

Truth softens with time and embitters those burdened with the knowledge of the terrible night described in Silent Truth. This sequel is an interesting look at children growing up without parents, and parents whose children look at them differently because of great loss and guilt in their Quaker community. The protagonists find little peace when they are haunted by a different kind of spirituality that leads to a dramatic conclusion.

–Marty Yochum Casey, M.F.A., Publisher

Margaret Guthrie's poignant sequel describes the pain of families hiding the actual truth about their youthful experiences from their own children. The story illustrates how traumatic events can ruin relationships. Forgiveness and a 'spiritual' truth touches every member of the community.

–Minette Riordan, Ph.D., President of Scissortail Publishing

THE RETURN

by

Margaret Guthrie

SMASHWORDS EDITION

******

PUBLISHED BY:

The Wessex Collective on Smashwords

The Return

copyright 2006 by Margaret Guthrie

Cover graphic of the leaf courtesy of Punchstock

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

_The Return,_ copyright 2006 by Margaret Guthrie

#

Like a stone thrown into a pond

truth spreads ripples to the shore

yet falls to the bottom, unnoticed.

It lies buried there, silently waiting

for someone to brave the mud

and find it.

–M. G.

##

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

a note about the writer

#

Chapter 1

Her dead mother came to her in dreams. L-y-d-i-a, L-y-d-i-a she called, just like when she was little and her mother needed to know where she was. But that was thirty years ago. She was eight years old and her sister Margie ten when their parents were murdered in the school gym next door to where they lived. The dreams followed her into the days.

Lydia forced her mind back to demonstrating the cobra asana to her yoga class. The mood was quiet. She felt their eyes on her, watching her slow, deliberate movements. From her face down position on her mat she pushed up with her hands, arched her neck and raised her head, curving her spine. As she continued to raise her trunk she felt the pressure of each vertebrae, one to the next, a comfortable pressure, relaxing all tension. She looked up and held the position as she started to count to twenty.

At the count of nine, the phone in the next room started a piercing cry threatening Lydia's concentration. She pushed it to the back of her mind and continued to count, ten, eleven, twelve, slowly and evenly. She was aware and grateful that Carrie came from the kitchen and plucked the phone off the hook. Lydia finished her count, gradually returning to a sitting position on the mat. Carrie gestured toward her.

Lydia sensed it was Margie in California, conveniently forgetting it was mid-morning in Illinois. She clamped her lips tight against a sigh and asked one of her students to continue the yoga session.

Lydia took the phone, wet from Carrie's hand pulled from the dishpan. Carrie gave her a warning smile before returning to the kitchen.

"Margie?" Lydia said as calmly as her irritation allowed. To be calmly active and actively calm was one of the goals at the Yoga Ranch.

"I interrupted," Margie said without apology. "But I never know when is a good time to call."

"I know, Margie. My schedule keeps changing. Go ahead." Lydia stood at the desk in the office between the kitchen and large activity room and watched the retreat guests practice their hatha yoga asanas. The student teacher seemed to be doing just fine.

"Well, it's about the house," Margie said. Lydia nodded to herself. "The attorney says we've got to do something about it soon. There's been a committee formed and they've approached him about buying the house and lot, tearing everything down and making it into a park. Being next door to the school grounds they think it's a natural use for the place. People are beginning to call us negligent, Lydia," she said in a lower tone, as if the thought were so embarrassing she didn't want to speak of it.

Lydia eased her small body into the swivel chair that threatened to slide away from the desk. Tear it down? That sent a chill through her. The old house in New Hope, Iowa, where they had spent their first years with their parents and grandparents and which they now owned still held confusing memories and she needed that old house to help clarify them.

"They can't do that," she heard herself say. "They can't just take away our history like that." Lydia sat forward with feet flat on the floor.

Carrie was slamming pots and pans around in the kitchen as if to make sure she didn't overhear this personal stuff. Getting involved in each other's private lives was discouraged, unless of course, it was invited. Too many personal calls, like this very one Lydia was having were discouraged too, but Margie sounded more and more desperate lately.

"Well, they can," Margie said. "We have let it go, you know. It's been two years since the last renters left and we don't really know how Jake's been taking care of it."

"You've been paying him right along," Lydia reminded her. She received copies of the bills.

"Of course. And he's said the roof leaks aren't getting any better, and the paint's peeling and no one wants to rent it anymore."

