Letters From The Grave

by Jeanie P Johnson

  “So who were the flowers from?” Maud asked, when Emma came into the dining area.

  “Some secret admirer I haven’t even met yet. You will let me know if you notice anyone staring at me, won’t you? It is probably someone I have served before, and now he has a crush on me.”

  “So mysterious,” Maud laughed. “I will keep my eyes open.

  Had he been in La Casa before, Emma wondered? She knew now if she saw him, she would recognize him, because Sal told her that the man who wanted the paintings looked just like the man in her painting. If he didn’t want her meeting him yet, it was a sure thing he would not show up now, because it stood to reason that he was aware, that she knew what he looked like.

  When Emma got off of work, she called Cassandra and told her everything that had been happening. “He’s here somewhere,” Emma told her. “I bet that phone number you found was his phone number, but then he changed it, so I couldn’t meet him until he was ready to meet me!”

  “And you think it won’t be until the Doran of the past dies?” Cassandra questioned.

  “Doran of the past is afraid I won’t continue to write to him, if we find each other in the present. After all, he has just lost his wife. He wants to continue to talk to her beyond the grave. Once I meet him in this life, I may lose interest in the Doran of the past, and maybe if I meet him now, it will break the link between us, because how could I be with the Doran of the future while I am still conversing with the Doran of the past? It is a miracle that I am even able to converse with the Doran of the past. Maybe it is my duty to comfort him until he is killed, and then my reward will be meeting him again in this life.”

  “Maybe some other person knows about you writing to someone you think is your soul mate.” Cassandra suggested, “and he is taking advantage of the situation.”

  “Then how did he get the globe? And how did he end up looking like Doran of the past? I even look like Emma of the past. We both have the same names, and are related to the same family. Maybe we were meant to pick up where we left off, once Doran of the past finally dies.”

  “This is all too weird for me,” Cassandra shivered. “It is almost like his ghost coming back and materializing to become physical again.”

  “Then I must be a ghost too,” Emma reasoned, “because I look just like Emma of the past, and I am physical.”

  “Well, let me know if you ever end up meeting Doran of the present, and what happens when you do.”

  “I am almost afraid to meet him now. There are too many expectations. What if, when we meet, we discover we really don’t like each other?”

  “Then you will know you aren’t soul mates after all,” Cassandra suggested.

  “Yeah, I guess you are right, but five years seems like a long time to have to wait to discover the truth about what is going on.”

  “I suppose what was meant to be, is meant to be,” Cassandra tried to comfort.

  “Maybe… I’ll talk to you later. It has been a long day, and I want to write another letter to Doran of the past.”

  “Sure. Talk to you later, then.”

  Emma picked up her pen and started writing, telling Doran how another Doran had sent her the flowers, because somehow he knew that Doran had mentioned that she looked like a fresh blue flower, on her nineteenth birthday. In the morning, she would take it to the graveyard, and send it. For now, all she wanted was to sleep and mull over what had happened to her that day.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1979

  Doran stood in front of the art studio, where he knew Emma was to bring her artwork. He knew she had not arrived yet, but somehow, he knew no matter how long he waited before he went into the shop, it would go the very way history predicted it should. He would get there before her, and somehow bump into her. History demanded it, and he had already created that reality for himself, even before the event had taken place.

  He looked down at the old Polaroid photos of her paintings. They had almost faded into ghosts of what they had been originally, which made the paintings look even more eerie than they already were. He read the letter she had written his great, great grandfather back then, while at the same time, knowing that she had just sent the letter that morning, before she left for Saint Louis.

  He was not sure how it worked. He wondered if maybe soul mates got together and planned all their lives together, and they were destined to follow the script, whether they knew it or not? How else did soul mates meet each other, especially if they didn’t even know they were soul mates? The difference was that he had been warned in advance, by letters written in the future, and then brought back through the past, so he had to knowingly follow the script, or take the chance of perhaps never meeting Emma in this life time. Now, it seemed he, himself, was dictating the outcome before the happening even transpired. Through Emma’s letters, he knew in advance the decisions he was going to make in the future. Was it him making the decisions in advance, or her letters dictating the decisions to him from the past?

  It was all confusing, but all he knew, was that he had to meet her in the end, after all he had gone through as Doran of the past, and now Doran of the future, he couldn’t let it slip by him.

  The only thing that was not written out in the letters was whether he actually meets her or not, once Dorn of the past dies. She would have stopped writing the letters by the time he planned to meet her. His past-self would be dead, but what if something prevented him from meeting her, on the day that his old self died?

  This was the worry that plagued him. Did he have that much power in his future destiny, he wondered? So far, things were working out well because he had the map of letters to follow, but once the last one was written, he would be on his own from there on in.

  He took in his breath and entered the studio. No use putting it off. The sooner he did it, the sooner he would bump into Emma again. He had been very careful not to let her see him again, after the jogging incident, and whatever happened, he had to make sure she did not see his face, or know it was him she was bumping into.

