She stopped at the grocery store on the way home. Somehow she whiled away the afternoon. About six thirty, she realized that Brad had never called to say what his plans were—not that that was anything new. He was out playing with his new buddies, doing guy things, like hitting small balls around, or watching other guys hit balls or throw balls or drive machines. She didn’t share those interests, but they made him happy. Funny, where she was concerned, with him it was “out of sight, out of mind.”
Finally she decided to scramble herself some eggs, and ate sitting at the small table in the kitchen, catching up on forwarded magazines.
Saturday night. Nothing on television she wanted to watch, even on cable. She dug out one of the mystery novels she’d been saving as a treat and curled up in Brad’s oversize easy chair, a wool blanket draped around her shoulders for warmth. But she found she was having trouble concentrating: she would read a page and realize that she hadn’t absorbed anything, and have to go back to the top of the page and start over. She was annoyed at herself, since she really liked this author and had been looking forward to reading the book, and now something kept getting in the way.
But what? She had walked into a local house and found herself looking at dead people. She had done her best to explain it away, and she had almost succeeded—until she had seen the picture of William Flagg and recognized him. And then his wife Elizabeth today. So much for rationalizations. Poor Ned—he had been so kind, without making too much of a fuss. And she still felt embarrassed—she must have looked like a complete idiot that first day.
But he had listened to her and had taken her seriously, which was nice of him. He even had given her some helpful suggestions, and now she knew more about the Flagg family of Waltham and the house, but nothing she had found explained why they had showed up in her head. Then Ned had taken her to the cemetery and she had seen Elizabeth Flagg. Why her? Why not William, or both of them—or the whole damn lot of them, dancing on the graves? Was she hallucinating? She shut her eyes, better to recall the old woman on the bench—old, dumpy, unfashionable. Abby had to smile at herself: apparently she had harbored the fantasy that an apparition would be young, attractive, and wearing ethereal white garments that billowed softly in a cosmic breeze. She certainly had not expected to see a squat old lady.
Maybe a glass of wine would soothe her. Abby unwrapped herself from her blanket and padded in stockinged feet to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of white wine. Maybe cocoa would have been a better idea, but she wanted something stronger. She returned to the chair and settled in again, sipping slowly. The two “sightings” represented different time periods, maybe separated by decades. Did that mean anything? Abby shook her head. The really big question was, did she want to see any of the Flaggs again?
Yes. That answer came loud and clear to Abby, and she almost laughed out loud. The one thing she was sure of was that whatever this was, it didn’t frighten her. She had no sense of malevolence, of evil, or of anyone wishing her harm. She hadn’t been sure about moving forward when she’d told Ned, but now she was. All right, she was going to have to find out more about the Flagg family.
But what did she want or need to know? Elizabeth’s maiden name, for one thing. When she married William, when their daughter was born, when the second, adopted daughter had somehow appeared on the scene—and where she had come from, if possible. What had happened to the daughters. Maybe they, or their descendants, were still around, and Abby might be able to track them down and find out something more. Maybe they even had family pictures. Would that help? Abby realized that she had to be careful that she wasn’t going to try to tailor her ideas to fit someone else’s pictures. She would have to be very clear about what she saw, before it got muddied by outside influences. She should start writing these things down.
When Brad finally showed up at nine, Abby was still sitting in her chair, staring into space, her book forgotten on her lap.
Brad dropped into the one other chair in their living room. “Whew, what a day! Those guys are something else.” Then he bounced up, headed for the kitchen, and found himself a bottle of beer. He planted a sloppy kiss on Abby before slouching back in the chair.
Abby smiled abstractedly. “How was the golf?”