"Right. And if things go bump in the night that doesn't help, either."

"Lydia, don't be ridiculous," Margie scolded. "That's just Jake's imagination."

"You don't believe mother's back haunting the place?" Lydia felt the silent disapproval on the other end of the line. She hadn't told her sister about the dreams. Nor was she ready to tell her about waking up and feeling that someone had just been there. Someone other than her housemates. She'd checked. None of them had called her.

"Of course not." Margie made what sounded like an angry growl. "That's disgusting."

"So maybe Jake Jackson's just tired of taking care of it," Lydia suggested. "Or maybe he's got a guilty conscience about letting his friends into the gym That Night and wants the house torn down so he's not reminded. You know, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe he's the one formed that committee." Lydia grabbed a pencil and notepad and started drawing circles and squares, a nervous habit she had when talking on the phone.

"A guilty conscience is no reason to tear down a house," Margie said.

"Right. But if he thinks Mother's back and moving things around..."

"Lydia, I put that to rest a long time ago. I told him in no uncertain terms I would hear no more of that nonsense."

"Yeah, you did. Maybe that's when he turned his attention to forming a committee to persuade them the house needed to go." And maybe that's when their mother changed her attention from Jake to herself, Lydia thought.

"You mean persuade them our mother's..." A disheartened sigh came over the line. "I know you believe in spirits, Lydia, but making our mother a ghost is sacrilege. I won't have it. Mother doesn't deserve that."

Lydia decided not to push the idea, but couldn't stop herself from saying, in a mild tone, "It's not disrespectful," then added, with a little more emphasis, "memories have a lot of energy in them. Anyway, you're right. Someone's fear is no reason to tear down a house."

The morning that changed their lives forever was hot and still. The first day of June, 1969. They'd come downstairs and sat behind the closed door that opened into the hallway by the living room and kitchen. The tone of the voices had stopped them. Their grandparents, the sheriff. Concerned, shocked voices. Confused, pained voices. Just before they gathered the courage to open the door and find out they would never see their parents again.

"I suppose Jake might fear the whole thing is not done. Not put to rest," Margie said thoughtfully. "I suppose that could activate an imagination." The line went silent, a pause that was intolerable to Lydia.

"So, do you have some plans?" Lydia prompted her sister.

"I'm thinking of going to New Hope, live in the house awhile and feel out the situation. I might help Sherrie Claxton with her small printing business. That'd give me a bit of income. Then, I'll see what it takes to register the house as an historical building."

"I see." Lydia felt herself being eased into Margie's vision of her project, and sensed it wasn't a small one. "You realize a historical building has to meet certain qualifications, that repairs would have to follow those specifications."

"Yes, I know."

"And what money are you going to use to do that?"

"Well, I thought maybe you'd be interested in sharing some of the trust money for that, Lydia. Come out and join me in the project. You just said you're interested in preserving our history."

Lydia scowled, sighed, and put both elbows on the desk. This wasn't fair. Just because Margie was newly divorced and free from a tyrannical husband she expected her to change her life? Leave the Ranch with its communal type living? Leave a job she loved? Leave the people who thought the same as she, who had the same language, the same goals?

"I understand the need to do something about the house, but I have commitments, Margie," she said at last. "And I've got to cut this short. I'm supposed to be teaching, right this minute."

"But couldn't you arrange to go on leave or something? A couple of months, maybe three? Next spring? I'm not talking about this fall. The house is half yours, you know. I can't make decisions about it without your okay." Margie was talking fast as if trying to get everything in. Lydia felt her jaws tighten with the pressure of ambivalent feelings. Yes, she should be helping make decisions about the house. And she did wonder what her dead mother was calling her attention to. But did it have to take her away from the Ranch?

"Margie, you're the one who wants to get away from Brad. You're the one interested in business. You're the one interested in..." She stopped, realizing how hollow her arguments were sounding, how far short they were from the real problems.

"Maybe we can find out how those people are living with what happened That Night, Lydia." The words came over the line like a whisper, a low almost subliminal suggestion.

Lydia caught her breath. Chills brought goose-bumps. Why did Margie have to say that. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. Maybe she wanted to know why their grandparents forgave that Dale Harris so easily, the one who bludgeoned and strangled their parents, then went off to Vietnam before he ever got charged with a crime and got himself killed. Maybe she did wonder why Grandpa and Grandma sent them off to live with Uncle Ted and Aunt Nora instead of raising them themselves. That feeling of abandonment still hit her sometimes. They had all eaten together, studied and read together, done chores together. They were all one family. Until That Night and everything collapsed around them.

