humiliation was the most accurate descriptor.

  Inexplicably, the thought of the girl in yellow once again seized him, lifting him, causing his heart to catch. Would he exchange one dream for the other? Life as a hussar for life with her?

  He thought he just might risk anything to succumb to her charms.

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