“Amazing. Those guys are really good. I’m going to have to sharpen up my game if I want to keep up. And I’ll need some new clubs. Geoff told me about this place . . .” And he was off and running, talking about people and things that meant nothing to Abby. She smiled and nodded at the right times. At the same time she studied him, as he slouched in his chair. She’d always been attracted to his warmth, his enthusiasm. He was somehow larger than life—certainly larger than she was. She had fallen in love with him because he was everything that she was not—self-assured, ambitious, energetic—and she had hoped to absorb some of his energy. But she was beginning to think the opposite was happening: when she was with him, he leached the energy from her, leaving her paler than before. Like a ghost of herself.
“Hey, Earth to Abigail!” Brad’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You even listening?”
“Oh, sure. Golf. Then you watched some football, right? And you all decided to get a pizza?”
He stared at her a moment. “Yeah, right. Sorry I didn’t let you know about dinner, but it was hard to break away.”
She knew she should have been annoyed that he had forgotten about her existence, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, she didn’t want to start an argument. “That’s okay—I scrambled some eggs, and I was looking forward to reading this.” She held up her book.
Brad ran out of steam. “So, what’d you do today?”
“Went to the library, did a little research around town, picked up some groceries.” Abigail, you sort of forgot to mention meeting Ned. Better remedy that. “Uh, you remember the guy I met at the Flagg house the other day? He’s really into local history, and he volunteered to show me some of the sights around here—you know, where the battle was at Lexington, that kind of thing. Tomorrow. Unless you’d rather do something else?”
Brad had turned on the television and had to drag his attention back to her. “Tomorrow? Oh, sorry—one of the guys has a big-screen TV, and he said we could all come over and watch the Patriots game. I know you hate football, so I figured you wouldn’t want to go. You go ahead, make your plans.” Belatedly he took in what Abby had said. “Uh, what’s your friend’s name?”
“Ned Newhall. He was the docent on that house tour I took. I told you about him.” Abby hoped her vague description would let Brad classify Ned as harmless.
“Huh.” Brad had already lost interest. His eyes were back on the screen, and he scrolled through the cable listings looking for some sports event. “Well, how about we go out for dinner tomorrow night? Just the two of us?”
“I’d like that.” She stood up. “If you’re going to watch TV, I’ll go to the bedroom and read.” When he didn’t respond, Abby left the room with her book.
She had managed to get through another three chapters but had lost the thread of the plot yet again, when Brad came into the bedroom and threw himself down on the bed next to her.
“A hundred and twelve channels, and not a damned thing to watch.” He nuzzled her neck. “I think I’ll grab a shower. Then maybe we can find something better to do?” He looked at her with a grin plastered to his face.
Ah, yes, the obligatory Saturday night roll in the hay. Abby tried to look enthusiastic. “What’d you have in mind?”
“We’ll think of something.” He stood up, peeled off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and headed for the bathroom. Abby admired the view of his retreating backside. Brad had been a football player in college and still had the shoulders to prove it. So far he had managed to avoid running to fat, although Abby could imagine that a few years down the line that could be a problem. But right now, he looked good. And she found she was looking forward to concentrating on something real and physical and in the moment, because
that meant that she would not have to think about what she had seen today: the woman who wasn’t really there.
6
The phone rang at ten, just as Abby was clearing up the kitchen after fixing Brad his favorite Sunday-morning pig-out breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and sausage. He was sprawled in the living room reading the newspaper, with his third cup of coffee. Abby grabbed the phone.
“Hello?” she said tentatively.
“Abby?” It was Ned. “I just wanted to check if you were still up for a tour today?”
“Sure—I’m looking forward to it.” And I even got permission from Brad, a snide voice added in her head. “Can you pick me up here, or do you want me to meet you somewhere?”
“I can come there—it’s easier for you.”
“Thanks. Why don’t you come up, and I’ll introduce you.”
“Great, just give me the address.” After Abby recited their apartment address, Ned said, “Eleven okay? We can pick up some lunch somewhere, if you like.”
“That sounds good. See you then.”
Abby put down the phone and wandered into the living room. Brad looked up at her from the sports section.
“Who was that?”
“That was Ned, just confirming for today. You sure you don’t mind?”
