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The flyers were ready and it was just a matter of walking back and taking them into the school. She guessed the gym could wait. She really wanted Margie to do that with her. Not that there was anything to fear, except old memories. But she was curious about what feelings they might get, or more accurately what Margie might get. She was certain that corner of the basement where their parents were murdered would have some for her.
It was recess time when Lydia reached the school and on this fine spring day the children were slipping out of their coats and tagging each other as they moved on toward the swings and slide and new skate-board ramp. Some of them were already in a larger area kicking a black and white soccer ball. The energy was something she was not used to. It was so scattered and loud it was almost frightening. Her yoga students were quiet, controlled in their movements, graceful, slow. An involuntary shudder came over her; she could never be a teacher of children.
Lydia made her way up the worn cement steps to the first floor, and then to the office on the landing between floors. Windows filled the upper part of the wall that divided the room from the stairs and she could see the superintendent was not there. She had never been in that room, never even been on the second floor where her mother had taught English to the high school kids. Not once had she visited her there. She hugged the flyers to her, protecting that great hole opening in her heart as she realized how she missed knowing more of her mother.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a friendly hello. “May I help you?” the woman continued.
“Oh. Hi. I’m Lydia Kinnen. I brought these flyers for Mr. Stephenson, but guess he’s not here. And the door’s locked.”
“Lydia! My, my. Our little Lydia, all grown up. I should have known, though, you look just like your mother. I’m Pearl Palmer. Margie called the other day. And I will get over for that supper she promised.”
Lydia forced herself to smile at this rather stocky, white-haired woman who planted her feet apart in a no-nonsense stance, while sparkling blue eyes conveyed warmth and curiosity.
“Look,” Pearl continued. “Mr. Stephenson should be back soon. He’s probably on the playground somewhere. Come on up to my room and when the children get back I’ll introduce you. They should know their next door neighbor.”
“OK,” Lydia said. What else could she say? A loud buzzing bell was announcing the end of recess and children began to hustle themselves back into the building. Those that passed Lydia as she climbed the stairs to the second floor looked at her curiously, some saying hi, others too intent on getting to where they were going as fast as they could. She felt somewhat like an animal in a zoo, apprehensive about an introduction.
She followed Pearl as she turned right, then entered a room that held the fifth and sixth grades. At the back was a sectioned off space with coat racks which the children attacked first before slipping into their desk seats. Lydia set her bundle of flyers temporarily on Pearl’s desk, her arms beginning to feel numb with their weight.
Pearl got right down to business. “We have a special guest,” she told them. “Let’s welcome our new neighbor, Lydia Kinnen. Lydia and her sister live in the house you see when you come into the driveway. They used to go to school here, children. Awhile ago. Some of your parents probably remember them. So, what do we say?”
“Welcome, Lydia Kinnen,” the children said in unison.
“Thank you,” Lydia said, feeling the heat in her cheeks. With all eyes on her she could almost read the questions in their minds, like ‘Who does that make you? Why should we care?’
“Now that you know her name, I’d like you each to tell her yours,” Pearl said. “Let’s start with you, Meagan.”
A quick survey of the room showed the two classes separated by a row of empty desks. Five girls and two boys sat nearest the door. Four girls and three boys sat on the other side, nearest the windows.
One by one the children stood and gave their name. Meagan Moore, Robin Cartier Gregory, Tanya Seward, Amber Fisher, Jennifer Harris, the girls in the fifth grade announced. The two boys introduced themselves as Clyde Winter and Morgan Allbright. Then the names began to blur, the Seward and the Harris names remaining in her mind as if they had little stars behind them, and the Cartier Gregory girl who no doubt was Persia the poet’s daughter sparking her interest. But then, the whole sixth grade passed right out of her consciousness.
“Well, thank you very much,” Lydia said from her forced smile and dry mouth. “Now I’ll know you on the playground.”
She was about to pick up her bundle and be off, but it wasn’t to be. Not just yet.