The phone suddenly felt heavy and Lydia noticed a tension in her neck, a heaviness on her shoulder as if a hand was pressing down. Mother, she thought. _Don't push me!_ She sighed.

"I suppose Jake Jackson wants the gym torn down, too?" Lydia said too forcefully, too loudly. That's where Jake's father had found them the next morning after a strange phone call had told him there had been an accident. After the teenagers had fled, and were apparently scared into silence at what their friend/brother/hero, for that's what the papers said he was considered, had done. _And where you should be haunting, Mother, if you have to haunt._ Lydia smiled as the weight lifted from her shoulder, amazed to think a spirit could be reasoned with, if indeed that's what it was.

"It's still in use, Lydia. Not like the house." Margie drew in her breath, realizing too late, perhaps, the acknowledgment she had just given to hauntings. Her frustration fractured the air waves into Lydia's ear. "Aren't you curious about what the community is like now?" Margie snapped. "I understand that those others with Jake that night are now the biggest farmers in the area. Pillars of the community."

"That lawyer's been talking you into this, hasn't he?" Lydia said. "What's he getting out of this?"

"Maybe he's just getting trouble, Lydia. Between the New Hope committee and the real estate agent pestering him, Peter'd probably just like to get the house out of his hair."

"Peter, is it?" Lydia chuckled. Peter Anderson had handled the trust fund set up from their parents' insurance money for the last thirty years. He handled the estate once their grandparents were gone. Margie was the one who got his letters and phone calls. She relayed them on to Lydia. It was the first time she'd heard Margie use his given name. Newly divorced, new attraction? But Peter Anderson had to be well over fifty, more than ten years Margie's senior. And surely married. Lydia tucked that observation away.

"Well, why not? It's not that he's a stranger."

"Yes, that's true." Lydia's circles and squares became larger and larger and she started filling in the white places with her pencil. The more she listened to Margie the more she felt pulled into that little Quaker community in Iowa that had been her beginning, and in a way, her end. New Hope. Lost Hope. She remembered how Margie put her arm around her when they waited on those stairs for the bad news. And when she helped her adjust to the big city and all those strange children in large classes. She remembered how Margie told off that teacher who asked if the cat had gotten her tongue when she was holding back tears and couldn't speak. "She's just scared," Margie had told the teacher, in a real disgusted way that made the teacher purse her lips and sigh. And it was Margie who found ways to be loved by an aunt and uncle overwhelmed with two more children when they had just gotten theirs all grown and on their own. Margie set the example of helping Aunt Nora when arthritis froze her fingers into misshapen uselessness and it was Margie who became the chess opponent to their uncle in those quiet evenings when radio and television were forbidden.

"I'm not trying to pressure you, Lydia. But as I say, something's got to be done soon." Margie sounded almost sad, as if the conversation had suddenly wearied her.

"I'll think about it." Lydia's heart sank after she put the phone down. She could see her happy life coming to an end.

After years of searching, from college courses in psychology and religion, to exploring a variety of spiritual teachings and practices, Lydia had found a place she could call home. She didn't want to go back into the world with Margie and explore things of the past.

Lydia got up and went back to her class where the student was just finishing up. She gave her a smile and a grateful thanks. "An emergency," Lydia said. She was tempted to explain further, but remembered that defending oneself, or excusing one's actions, were discouraged. They were not necessary. She was what she was. So she held her tongue.

Margie's calls continued in the weeks that followed and Lydia's dreams became more vivid. Or were they simply memories? She remembered her mother as always distant, with many things on her mind, things more important than her daughters. Still, she did remember the three of them walking from the house to school together, then parting as each went to her own classroom. Sometimes her mother took her to her classroom door, bent down and gave her a hug and kiss before hurrying off. She remembered the wide stairs that went to the second floor where her mother taught English to the big kids. She remembered the pride she felt, having a mother who was a teacher there in the same building.

Their father taught at New Hope school, too, but his classes took him to other buildings. One was an old barn where he taught Agriculture and Shop and the other the gym where he coached basketball. She mostly saw him at home. When she really got into remembering, she remembered how they had been cheated out of being their parents' students, and then Lydia felt a cold anger rise up and saliva fill her mouth tasting like metal. Oh why did they have to get themselves killed? Why had they gone over to the gym That Night and made someone angry enough to be violent. The thought startled her, blaming the victim that way. But, on the other hand, there really were no victims. They had simply played out their karma.