“Heck, no—this way I don’t have to worry about you sitting around the apartment all day, moping. And you can check out the neighborhood, let me know if you think there’s anything I should see around here.”
But Abby knew that Brad had little patience for anything from the past. He lived in the present, with one eagle eye on the future. The rest was dead and gone. Well, her conscience was clear; she wasn’t hiding anything. Not that there was anything to hide. Except that she hadn’t managed to say anything about her “visions,” if that’s what they were. She could wait a little longer, until she had put a name—and an explanation—to them, before telling Brad. She didn’t want to say anything and have him look at her like she was deranged. Because she didn’t really think she was. And Ned believed her, didn’t he?
Anyway, today should be a fun excursion—being driven around, looking at some of the prime historic sites of Massachusetts. If the local newscasters were right, this was a peak “leaf-peeping” weekend, so it would be a pretty drive. The weather was cooperating—the sky was an intense unflawed blue that would set off the wonderful glowing colors of the leaves. The air was crisp enough for a light jacket. That thought reminded Abby that she’d better shower and change before Ned appeared in less than an hour.
Abby had pulled on jeans and a turtleneck and was tying the laces of her most comfortable walking shoes when she heard the doorbell. She could hear Brad heave himself out of his chair and open the door, and the rumble of male voices. She went to the closet to find a sweater and then joined the men in the living room. For a moment she looked at them objectively. They looked as though they belonged to different species. Brad was large and substantial, and he wore loose sweats that inflated his bulk still further. Ned was slight, almost wiry, and looked even more so standing next to Brad. He had rolled up the sleeves of his long-sleeved dark shirt, which he wore over naturally faded jeans. The two men were involved in some arcane male greeting ceremony, figuratively sniffing rumps, trying to establish whether the other was friend or foe. Apparently Brad had tossed out the sports card, and Ned had passed. Brad had moved on to occupation, and somewhere they had found common ground talking about computer systems. Ned was the first to notice that Abby had appeared.
“Hi, Abby. Ready to go?”
She nodded, then turned to Brad. “Do you have any idea when you’ll be home?”
He shook his head. “Nah. The local game’s on early, and we might watch the second game. I’ll give you a call, okay? Got your cell?”
Abby nodded. She gathered up a windbreaker and her bag and stood on tiptoe to give Brad a kiss. “See you later, then. Have fun.”
“You too.” He had turned away before she and Ned were out the door.
Ned stepped aside to let her go down the stairs first. He unlocked the car door for her but didn’t say anything until they were seated. Abby wondered if Brad had made him uncomfortable, and sneaked a look at his profile, but he appeared unruffled.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asked brightly.
He hadn’t turned the car on yet. “Depends on what you’ve already seen. Have you driven much around here?”
Abby shook her head. “No, first we were busy getting settled, and then I really didn’t know where to go. That house tour was the first thing I did just for fun since I’ve been here. Tell me what I should see.”
Ned started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. “I thought we’d head more or less west, out along the Battle Road, toward Lexington and Concord. It’s pretty country, and maybe the tour busses will have thinned out. You do know something about American history?” He looked doubtful.
Abby laughed. “Of course. I mean, I took the usual high school courses, but when I knew we were moving up here, I did some reading too. Quite a lot took place in a very small area, and I’m looking forward to seeing where it all happened. Now, if I remember right, the battle started at Lexington and then moved toward Concord, then the British troops were forced to turn back toward Boston?”
“That’s it in a nutshell, but there’s more . . .” They chatted amiably as Ned drove. She found him easy to talk to. He clearly knew and loved his subject, but he wasn’t at all condescending to Abby in her ignorance. He would have made a good teacher, she thought—patient and precise, but he still made things interesting. “Oh, and then there’s the house where the Alcotts lived, in Concord, and of course Walden Pond.”
“That’s what I meant.” Abby laughed. “An embarrassment of riches. Look, can we use this as a sort of general scouting expedition? There’s no way we can tour everything in one day, and I hate to have to choose, or to dash through a lot of places. Why don’t you show me where things are, and maybe we can pick one or two? And it’s such a lovely day—can’t we stay outside?”
