I remember being mortified with embarrassment, but Uncle Ben just smiled and told me not to be ashamed. He explained what it was I had just experienced, and it was the first time I’d ever heard the word orgasm. He told me about the joys and wonders of sex. Growing up on a farm, I was aware of the physical aspects from watching the animals. But Uncle Ben explained the spiritual aspects: how sex was one of the greatest gifts God had given mankind. How the intense pleasure I had just felt was only a shadow of what I could someday feel in the arms of a woman I would love with every fiber of my being. A woman who should be my wife, he added. He explained the female body and the male, how they were designed to come together and the ultimate purpose for that union. And he explained how in the complexities of who we are—fallen creatures every one—we can sometimes experience the pleasures God has given us in other ways, as I had just done. My uncle stroked my hair and kissed me on the forehead and told me he loved me, and I remember feeling as though the greatest of all earthly gifts had just been revealed to me. I trusted my uncle’s word implicitly as I felt him run his fingers through my hair.
And then my father walked in.
No, Dad, nothing ever happened between Uncle Ben and me. Nothing that you would understand, anyway.
* * *
I have been sitting on the front porch now for ten minutes alone with my thoughts. I look up to see everyone approaching.
Peter steps up on the porch first and sits on my lap. Nick and Jim come up the steps with Benjamin in tow holding Nick’s hand. Mom, Joyce, and Suzanne go on in the house, leaving the guys on the porch. Dad sits in the rocking chair beside mine.
“Dad,” Peter says, “it’s really warm. Did you decide about letting us camp out?”
Jim puts his arm around Nick’s shoulders. He clears his throat. “Let ’em, Glen,” he says.
“Yeah, Dad!” Peter says.
I look at him. “You want to spend the night freezing your butts off?”
“They won’t freeze,” my dad says. “The weather man said on the noon news that it was only going down in the fifties tonight. And if they camp out in the old house they can make a fire in one of the fireplaces.”
“You mean the old house down by the river?” Peter asks.
“Yes, your daddy and his uncle used to camp out in the old house all the time when he was a boy.”
“You never told us about that, Dad. Can we?”
“Come on, Glen,” Jim says. “It sounds like fun. Let ’em do it.”
“Please, Daddy,” Peter begs.
I look at Nick. “You’re awfully quiet. How do you feel about this?”
Nick breaks into a grin. “I wanna camp out,” he says.
“Well, I guess I’m out voted,” I say. I notice Benjamin is looking at me expectantly. “You want to camp out, too, little man?”
He gives me a grin and one of his exaggerated nods.
I nudge Peter. “If I let him go are you going to take extra care to watch him?”
“Why don’t you camp out with us? You can tell us ghost stories. You know how Ben loves to be scared.”
It is true. Benjamin loves scary stories. Most five-year-olds would be terrified at the prospect of spending the night in an old “haunted house.” Not my little man. He’ll love it. I think I may have a future Stephen King on my hands. I look at Jim. “You said this sounded like fun. You wanna camp out with ’em?”
“Let me think about it,” Jim says.
“Aw, come on, Dad,” Nick pleads.
“I might, just let me think about it.”
“We got plenty of sleeping bags,” my father offers.
“How ’bout it?” Nick says.
“We’ll see,” Jim says. He runs his hand over Nick’s hair.
“Well,” my dad says, “I think we oughta go inside and see what the women folk have got planned for dinner.”
Chapter 12
Old Joe
It’s just past seven o’clock and dark now but still warm as we walk down the wide tractor path into the woods. As we get closer to the swamp, the night sounds are growing louder.
“This is spooky,” Benjamin says.
I look down at his face, illumined by the gas-fired camping lantern I am carrying. Spooky or not, he is all smiles. I look back at Peter and Nick. They are enjoying this as much as Benjamin. Jim—the big coward—said he didn’t feel up to camping out. So, it’s just me and the boys with our sleeping bags, marshmallows, and some firewood. We’ve got the sleeping bags tied to our backs. Benjamin is carrying a bag of marshmallows in one hand and his little MagLite in the other. Peter and Nick are carrying the firewood. I hear a few groans as they grapple with their burdens.
“Are you gonna tell us some ghost stories, Daddy?” Benjamin asks.
“Uh-huh,” I reply, “I was just thinking of one. Peter, do you remember the story about the old house?”
“Sorta. My great, great, grandfather built the new house back by the old barn and moved out of the house down on the river.”
“And why did he leave the old house?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t remember you ever telling us that.”
I stop in the path. We are in the swamp now. It may be late fall, but the insects are loud and the soil beneath our feet is damp and soft. The earthy odor of the stagnant waters is all around us. And in the aftermath of the day’s warmth, there’s even a mosquito or two buzzing around. The swamp will take on an entirely different cast later in winter once the ground freezes and the water glazes over with ice.
The boys gather around the circle of light cast by the lantern. Nick smacks a mosquito on his arm. Benjamin is holding on to me. All three of the boys look at me, expectantly.
“Where are we?” I ask and look at Peter’s face, pale and aglow in the white light.