#

One night Lydia dreamed she was on the witness stand in a courtroom being asked questions. The attorney, deliberately standing to one side so that all could see her answer, asked what punishment was deserved. "Would you have them hanged?"

"No, no. They were good people." She felt herself squirming, wanting to get away, but something held her fast.

"But you know the law." The voice was accusing, the figure approach-ing her, lips curled. "You reap what you sow. Treachery reaps treachery. Murder reaps murder."

"But they loved us! That counts for something! Leaving wasn't their fault!" She looked down at her mother, at a table facing the judge and witness stand, seeing the confusion on her face.

'Lydia, what law?'

It was then that the words seemed to come through her as if some other worldly element was using her voice.

The law of karma, Mother. In some prior lifetime you killed someone—innocently perhaps, or deliberately—in this last lifetime you were killed and that bad karma was laid to rest. In each lifetime we have a chance to atone for those bad things we've done in past lives. Life after life we do good things and bad things and reap the consequences. If we don't learn to be sorry for hurting others, we set ourselves up to be hurt. If we learn to love our enemies, we reap a love beyond human. If we continue grudges we continue to experience others' anger and hate. We learn what it's like to be poor, and rich, to have different skin colors, to be a man or a woman. It's all school, Mother. We pass from grade to grade. You know about school.

Then the dream changed and Lydia felt herself dropping, as if from a cloud, as if she had been taken on a trip, and was being deposited back on her bed. Her eyes flew open, and she found herself sitting up perspiring, bedclothes twisted around her. The courtroom had seemed so real. The words she had spoken so real. But she was a teacher of hatha yoga. Not a teacher of karma yoga. Not a teacher of dream subjects. Mother, Mother, Mother, she moaned. What are you bringing into my life? How am I supposed to answer your questions? You've gone on, you're on the other side. I'm not your adviser. I'm not your teacher. It was early morning, the sun not yet up. Others in the house were still sleeping. But now that she was awake Lydia got up, tiptoed quietly to the bathroom and started her daily routine.

In her meditations now, Lydia felt not only the presence of the spiritual Masters she believed guided her, but the one who called her name, the one who was waiting, there at the edge of her consciousness.

One evening, when Lydia was in the kitchen chopping up fresh vegetables for stir-frying, Carrie suddenly asked "So, what's up, Lydia? Isn't it time you let us in on what's bothering you?" Carrie didn't look at her, just kept on pulling dishes out of the cupboard and setting the table for the eight permanent residents. They were between retreats right now and with no classes for a couple weeks, Lydia had other duties. They all did.

Lydia stopped cutting and scooped up vegetables into a pan, measuring with her eye how much more they needed. "You mean it's that obvious?"

"Well, I'm not trying to be nosy, but I know your sister's been calling you a lot. And I know for a fact you get up in the night." Carrie smiled over at Lydia. "The floorboards squeak," she explained.

"And how would you know that unless you were up too?"

"Just awake. Not up." Carrie placed silverware at each plate. "I'm a light sleeper and your room is right over mine. I'm not complaining, understand. It's not the noise I mind. It's your being troubled I mind."

"Okay. For your peace of mind, I'll tell you." Lydia explained about the house standing empty and the community thinking something should be done about it. Lydia pulled out more carrots from the refrigerator and began peeling them.

"She wants to live there?"

"Well, it's got lots of memories."

"And?"

Lydia sighed. "My parents were murdered when Margie and I were little. Not in the house, but next door, in the gym. The New Hope school gym. We didn't even get to go to the funeral. Just got packed up and sent to live with our aunt and uncle in Chicago." Lydia rushed through this little speech while peeling carrots and discovered that now she had more than enough.

"Wow," Carrie said. "So you've got some good-byes to make, is that it?" She came over and touched Lydia on the arm. "Honey, Mr. Taylor will understand if you want to take some time off."

"But I don't want to take time off," Lydia said as she sat down. "It's all past. I've moved on. And going back just reopens those resentments that my parents were murdered because someone didn't like them being against the Vietnam war. That's the bottom line. And how could that happen in New Hope?"