A hand shot up. The girl wore oyster-white overalls with a long-sleeved white knitted shirt. Long brown hair was tucked pertly behind her ears. Bangs nearly obscured dark-blue eyes. Most noticeable, though, was the teasing grin playing about her lips. It was the Harris child.
“Yes, Jennifer?” Mrs. Palmer said.
“Are you the ghost lady?” Jennifer looked pleased when a few snickers, quickly curtailed, were let out around her.
A chill ran up Lydia’s spine, and a smile she couldn’t control came over her. “Now that’s an interesting question,” she commented. “You think I’m a ghost?” So, Jake was right? Her mother had been seen by others?
“We hear you talk to ghosts and make them appear,” said the dark-haired, brown-eyed girl dressed in red top and long denim skirt, the one who said she was Tanya Seward. First cousin to Jennifer Harris, their mothers being sisters, one marrying Stanley Seward, the other Mike Harris, the evil one’s brother. Lydia reviewed this in her mind.
“And you can make people disappear,” Jennifer added, nodding in emphasis. Lydia noticed the girl Meagan was looking down at her desk as if embarrassed, or perhaps intimidated. Amber giggled and squirmed. Robin looked sober and observant.
“Sounds haunting,” Lydia replied. “What interesting stories you’ve been reading.”
All this occurred so quickly that Pearl hardly had time to step in and defuse the moment. The rest of the children in the room were spell-bound, their energy ready to spring into action in cheers or maybe jeers. Pearl stepped forward in her authoritative stance just in time.
“Well, children, we have work to do, as I know Miss Kinnen does also.” She picked up the flyers and handed them to Lydia then walked her to the door. Lydia gave the children a quick wave and playful smile. At the door, Pearl apologized in a whisper. “These children. You never know what’s going to come out of them.” She looked at Lydia oddly as if wondering who was teasing whom. “We’ll talk more when we have that supper.”
“Right,” Lydia said, as the door closed behind her.
Mr. Stephenson was on the phone when Lydia knocked lightly on the glass-framed door which stood open. He motioned her in, then turned back to his conversation. Lydia used the time to settle her nerves. Ghost lady. She couldn’t believe it. After he hung up she handed him the packet of flyers, told him the bill was inside, and introduced herself.
“Margie and I are helping Sherrie Claxton.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.” He reached out his hand and Lydia took it. It was hardly a shake. Just a bare touch. “Sit down, sit down.” He shifted about as if expecting to be accused of something, but then settled back, steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the chair arms. He was impeccably dressed —white shirt, red and silver striped tie, dark blue trousers. He was a tall and thin man, with no sign of middle-aged paunch, and dark hair barely turning grey. Thirty years ago, New Hope had been his first year as superintendent. Lydia imagined that having two teachers killed on his watch may have been disturbing. She heard he had gone into the Air Force. The next fall? She didn’t know. But, he’d never gotten out of the states she heard and came back to Iowa after his discharge, taught in various schools, then became superintendent again in New Hope a few years ago. So it was rather serendipitous that he was here now as Lydia and Margi
e were wanting to know more about the night of May 31, 1969.
“I just met Mrs. Palmer’s students,” Lydia said, feeling suddenly awkward. He must like the community, she thought, or he wouldn’t have come back. He must know the children, their parents and their history. She wanted to ask him why they called her a ghost lady, but it seemed too abrupt. Instead she said, “Such small classes.”
Mr. Stephenson nodded slowly, but didn’t speak, as if trying to judge where she was going with this.
“Smaller than when I was here,” she added with a nervous embarrassing giggle. He raised his eyebrows. “But it seems a shame to close the school.”
Finally he came alive. “Well, when parents choose to send their children to a private boarding school what do they expect?”
His words spilled out with a force that startled Lydia. Then she remembered what Sherrie had said about the older Seward and Harris boys.
“Like Jennifer’s brother?”
“I could name several of those rich Quakers who’ve sent their children to that high school they have down by Iowa City instead of supporting their own home school.” He flicked his hand in some vague direction and seemed about to stand, but then settled back.
