by Eve Langlais
Great.
I edged closer to the bar, away from the crowd, and tried to understand. I’d always been good with people, and so far, that had extended to ghosts. “I get that you guys haven’t seen a girl in a few years,” I began.
“Try decades,” the bartender said, giving me a wink as he wiped down glasses.
He’d better not join in. I already had more undead suitors than any girl could reasonably stand. “Let’s tone it down a notch,” I suggested. “Try to be more mysterious. That works with dead girls too, you know.” Because if an eligible girl ghost did come in here, guaranteed they’d scare her away.
I wasn’t even their type and I felt like the last pork chop on the plate.
In fact, there was only one guy besides Frankie who was for sure not hitting on me.
The World War II soldier sat at the far end of the bar, nursing his drink and acting as if we weren’t even there. I found that highly appealing.
He had a strong look about him, as though he’d done manual labor. Maybe worked on a farm. An army cap covered much of his close–cropped dark hair. He looked safe, steady.
I scooted up next to him, keeping an eye out for the crowd behind me. “I like your style.”
“Just because I’m not acting like those clowns?” He took a swig of his drink and let out a self–deprecating chuckle. “You don’t want to be like me.”
I fought the urge to take a seat on the stool next to him. Its ethereal form wouldn’t hold me. My eye caught a faded black–and–white picture on the wall in front of us, an army unit. It might very well be his. Dusty bottle caps maintained their vigil at the top. “You worried about the war?” I asked, wondering if he was one of the many who didn’t come back.
He traced circles on his bottle. “That’s over. Has been for a long time.” He held out a hand. “Private John Cleveland.”
I waved instead. “Verity Long.”
“Right,” he said, pulling back. “Believe it or not, it slips my mind sometimes.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I never forget about her, though. The war cost me my fiancée.”
I watched him take another long drink. “I’m sorry.”
He huffed, as though he didn’t want my sympathy. At the same time, I could see he needed someone to talk to. “She really loved me. Only me,” he added, looking at me for the first time. “But now I can’t find her.” He gave a long, hard sigh.
How sad. I didn’t think he’d want to hear that, though. In fact, I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened.
“She’s not on the immortal plane,” he said, appearing lost. “That means she’s still alive. Somewhere. But I can’t find her. It’s like she disappeared.”
I wasn’t sure what to tell him. “Maybe your friends at the bar can help you look.” They certainly needed something constructive to do.
“Ha. No. Have you seen those assholes?”
I wouldn’t go that far, but he was upset.
“You don’t get it. You’ve never been dead,” he said, his frustration growing. “Even in death, you can feel that connection. You know someone cares.” He squared his shoulders, bracing against what he had to say next. “With her, I can still feel it, but it’s fading. Like she’s giving up.”
“You can’t think that way,” I told him.
“I can’t afford not to. We’re in serious trouble. She needs to understand how much I love her. That bonds us. It’s only way I can be with her for eternity, like I promised. It’s the only way we can for sure find each other, after, you know…”
“She dies,” I said, finishing for him. “She has to know,” I ventured. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who hid his feelings. “Maybe you’ve been dead so long it’s harder to sense it.”
He nodded. “I’d hoped it was something like that.” He buried his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes. “Then her ring showed up here last week. I gave her that ring as a promise when I shipped out. She let it go,” he said, lost. My skin tingled with goose bumps. “She must have sold it. It breaks my heart.”
My throat felt tight. “You saw her ring in the display case, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “It had been my mother’s. My fiancée knew that. What if she’s already dead? If so, she died without that loving bond. And she’s gone.”
Oh, wow. It didn’t look good. But he couldn’t give up. I wouldn’t, either. “Can you tell me her name?” If she were still alive, I’d pay her a visit. Sugarland wasn’t a large place. I might even be acquainted with her.
“Maime Bee Saks,” he said with hope and a touch of fear. “She lives with her parents at 215 East Perlman Street, near Brandywine Park.”
“I haven’t heard that name,” I admitted. She had to be in her nineties by now. I sincerely doubted she still lived with her parents. She might have even married and changed her name. It could be any number of things. “That doesn’t mean we can’t find her.”
“I’ve been to her house, my house, her favorite places to be. I don’t even know why.” He gave a hard chuckle. “I can’t say anything. I can’t tell her how much I love her.”
Lord, he was a dream. Most women I knew would kill to be loved like that.
“I can’t even hold her ring,” he said, folding his hands together in front of him. “I can’t pick it up off the shelf.”
No, he couldn’t. It was a wonder he could have moved anything in that case at all. The ghost was certainly determined, or desperate.
“I’ll take it to her,” I promised. Surely Julie would understand.
“You can do that?” he asked, hope flaring. It both elated me and scared me. There was a very real possibility I could fail. Still, I found myself nodding. “There’s sickness around the ring,” he said. “If she’s even still here, she doesn’t have long.” His eyes clouded with tears. “And what does it even mean that she gave it up? That she left my ring in a resale shop?” He saw the way that startled me. “I know where we really are. I haven’t given up my link to the mortal world. Not while she could still be there. I’m so afraid I’m going to lose her forever.”