“Good idea. Then I vote for the Battle Green in Lexington, Walden Pond, and the Battle Bridge in Concord. All very scenic, all with plenty of pretty trees and fresh air.”
“You’re mocking me. But that’s all right—it’s too nice a day to argue about it.” Abby settled back in her seat and watched the scenery unfold. They headed north to Lexington.
“You live this direction, right?” Abby asked.
“Yeah, at the east end of Lexington. I bought a fixer-upper Victorian a few years ago, but I never have enough time to work on it.”
“I’m sorry—here I am dragging you away from your house projects to play tour guide.”
“Hey, I volunteered, remember? I love showing off how much I know.”
It didn’t take them long to reach Lexington. Ned drove slowly through the town, whose main street was crowded with people running errands. When he reached the western end of town, the road split around a triangular open space. Ned pulled over and parked.
“First stop: Battle Green.”
Abby climbed out of the car and looked at the empty grass. She turned and looked at Ned quizzically.
“Come on.” He led the way to one of the benches that dotted the perimeter. “Quick history lesson. You do remember Paul Revere’s ride?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, Paul Revere, as you may not remember—and most people don’t—actually got stopped by the British on his way to warn the towns, but they let him go—minus horse—in the middle of the night. Early on the morning of April nineteenth, John Hancock and Sam Adams were staying up that road a bit”—Ned pointed—“and were persuaded to remove themselves for the good of the cause. The minutemen were called out and met here about four thirty—one company under Captain Parker, seventy-seven men—and lined up to wait for the British, over on that side. In the meantime, Paul Revere and Sam Adams were scurrying around hiding a trunk full of papers that John Hancock had
managed to leave behind. Can you see the scene, so far? It’s not even first light, and all these men—old men, boys, whoever—were standing around in the cold and dark, on their own doorsteps, waiting for the British army to descend on them.”
Abby cleared her mind and tried to see it. She tried to put fewer than a hundred men, armed with whatever weapons they could scrounge, on the muddy grass in front of her. They would have been swallowed up by that space, and they had no idea what they would have to face.
Ned had resumed his narrative. “So about five o’clock, the British, under Major Pitcairn, marched into town along that road there.” He pointed back toward the road that ran through the town. “There used to be a meeting house at that corner of the green—the patriots couldn’t see what was coming, and the British couldn’t see what they were up against, until they came around the building. And when they did, and Pitcairn saw how few people he was facing, he told them to lay down their arms and go home. Parker knew he was outnumbered and ordered the men to leave—but somebody fired a shot. No one has ever figured out who, or which side it came from. And that started the whole thing. Eight patriots died, including Jonathan Harrington, who lived in that house there.” Ned pointed again. “He managed to crawl that far, and died on his own doorstep. And then the British set off down the road that we’re going to take, headed for Concord, where they thought the patriots had weapons and ammunition stored.” He fell silent, contemplating the peaceful scene of the modern day, lost in his own thoughts.
“It’s all so small,” Abby half whispered.
Ned turned to look at her. “This was all it took, to start something that started a significant war that shook the British Empire.”
Abby looked back at the green. “I remember the first time I took a tour of Independence Hall, in Philadelphia. Have you been there?” Ned shook his head. “I felt the same way. Our tour group walked into the room where the Declaration of Independence was voted on—you know, there are all these stories about how they kept the windows shut, even though it was June and July and hot as blazes, because they wanted to keep things secret? And here were all these men, wearing eight layers of their best wool clothes—you’d think they would all have died of heatstroke. Anyway, I looked around the room, and it was so, I don’t know, human in scale. Just a handful of men, gathered in that one room, and they wrote something that changed the world.” She also fell silent. There was something about seeing the real places that put things in perspective. And it made her appreciate how few people it took to make a difference. Were people different then? Did they know what they were doing? Did they have any idea what was going to follow?
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