“Maybe the ghost stories the children are hearing scared them off,” Lydia offered impulsively. She watched a grimace cross his face.
“Ghost stories?”
“You know. The gym. Where my parents were killed.”
“It was an accident,” he said.
“You were there that night?”
“No, ma’am. My wife and I were on vacation. Look. We extend our heartfelt sympathies. It was a most unfortunate episode. For you, for the school, for the community. But that was years ago. And as I understand it, there was no premeditated intent to kill. Your parents, if I may say so, were...” Mr. Stephenson pursed his lips, aware he was getting into a delicate topic. “perhaps too eager to confront a boy who didn’t want to see them?”
Lydia felt her cheeks burning. She was at once ready to protect her parents but on the other hand wanted to know everything she hadn’t been told. She was beginning to see what Mr. Seward meant by the situation being complicated. “What do you mean he didn’t want to see them? This is Dale Harris we’re talking about, right? A young man just out of the army’s basic training for how to kill? Not a boy any more, I would say.” Lydia frowned, disliking her defensiveness, but also sensing that Dale Harris may have meant something special to this man, who must have been pretty young himself back then. Dale was 18, 19. Joseph Stephenson 24, more or less, she guessed. Something to think about, maybe. Not easy to assess.
“All right, a young man. A sensitive young man exposed to pacifist propaganda. Basic training is to learn how to stay alive, Ms. Kinnen. How to survive in rough, tough conditions, how to work with your team mates, your squadron, how to be loyal.” He ended his speech abruptly, as if suddenly realizing its futility. His eyes and mouth were as sharp and thin as bullets. “You’re speaking to one who trained for and performed his military duty. I disagreed with your parents and their friends at the time, but honored their right to speak their beliefs.” He stared at her. “I didn’t honor their badgering any of my students. And I always wondered why they went to the gym anyway. They were obviously not invited.”
“And so you blame them for their own deaths?”
“Now let’s not put it that way. I’m just saying, Dale was a good boy when I knew him.”
“And my parents weren’t so good?”
“Miss Kinnen, that’s not what I’m saying. I’ve already told you I disagreed with their position, but I honored it. It’s just that why did they push it so?” Mr. Stephenson now looked pained.
“Wow,” Lydia said. “So I guess that makes it pretty hard to work with some of the present day parents who were those pacifist students. Those very parents who want to send their children to boarding school? Those very parents who are on the school board perhaps?” Lydia laid things out without thinking she might be making an enemy out of someone who could give her information she wanted.
Mr. Stephenson cleared his throat. “You’re here to stir up trouble?” His expression had turned professional, meaning almost blank.
“We’re here to do something with the house,” Lydia said, her voice lowering from it’s frantic pitch. “It does stir up memories, however, and you might say that is troublesome. For your information, my sister and I do realize that even though New Hope was founded by Quakers, and the Friends Church is the only one in this community, not all residents are Quakers. Furthermore, we also know that not all Quakers are pacifists. Maybe our parents were even in the minority. I don’t know. But please, try to remember that Margie and I were left orphans. We were sent off to live with an aunt and uncle. We never understood why Grandpa and Grandma got old so quickly and couldn’t take care of us.” Lydia’s throat had tightened up and her words were beginning to squeak. She looked down in embarrassment.
“Well, we’re all sympathy, Miss Kinnen. Your grandparents were vital to the community. And we understand that you must make decisions on the house. I’m sure you’ll find the best solution for all involved. Just as we have to find the best solution for this school.” He tapped the bundle of flyers. “That’s why we’re getting information out regarding the school problems and the meeting to be called. You and your sister will be there?”
“Of course.”
“Well then. We’ll all work together. Tell Sherrie thanks for the quick job. We’ll send these home with the students tonight. Glad you came in, Miss Kinnen.” Mr. Stephensen started to rise from his chair and Lydia followed suit. Yes, they’d be there. Some interesting insights were beginning to form in her mind. Just what stories had been circulating through the years? Maybe she could make ghosts appear. And disappear.
Chapter 7
The Return Page 10