“You won’t,” I said, making a promise I would do anything to keep. “I’ll find her.” I’d solve this. He deserved as much, after he’d fought and died for our country.
As to how? Well, I’d figure that out as well.
Chapter Four
“You want to do what?” my sister asked.
“Her name is Maime Bee Saks,” I said, watching Julie open the display case.
I’d called Julie right away. She and Melody had grabbed an evening snack at the coffeehouse and I explained everything to them while they drove back to the store together. “Last he heard, she lived at 215 East Perlman Street, near Brandywine Park.”
Julie cringed. “That’s where the new shopping center went in,” she whispered, as if that would keep the ghost from hearing. I wanted to tell her that Private Cleveland stood between us.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “We just have to find where she lives now.” The redhead drew a silver ring from the display stand. Tiny blue sapphire chips clustered around a large pearl.
“Thanks for letting me take this to her,” I said, as she slipped it into a ring box.
“It’s a wonderful piece,” she said, handing the entire thing to me. “But it’s the right thing to do. Tell Private Cleveland I’m glad to help.”
“He knows,” I said quietly. I held it for a moment while John drew his blunt fingers over the luminous pearl. They passed right through it.
“I hope you’ll come with me,” I told him.
He swallowed hard. “I will,” he said. “I won’t be much help. There’s a reason we gather here. This place holds energy from generations of happy patrons. It gives me strength. The farther I get from here, the weaker I am.”
I understood. “If need be, we’ll bring her to you.”
Yes, I was getting overly optimistic, but we needed to move full speed ahead on this.
I closed the ring box and stowe
d it in my bag. “I’ll let you know what my sister and I find,” I said to Julie.
Melody eyed me suspiciously. “You don’t expect–”
“I need you to get us into the library,” I told her. She opened three mornings a week. She had a key. “Tonight.”
She planted her hands on her hips.
“This began with you,” I reminded her. “I recall you saying something about how important it is to use the resources we have to help people.”
She pursed her lips. “If you just want to finish this before you see Ellis, then you’re out of luck. I’m not going to break the rules so you don’t tick off your boyfriend.”
“It isn’t about that.” And he wasn’t my boyfriend, not yet, anyway. “If Maime Bee Saks gives up completely, we lose the tie. Plus, Private Cleveland felt sickness around the ring. We don’t have much time.”
She wavered. I’d shown her his picture on the wall. I’d found it while waiting for Melody and Julie. He stood smiling among row after row of soldiers heading off to war. We’d also found his name in handwritten white ink down below.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” she said, quickly. “It makes me nervous.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Come to the dark side with me.” Maybe I should tell her we had cookies.
***
The city library was located in the middle of the town square, just up the street from Julie’s shop. It predated her building by about twenty years.
It stood dark. No wonder. We were coming up on midnight.
The buildings in this part of town had been constructed at a time when every door and window was considered a work of art. And while they’d used brick and wood for Main Street, the town square was done in white limestone.
We parked right out front, in the shadow of the large statue of our founder on a horse. Darkness shrouded the library, and I had to admit it appeared a bit creepy, even before we brought two ghosts in there with us.
My sister let us in, and the large wood doors opened with a loud, echoing creak.
“It’s a good thing we can’t afford a security guard,” she said as she led us into the cavernous lobby. I breathed in the comforting scent of old books. “I wouldn’t know how to explain this one.”
“Let’s start with the phone books,” I said, getting down to business. “For Sugarland and any cities or counties within a fifty–mile radius.”
“You’ve thought this out,” she said appreciatively as we passed through a main hall and headed for the research area to the left.
“Of course,” I said. Sure, I didn’t always look before I leaped. In this case, I knew we were up against a time deadline.
Rows and rows of bookshelves held thick books detailing local history, census data, and phone book records. I grabbed the one for Sugarland and headed for a sturdily built table. Melody took books for the three surrounding counties and joined me.
Several hours later, we’d searched every phone book for every city and county in Tennessee and the nearby states. Melody had logged into census data from 1940 through the present day.
Nothing.
I’d expected her to be hard to find. It concerned me deeply that she had no personal record at all.
“What do we do now?” I asked, worried. My voice carried in the silent library. I didn’t even see the ghosts. No doubt they were conserving their energy. I’d learned from Frankie how easily they could wear themselves down, and how hard it was to maintain a presence on the physical plane.
“Come on,” Melody said, heading for a section at the back labeled Genealogy. “We’ll look at old yearbooks.”
Yes, but, “That’s not going to tell us where she lives.”
She continued, undeterred. “It might give us a better idea of her name. Maybe we’re spelling it wrong. We might be missing part.”
I highly doubted Private Cleveland had given me bad information. Still, it would be neat to see what Maime had looked like.
Melody handed me the 1942 Sugarland High School yearbook and grabbed one from the town over for herself. “One thing I’ve learned about research. You keep at it. You never know what’s going to give you a break.”
The spine crackled as I opened it and saw a photo of the baseball team. It was hard to imagine that those cocky kids had played ball at my old high school more than seventy years ago. They looked like your typical young athletes, so tough and sure of themselves.