Peter looks to his left, then right. Nick does the same. Benjamin is hugging my leg now. “We’re in the swamp,” Peter whispers, his voice barely audible over the insects.
I nod. “That was the official reason. The Nottaway was changing its course, gradually, and the swampland was increasing. John Paul Erskine feared that the house would eventually be swallowed by the swamp, so he built another house inland, on higher ground.”
“But that wasn’t the real reason?” Nick asks, looking from side to side, peering into the darkness.
“No, it wasn’t,” I say and motion for them to follow me. We continue down the path.
“So what was the real reason?” Peter asks.
“Old Joe,” I say.
I wait for their response. If I’ve timed this right, we should be coming up on the long abandoned railroad tracks.
“Old Joe? Who was Old Joe?” Peter asks.
I stop. “Did you all hear something?”
They don’t respond. Benjamin is right up against me again. The question was for effect only. I didn’t hear anything. I hold the lantern out in front of us. We aren’t to the tracks yet. I take a cautious step forward.
“Old Joe,” I continue, “was a freed slave from the Urquhart plantation just down the river. See, up until the 1870s the primary way of moving the produce from the plantation to market was by the river down to the train depot in Courtland. But around 1870 they ran a split from the main rail line down from Petersburg right through the Erskine and Urquhart plantations. It tied back into the main line south of Franklin. Old Joe went to work for my great, great, grandfather when the trains started coming through. He was in charge of the water tower—”
“The old water tower down by the tracks?” Peter asks.
“That’s the one. The steam engines had to have water to operate. For trains on the split, this was the last water stop before Suffolk. Normally, Old Joe only worked in the daytime; no trains came through on the split at night. But in the fall of 1882 they had a flood that washed out the rail bridge across the Nottaway down by Courtland. So all the trains had to take the split. Old Joe had to stay up late for the last train out of Petersburg when it would stop for wate
r. He would stand in the middle of the tracks and swing his lantern in the air to let the engineer know he was approaching the Erskine water stop.”
“What’s this got to do with your great grandfather moving to a new house?” Nick asks.
“I’m getting to that,” I say. “One night, Old Joe stood on the tracks waving his lamp as the big locomotive, bellowing smoke and cinders, came rumbling toward him. And no one knows what happened, but the engineer said Old Joe must have gotten his foot caught in between the ties. He was still swinging his lamp when the train cut him down.”
“Oh, man,” Nick whispers.
“Yeah,” I say. “And after that, the farm hands started talking about seeing that swinging lantern some nights when they would cross the tracks. Think we’ll see it tonight?”
“Tonight?” Nick says.
“We have to cross the tracks, don’t we, Dad?” Peter says.
“Yep, they’re right up here.” I point up ahead.
We walk another ten yards in silence and then the lantern catches the edge of the old and rotted cross ties. We step into the middle of the tracks and I turn to look north. And I almost drop the lantern.
There, far down the tracks, about where the old water tower stands, is a dimly glowing light swinging slowly in the air. I blink a couple of times and look. It’s still there.
“Dad,” Peter whispers, “do you see that?”
“I see it.”
“What is it?” Nick whispers.
“It’s Old Joe,” Benjamin says, squeezing my leg.
How many times did Uncle Ben scare the devil out of me with this story when I was a child and we’d come down here at night? But not once did we ever see the lamp swinging over the tracks. I often imagined I’d seen it. But now I am reminded of the rest of the story. About what happens once you do see it.
“Come on, guys, let’s get to the house and build a fire,” I say, my voice a little unsteady. “It’s getting chilly.”
We move on.
“What happened to make him move, Glen?” Nick asks.
I had hoped they wouldn’t want to know. I clear my throat. “I don’t think I should finish the story,” I say, which produces exactly the opposite effect of quelling curious young minds.
“No way, Dad,” Peter says. “You started it, now we wanna know what happened. Why did John Paul Erskine move out of the old house?”
“He saw Old Joe one night,” I answer.
“Just like we did,” Benjamin says.
I stop and turn to the boys. “Look,” I say, “this is just a story, okay? That’s all. Just a story. I don’t know what we saw back there, but it wasn’t Old Joe. I don’t even think there was an Old Joe. It’s just a story.”
“I think it was Old Joe,” Benjamin says.
“Okay, Dad, it’s just a story,” Peter says. “So finish it.”
We resume walking.
“Well, supposedly,” I say, “once you’ve seen Old Joe, he can get free from the tracks. And then he comes looking for you. To thank you for getting him free.”
“And he came looking for John Paul Erskine?” Peter says.
“It’s just a story,” I tell them again.
“You think he’ll come looking for us?” Benjamin asks.
“No, son, it’s just a story. It’s not real.”
“But we saw something, Glen,” Nick says.
I don’t say anything.
We are in the clearing now that leads up to the old house. I wish we had come down here while it was still light. I haven’t been to the old house in years. But as we approach, I take the halogen flashlight out of my pocket and click it on. The bright beam falls on my ancestral home. The old faded walls are grey, but the house doesn’t look tired; it doesn’t sag. It was constructed on a brick foundation, which, I suppose, is why termites have never gotten in it. Only a few windowpanes are broken and the four chimneys—two at each end—stand tall and majestic amidst the huge, ancient pecan trees surrounding the house.