"Well, I guess they have karma in New Hope just like everywhere else." Carrie had heated up water and brought Lydia a cup of tea. "Tension tamer," she said. "It works."

"Thanks." Lydia put her one hand around the warm mug and sloshed the tea bag around with the other.

"There's always reasons we're given opportunities," Carrie said. She sat down opposite her and folded her hands. "And if this is provoking dreams, I'd say there's someone needing you."

"Oh, right." My mother, the ghost, Lydia thought. She looked into her tea. "You know, we've talked about the energy that people have around them. And sometimes, people who've had a sudden and violent passing leave behind an energy they can't quite bring into the astral world where they're supposed to go. Tramp souls, they're sometimes called. Well, my mother, my own mother, a wonderfully sane person who probably never believed in a spirit world, seems to be...around. It's so absurd."

Carrie smiled. Her dark eyes sparkled. "We'll put you and your mother in our healing prayers tonight. Maybe you'll dream an answer to your question."

"My question?"

"Whether New Hope is calling you."

"New Hope. Now you're broadening it. Making it sound like a mission. Don't put thoughts in my head." Lydia frowned and got up to start heating a pan of water to boil up the rice.

Carrie just laughed.

Chapter 2

Decisions are sometimes forced on one. Lydia knew this the day Mr. Taylor approached her and asked what she thought Truth was. It took her so by surprise that she stammered out that it seemed to her that Truth kept changing, and it was such a personal thing that no one could really know. The truth for one person was not the truth for another.

"So do you think going to Iowa you'll find Truth?" His eyes sparkled with glee and a wry grin spread across his face.

Lydia felt her cheeks grow hot. This man always seemed to know things before he was ever told, and always had a purpose to what he said and asked. There was no idle chatter with him.

"I don't know," she admitted with a soft giggle. It was beyond her to guess what was coming. "Maybe Truth and the truth are two different things?"

"Aha," he said, bringing one hand up, then swinging it up and around, bringing her attention to the retreat grounds. "Such devoted workers we have here." Lydia saw co-workers in the gardens picking vegetables, tomatoes they would be canning, cabbages and carrots they would process. What was he getting at? She was a devoted worker, too.

"Maybe we need someone to think about this truth business. Maybe develop a new course to offer next year. Something about truth and interpersonal relationships." He turned to look at her, his hands resting at his sides. "Something about truth as we come to know it. What is really true?" Now he put his hand to his mouth and narrowed his eyes. "You have any ideas on that?"

Lydia strained to find an answer. Was there really a right answer? She swallowed. "I know that humans do terrible things to one another and asking why doesn't always bring out the truth."

He nodded slowly. "But it haunts them, propels them into asking questions? Sometimes from beyond the grave?"

"How did you know?" It was a whisper. She looked into his eyes, dark and warm, deep and mysterious.

"You've been preoccupied. People notice, hear a little of this, a little of that, they talk. No secrets here, Lydia."

"Oh. Well."

"So," he said, smiling. "I was thinking. Since your energy is already in Iowa, perhaps we could use it to develop a course on Truth. You could keep notes, do a journal, post regular emails."

Lydia shivered. She couldn't figure out whether this was a reprimand, or an order. But she knew it was asking for a commitment to the Yoga Ranch. Which maybe meant they didn't want her lost in a search that might go nowhere. Or somewhere hard to recover from. It also seemed like a lot of hard work. "I could do that," she answered a bit weakly, feeling strange, like being sent out like a dove from the boat to find land. "The truth doesn't always set you free, does it?" she asked. "It might just make you want to know more, and more, and more."

"Or it might stop the quest and stall the journey. Your mother needs your understanding to move on. You need back-up, and that's what we're offering."

"You make it sound...dangerous."

"You'll do just fine as long as you don't forget your back-up team."

#

Now, in the middle of March, Lydia, with her black cat Obsidian curled up in the passenger seat, was on her way. She had her computer with her, and already knew there was an internet provider in New Hope. She hoped Margie would accept Obsidian. And that he would accept her. Margie wasn't exactly a cat lover, she remembered. She wasn't sure what Margie expected from her in regard to the printing shop and Sherrie Claxton, and she dreaded what the house was going to need. On one hand, the whole move seemed rather surreal, yet on the other, she knew something had to be done to end her disturbing dreams. Maybe when it got warm she'd plant a garden, grow some flowers. She'd always loved to work in the soil, loved taking a pitchfork or spade to turn it, break up large clumps, then kneel into it, take the soil in her hands, smell its breath, watch tiny insects and worms go about their business. Something about the earth made her feel good, calm, and close to the heart of things. She loved the way she could shut out the rest of the world and just be in the garden. And then, sometime of course, she'd visit the gym. And deal with what was there.