I turned to the class pictures, to the senior class of 1942. And I saw her.
Mary Bee Saks, nicknamed “Maime.”
She smiled brightly, her raven hair neatly curled away from her heart–shaped face.
“Look at this,” I told Melody. Then we turned back to see John Cleveland, “Johnny,” in a sweater vest and a bow tie. He appeared as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I almost didn’t recognize him.
I’d needed to see this, to hold in my hands the undeniable truth that this woman had indeed existed. But why had she ceased to exist after 1942?
I blew out a frustrated breath.
“You okay?” Melody asked.
“Of course,” I said, rubbing a hand over face. My eyelids felt like sandpaper.
We had to be missing something, a vital piece of the puzzle. I didn’t know what.
“Dawn’s coming,” she said. A faint trace of morning sun had already begun to light up the windows behind us, casting the world in gray. “I need to go home and clean up so I can open the library for the law–abiding citizens.”
“Right,” I said, bracing my head in my hands, unwilling to pack it up just yet. The answer felt as if it were just out of reach. Something simple. If I could only see it. I refused to believe that the woman in the book I held in front of me was somehow unreachable.
Soon it would be too late.
“Get some rest,” Melody said as we stood. “Take care of yourself.”
That wouldn’t help Private Cleveland. Or buy us any time.
I was glad I didn’t see him as Melody closed up the library. I didn’t think I could look him in the eye at that moment.
“Let’s go,” she said, when we’d finished turning off the lights. “We’ll think of something else tomorrow.”
I let her drive me to my house. I didn’t have my car.
But I didn’t promise her I’d stay home.
I had one more idea, one last shot in the dark. I only hoped it would give us the answers we needed.
Chapter Five
Dawn broke as I pulled my ancient Cadillac into Holy Oak Cemetery. Neatly trimmed bushes surrounded the large memorial park. The iron gates stood open.
I drove past the caretaker’s cottage and the landscaping shed, and straight down Resurrection Avenue. I knew the place well. I’d taken my grandmother here many times to place flowers on the grave of both my grandfather and my father. Then I’d done the same next to her tombstone.
Instead of turning right toward the newer section, I made a left.
Rocks spit from under my tires as the older vaults loomed into view. Century–old crypts clustered in the foggy haze of dawn.
I gasped and clutched the steering wheel as I saw spirits lingering among the tombs. “Yikes,” I said, glancing at my bag with the urn. Frankie might not be strong enough to sit next to me, but he was definitely helping me see.
This was the first time I’d visited since Frankie had become a part of my life. I slowed as a young woman, no more than eighteen, stood watching me from the door of her family vault. I shuddered and kept driving.
Deep breaths, I instructed myself, hoping I wouldn’t see anything too unsettling. I headed straight back, past the vaults and monuments and grieving angel statues, to the right rear corner of Holy Oak, where soldiers from the Second World War lay buried.
As I drew closer, the sheer number of graves astonished me. It shouldn’t have. I’d driven past this place before. I understood the price the men had paid. But after meeting Private Cleveland, after seeing his hopeful expression staring back at me from th
at yearbook, the acre–plus field of tombstones felt surreal.
He had been younger than me when he died.
Neat rows of white marker stones lined up with military precision. I parked nearby and took my time getting out of the car as a soldier in full paratrooper gear wandered down a row near the back.
Focus. He had every right to be here, just as I did.
I kept my keys in my hand as I approached the first row of graves.
I needed to stick to the plan.
Graves often held flowers. If someone had left a bouquet for Johnny, perhaps they’d included a note. I could look them up and drop by for a visit.
If that was too much to hope for, even a florist tag would allow me to learn who placed the flowers, who still remembered John Cleveland, and if they knew a girl who had ever gone by the name of Mary Bee Saks.
I was running out of options.
Row four, near the front, held the C’s. I walked it quietly, reverently, until I stood before his grave:
Jonathan Reeves Cleveland
Private
US Army World War II
February 11, 1923
October 31, 1942
The headstone gleamed white. Immaculately trimmed grass crowded the base of the stone, and my heart sank. No evidence existed that anyone had come to visit.
It angered me for a moment, and then I reminded myself that maybe he didn’t have any family left. His friends had likely died. Perhaps Maime was the last one who remained.
Which made me sad all over again.
I hoped John hadn’t been able to follow me this far. He didn’t need to see his final resting place abandoned.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m going to keep trying.”
I bowed my head and said a quick prayer for him–or for hope, I wasn’t sure which.
Slowly, regretfully, I retreated back toward the car.
Maybe I could find something more at the library. Perhaps Melody and I had missed a vital clue. My footsteps came slower, as if leaving this place meant admitting defeat.
Who was I kidding? It did.
A marble bench nestled under a tall oak tree near the road. The spirit of a young woman sat on it, knitting. Her fingers worked the needles deftly and I wondered how long she’d been at it. Her long skirt and high–necked white shirt appeared to be turn–of–the–century. Yet the sweater in her hands remained half finished.