We step up on the big porch and the boards creak a little under our weight. I reach for the door and turn the knob. It opens with a squeak. We step into the empty foyer. I hold the lantern out and look up the staircase.
“Where are we gonna sleep?” Peter asks. “Upstairs?”
“No, come on.” I motion for them to follow me. “Close the door, Nick.”
Nick pushes the door to with his heel and the boys follow me into what Uncle Ben used to call the parlor. This is where he and I used to camp out. I walk over to the massive fireplace. The andirons, old and rusted, are still there with a generous bed of ashes beneath them. I set the lantern on the hearth. Peter and Nick unload the firewood onto the floor beside the fireplace.
“That was getting heavy,” Nick says, brushing his hands together.
“You got that newspaper?” I ask him.
“Yes, sir. I stuck it in my sleeping bag.” Nick slips the bed roll off his back and fishes out the newspaper.
I take a few sheets and roll them into a tube. “Matches?” I say to Peter.
Peter reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out the box of kitchen matches his grandmother gave him. He looks at me. “Aren’t you gonna put the wood in first, Dad?”
“Not yet.” I strike a blue-tipped match on the brick hearth and light the newspaper in my hand. I hold the burning—and smoking—paper over the andirons. “What am I doing?” I ask the boys.
“Trying to start a fire with no wood,” Nick says with a giggle.
Peter snickers. Even Benjamin catches the humor and giggles. “You’re funny, Daddy,” he says.
“Ha, ha,” I say. “Look at the smoke. What’s it doing?”
“It’s goin’ up the chimney,” Peter says.
“Exactly. I’m checking the draft, son. This old chimney could be clogged with a bird’s nest or something. If I’d started a fire with it clogged, we’d have had a real mess. But it looks like it’s drawing fine.” I drop the burning paper into the fireplace.
We proceed to get a good fire going and then clean up the floor for our sleeping area. We get the sleeping bags arranged and then sit on them and start roasting marshmallows in the fire.
The boys are laughing and talking, really enjoying this. And so am I. After Uncle Ben died, when I would be home from school, I would come down here sometimes and sleep alone. Sometimes with friends. But it was never the same without Uncle Ben.
I smile at the thought. How similar this camp out has been to the times when he would bring me to the old house. Those were special times and I can’t help but feel that Nick and my sons feel that this night is special. Even the story of Old Joe—I told it to them in exactly the way Uncle Ben told it to me the night we first camped out in the old house. I was seven years old.
But we didn’t see any swinging lamp on the tracks.
What was that? I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the boys saw it too. Maybe it was something on the tracks catching the light from my lantern and reflecting it. Whatever it was, it was creepy. Old Joe can keep his thanks to himself.
“OUCH!” Nick says, and I look at him.
“Be careful, they can get pretty hot,” I warn.
“Yeah,” he says, touching the blackened marshmallow gingerly. “I don’t really like marshmallows, but they aren’t bad roasted.” He blows on it and then takes a bite with it still on the end of the stick.
“Daddy, will you fix me another one?” Benjamin asks.
“Sure, little man, get me one from the bag.”
Benjamin reaches in the bag between his legs and pulls out a marshmallow and hands it to me. I push it onto the end of my stick and hold it over the fire. I look over at Peter and Nick. They are looking over their shoulders. They aren’t smiling. I look over my shoulder toward the door.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“We heard something,” Nick says.
I listen. All I hear are the pops and crackles of the fire. I pull Benjamin’s marshmallow out and blow on it. I hold
it over to him and he takes a bite.
“I think you guys are letting your imaginations run away with you,” I say. And just as the words leave my mouth, I hear something.
“I think somebody’s on the porch,” Peter says.
“Old Joe,” Benjamin whispers.
“Benjamin, honey, I told you, that was just a story.”
Benjamin looks at me with big eyes and takes another bite of black marshmallow. “He just wants to thank us, Daddy,” he says, chewing the sticky goo.
I shake my head. My little Stephen King would be glad if it were Old Joe. He probably wants to invite him in for a roasted marshmallow.
We hear the noise again.
Benjamin moves off his sleeping bag and over to mine. He snuggles up against me.
“Dad, I think you better go see what that is,” Peter says.
I reach in my pocket and get my flashlight. I’ve already extinguished the camping lantern and I don’t feel like trying to get the thing going again. I point to the pile of firewood. “Put another couple of logs on the fire, son,” I tell Peter. He does as I get up. “You guys stay here. It’s probably a raccoon or a possum or something.”
I walk over to the open door that leads into the foyer. I shine the light out into the open blackness. Nothing. Just dust and a few cobwebs. I point the narrow beam of light up the stairs. Nothing.
And then there is a knock at the door, a single knock. Then another. Then silence.
I freeze. This is crazy. I don’t believe in ghosts. But raccoons and possums don’t knock on doors. I step into the foyer and walk over in front of the staircase. I look back to see the three boys standing in the parlor door, silhouetted against the blazing and crackling fire. I turn and start for the door when it suddenly opens.
And there, suspended in mid air, is a swinging oil lantern.
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