By late afternoon she entered Iowa, followed Highway 30 west. A grey sky spit tiny snow crystals against the windshield and ahead it looked dark and threatening, but she was tired and needed a place to stop and get a bite to eat. Forty miles to go. These rolling hills were treacherous when wind filled the deep ditches on each side of the road with snow and everything looked level and white. Or when visibility was shortened to a few feet and one strained to see the white stripe on the edge of the road. But that was not now. That was only a fear of the future. Besides, she had a back-up team and she could visualize a protective light around the car and she could sing along with the tape she had brought. She just needed a short stop.

Outside Tama she spotted King's Tower Cafe and pulled in. She put Sid on a leash and together they found a spot out of the wind to do his thing. Then she picked him up and carried him in, hoping there would be no objection. The walls had old framed pictures of Indians she presumed were from the near-by Mesquakie settlement. She had long held respect for their story. When they were forced off this land in 1846 when Iowa wanted to become a state and marched into Nebraska, some of their ingenious young men hid out along the Iowa river and sent runners back and forth to their Kansas brothers while developing a scheme to get their land back. With the money the U.S. government gave them to resettle, a few were designated to go to the Iowa legislature and ask to buy their land back. To their credit, the legislature honored that request. Thus Tama was founded.

Lydia noticed that some of the employees seemed to be Indian, but the waitress was white. She wondered what it was like on the settlement, how they were making it in this world a hundred and fifty-three years later.

The waitress was not delighted with Obsidian, but relented when Lydia explained she didn't want to leave him in the car because of the cold, and didn't want to leave the motor running in case someone wanted to run off with it. She smiled her best smile. "It's not customary," the waitress grumbled, adding she wasn't responsible if the manager objected.

"That's fine," Lydia said. She ordered tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwich. Others came in as she ate and stomped their feet of snow. She overheard comments that there would be a foot before nightfall. She ate as quickly as she could, and even with some deep breaths the tension crept into her shoulders and neck.

Back in the weather she picked Sid up and hurried to the car. The snow came down in serious biting flakes and wind whipped hair into her eyes. Lydia turned on the wipers and headlights. It was slow going. She had to watch carefully for the turnoff at Highway 65 that would take her straight north to New Hope. There was little traffic, as if everyone knew better than to be out. She marked the mile on her odometer, the only way to judge the turn off and slowed down. There were no headlights behind her, thankfully.

The landscape had changed since she was last here, what she could see of it. How long ago? Six years? Five? Whenever that tornado had come through and taken the barn off the property and strewn it around. She and Margie had to get someone to clean it up. It had been a quick trip. Jake Jackson, the caretaker, was the only one she saw and then very briefly. They had paid a lot of money to take care of the mess.

Some time in the past there had been more trees, she was sure. More farm buildings. Smaller fields. With the snow blowing across the open space it was like the vast spaces of the west. What had happened to the Iowa of small farms like she had known when living with Grandfather and Grandmother Kinnen?

Lydia tried to see through the snow blowing crosswise in front of her. The ground had become the white level field she dreaded and she bent forward to see the edge of the road. New Hope, where are you? she spoke out loud to Sid, who couldn't care less. She turned the heat on full blast. It warmed her hands, clenched like a vise on the steering wheel. The odometer said the turn-off should be soon. Then it was there, and she was glad of her slow speed. Not much further now, Sid, she advised. With the turn she headed straight into the snow, her vision narrowing until the car and herself were in a white cocoon. But there was no traffic and at last she was on the last hill before it leveled out into New Hope with street lights on in the mid-afternoon darkness. She passed the Friends church, took a right, then left and coasted into town. Another right and she was on Main Street with the gas station, garage and restaurant on her right and the grocery, beauty shop, hardware, mercantile and video shop on the left. Cars were parked at the restaurant. One more left turn and she followed the street past well-kept small white houses on both sides and until just before the school, she turned into the Kinnen driveway. Margie had the back porch and garage lights on.