  “Hi,” Sal greeted, when Doran entered the studio. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I believe that an Emma Harrison is going to bring you some artwork today,” Doran said, glancing over his shoulder, hoping that he did not bump into Emma while he was still in the shop.

  “Yes. She does very good work,” Sal smiled, “but I didn’t know she was bringing me her work today.”

  “There are a couple of pieces I am interested in. They are of my ancestors, Doran Foster, and his wife. Emma looks a lot like his wife. I think she may be related to them as well. Anyway, I will pay you any price you ask for those paintings.”

  “Well, if she brings them in, I will hold them for you, if you wish. You will have to give me your name and address, so I can contact you, after she brings them in.”

  “My name is Doran Foster, but it won’t be necessary to call me. I know she will be bringing them in today, so I will return later for them. I will give you a deposit to hold them. Will five hundred be enough?”

  Sal smiled. “Do you know Emma?” he asked.

  “Well, sort of. I know of her, and I met her a couple times, but she probably doesn’t remember me. She sent a friend of mine the pictures of her artwork, and mentioned she would be bringing them in today.”

  “Oh. I understand now,” Sal nodded. “Sure. Five hundred will hold them for you. She has other work, you know. I promised to display them for her, if the one of Emma’s grave sold. I didn’t know she was doing one of Emma’s husband’s grave.”

  “I am sure you will not regret putting her work on display. She is very talented. I will tell my friends about her work, so they can buy some of her art themselves.”

  “I am appreciative of your advertising my place, if that is the case,” Sal thanked him.

  Doran brought out five hundred dollars in cash, and Sal wrote him a receipt. “I will return soon,” Doran promised, as he left the shop. It was at that moment, he saw Emma app
roaching, and lowered his head, just as she bumped into him. An electric shock went through him. It was even stronger than the feeling he had gotten when he had danced with her. His attachment to her had been growing stronger, and he couldn’t deny it.

  She turned and looked at him, but he hurried on to his car. Best she didn’t see him again, or she might recall him from her senior prom, and that jogging incident. As much as he felt drawn to touch her again, he knew he would have to use all the will power he could, to stop himself from ruining everything before the time was ready for their ultimate meeting.

  Briefly he remembered the dream he had had of being shot, and then appearing at his grave, and seeing Emma kneeling there. She seemed to know he was there. She had felt his presence, when his spirit went through the portals of time to touch her with his soul. Maybe it was his way of preparing her for meeting him in her own time. Would she feel his presences and know he was her soul mate, when they finally met, for real, he wondered?

  Several days later, he stood in front of a flower shop. He had a new opportunity to let her know he was waiting for her, if she would just wait for him to appear. The blue bouquet was chosen. The right words were written on the card, and then it was sent to her place of work. He hoped this did not frighten her too much, but he had to let her know he was waiting to meet her, only now was not the time.

  He wondered how he would live out more years without being able to touch her, or hold her, or talk to her in person. However, he had all the letters she would write to treasure, the same as his other-self had treasured them. They had probably both read those letters over and over again over the years. That was some comfort to him, because she never gave up on his great, great grandfather, so maybe she would not give up on her meeting her past husband once again… in this life.

  CHAPTER NINEETEEN

  1861

  Two years had slipped by since Emma’s death, but to Doran, it did not seem like she was really dead because he could talk to her in letters, and there was always a reply. It did not seem so strange now, since he was used to writing to Emma and having her respond to his letters. He no longer worried about her stopping from writing him because she had met his future self. In fact, she seldom mentioned that future Doran any longer. He wondered if she ever would meet him in the future, once he, himself, had finally died.

  Her life was filled with doing her artwork, and that kept her busy because she informed him, it was her only source of income now. He often looked at the first two pictures she had sent of her rendition of him and Emma, along with their tombstone, only she had darkened out the date of his death on his own tombstone.

  His life was busy as well. He and his brother-in-law were working hard to keep the plantation generating money, and they were also cataloguing all his belongings. Unbeknown to Mark, he had slowly been taking the most valuable objects and storing them in the room under the floor. Even his mother was not aware of what he was doing, as he did it in the dark of night. At some point, he would tell her and Mark about his method of protecting their assets, for when the war started. As objects disappeared, they would start to notice anyway. However, since the war had not actually broken out, even though there were high tempers in the leaders of opposite states, arguing the point, he did not find a real reason to mention it to anyone. Maybe he never would, he thought, until it was obvious what he was doing and it was necessary to flee, or rebuild his plantation, if the worse did happen.

  His mother would the first to notice their treasures missing, though, and he would probably have to tell her about Emma’s warnings. He paused at the mantle and lifted the globe, letting himself be transported back to Emma’s nineteenth birthday for one moment in time, but his thoughts were interrupted when Matthew came toddling in and hugged his leg.

  “Now, now, Master Mathew,” Nanny Doris scolded, “your papa is probably too busy to bother with you right now.”

  “I could never be too busy to hug my son,” Doran smiled, as he lifted Matthew up onto his shoulders. “Shall we go for a ride out to your mother’s grave?” he asked, leaving Nanny Doris behind. “I will return shortly with him,” he promised her, as she gave him a look, which was a cross between worry and pleasure, that his father was showing so much attention to the lad.

  Doran lowered Matthew to the ground, and allowed him to toddle among the gravestones, while he retrieved another letter from Emma. He had learned so much from her letters, not only about the future more than a hundred years from then, but also little things about his immediate future, concerning the upcoming war.

  She told him how Missouri would be divided, and many would fight for the north, while others would fight for the south. It was like Mark had warned, Doran thought. It would be brother against brother. He wondered if he would be pressed into the war. He hoped not. There would be no one left to run the plantation if he left. His father had died, and Mark was talking about fighting for the South, if push came to shove.

  He put the letter in his breast pocket, to be read later during a private moment, and gathered Matthew in his arms, bringing him back to the main building, into the care of Nanny Doris’ arms. Later, he would put the letter with all the rest, in a small box he kept for that purpose. His mother was the only one who knew about the box, and he had given her permission to read the letters, if she wished. She seemed hesitant, but was curious about the future, just like he was. She had finally come to the conclusion that Doran couldn’t jinx the flow of Emma’s letters, and she was thankful to the girl for keeping Doran in high spirits, in spite of her prophecies of future doom.

  Just as Doran entered the house, Mark strode to his side. “Have you heard?” he asked anxiously. “It has started!”

  “What has started?” Doran asked.

  “Lincoln will not let the southern states separate from the union. He is worried it will turn the United States into several separate bickering countries and disrupt the whole purpose of the revolution. The South wouldn’t allow the refusal, so the Confederates bombarded Union soldiers at Fort Sumter South Carolina on April 12, and then Virginia joined into the war on the 19th. It’s official now. The South outnumbers the North two to one, so this is going to be over with before you know it!”

  “Don’t count on it,” Doran said, his brows pulling together. “It may seem an easy task to make the North back down, but Abraham Lincoln is going to be a person to be reckoned with. He is not going to back down easily.”

  “I don’t even know how the man got elected? His name wasn’t even on half of the ballots in some of the states!,” Mark grumbled.

  “Well, he did get elected, and I can tell you, when it just about looks like the South is going to win, something will happen to turn the tables at the last moment.”

  “How do you know that?” Mark demanded. “It has just started, and only one state is involved right now.”

  “I can’t tell you how I know. I just know, is all. There is more to this war than meets the eye, which means we had better get prepared for the worse. My plantation will be in danger of being rand sacked one day, since, like you said, Missouri will be divided, and we won’t know who our enemies are, before this is all over with. We should start doubling our production of food, if possible, so we will have some to store, just in case.”

  “A good idea, if this war does get off the ground, food will be a valuable commodity. Only Governor Stewart proclaimed, before going out of office in 1860, that Missouri should remain neutral and shouldn’t supply either the north or the south. The only way he would allow us to fight, was if either side tries to overrun the state, from either direction, but that is all changing, now that Governor Jackson is in office. He is more south leaning than Stewart was. He wants us to pull away and join the south.”

  “Good luck doing that! There are too many sympathizers of the North that won’t support it,” Doran pointed out.

  “You may be right, only I don’t know how you will keep your plantation working. I have it on good authority, that slaves, and free blac
ks are planning on fighting against the south, so who will be left to work the plantations?”

  “I wouldn’t blame them if they did. After all, it is their future life, we are fighting for, and they have every right to join in something that will provide their freedom, in the end.”

  Doran thought about how his grandfather had freed his slaves. He knew his workers were loyal to him, but if they wanted to fight in the war, there was no way he could stop them, or even wanted to. He had already started to store food in the cool confines of the room below the church, so he wasn’t that worried about it. Only if Missouri split, like Emma claimed, they wouldn’t know who their enemy was. He couldn’t help kept remembering how Emma claimed his plantation was burned to the ground.

  “Little good it’s going to do for the blacks to volunteer,” Mark continued. “They can’t read or write. They will be used for labor only. It is believed they will turn and run at the first sound of gunfire.”

  “Well, even if they can only be used for labor, that will be a help,” Doran mumbled. If Emma was right, this war would probably be more then he, himself could imagine, and he worried for his family’s safety, not to mention his workers. He would have to double his efforts to store the rest of his valuables under the church, he decided. The records of his belongings were kept safe in a false bottom of the box where he kept Emma’s letters. No one but himself and possibly, his mother, would ever know the extent of his wealth. A lot of money would probably be demanded from the citizens to fight such a war, and the rich plantations would be the first place they would go to demand the contribution. Some of his gold would have to be stored away as well, but he would do it a little at a time, so Mark would not be able to realize that he was stowing his money away.

  Mark left to go about his own business, and Doran sought the seclusion of his study, to read Emma’s letter. Mark was still surprised that Doran continued to put letters into the headstone of his wife’s grave, but he never questioned it, since it was really none of his own affair. His wife had given birth to their second son, Jacob, a little over a year ago. He was thankful she had not died in childbirth, but it sobered him to think that his sister had, so he had decided not to bring any more children into the world, just to remain on the safe side, since the birth of his last son, had been a difficult one.