"We're here, Sid." He raised his head, yawned and stretched. She reached over and gave him a stroke before getting out of the car and hand lifting the heavy wooden garage door. "Number one, get an electric lift for that door," she told herself. She pulled her Suburu into the garage beside Margie's Toyota and cut the engine. It cracked and snapped as it cooled. Before she had a chance to pick up Sid and dash to the house, another sound made her stop and listen intently. Wind? No, the snow was coming down silently now. It was a voice. Not Margie calling from the porch, either. Hun-uh. No dream, either. "Ly-di-a." No mistaking it. "Ly-di-a." She had come home.

"Mother," Lydia whispered and closed her eyes. She sagged back into her seat and let the memory of a game they used to play come to her. Hide and seek. Lydia, hiding behind a door and jumping out saying 'boo' when her mother passed by. Oh, how she had giggled at her mother's startled cry. One-up-manship? "Some game, Mother," Lydia muttered.

She gathered Sid and his leash, tucked her purse under her arm. Again the voice.

"Ly-di-a?" This time it was like being called to supper. Like 'where are you,' or 'come in now.' An order. She hugged Sid to her chest as she walked carefully through the snow to the door of the back porch. Inside, she stamped the snow from her shoes. Margie opened the kitchen door, explaining she had been on the phone or would have come sooner. Lydia slipped into the kitchen and let Sid down on the floor. He lowered himself into a cautious slinking position as if the enemy might be right around the corner. Lydia embraced her slightly taller and broader sister with the darker-blonde hair cut short and business-like. Margie clasped her back as if she were finally being rescued.

"You're so tiny," Margie told her. "Don't you ever eat?"

"Like a bird, as they used to tell me." Lydia released herself. "It's the yoga. Margie, I'll show you. It's relaxing, energizing, keeps your limbs supple..."

"Oh, noooo," Margie groaned. "No, you have our mother's build, I, on the other hand, am a big-boned Kinnen. My father's child."

"Okay. You're right." Lydia laughed. "I am my mother's..." She stopped, feeling a chill run through her, an expectant pause in the air, making the hairs on her arm rise up as if pulled into an electrical charge. "It feels dry here," she said, "for March in Iowa."

"Well, the furnace is on. The air is dry."

"Don't you feel her?" Lydia whispered, wrinkling her forehead, rubbing her arms.

"Who?"

"Mother."

Margie gave her a disdainful look, then turned away. "You've had a long drive. You want some cocoa or something?" She was already going over to the cupboard and pulling out packets of instant cocoa, tea, coffee. She went to the stove and turned the gas on under the kettle. "We'll have hot water in a minute."

"Cocoa would be great," Lydia said. She threw her coat over one of the chairs around the round wooden table with claw feet that she remembered. "Look at that," she remarked. "I'd think that would be long gone."

"Well, it came out of storage when the last renters left. They ran off with some of the good stuff. Left the antiques. Maybe they found them too heavy to move." Margie chuckled. "I think we got the better deal, though. This old stuff has history. It may not be museum quality, but some people would pay as much for this table as they would for a classy glass and metal model." She brought over two steaming mugs of cocoa and placed one in front of Lydia and set one down for herself. She turned back to the u-shaped end of the kitchen where there were no windows, just cupboards, sink, stove, refrigerator and brought back a plate of cheese and crackers. She'd apparently prepared for this welcoming home time.

"I'll get the litter box in a minute," Lydia said. "I hope you don't mind Sid. You didn't used to be crazy about cats." She watched Margie give a slight shrug and a non-committal grunt.

"We'll get along."

"His real name's Obsidian. Named after a big hunk of it that someone gave me once. I use it for a book-end. It's volcanic, you know. My friend brought it back from Oregon. It seemed kind of appropriate to name the runt of a litter after a rock that was transformed from red-hot liquid lava to a cooled-down solid black rock. Obsidian has survived by being loved and cared for." Lydia stopped herself. She was prattling on with explanations that Margie probably didn't care a hoot about. Was this truth in inter-personal relationships, or was it just a justification for not respecting her sister's cat allergy, if that's what it was.

"You always did have a black cat." Margie sat down and sipped her cocoa. "You want your old room back?"

"Sure, why not? Did you take yours back?"

"Yes." Margie paused, as if thinking back to some childhood happening. "But no codes this time."

"You mean you don't want me tapping on the wall? We had such a good code worked out. Morse code, wasn't it?"

"I suppose."

"No one to keep anything from, is there?" Lydia said. "I mean, it's just you and me." Unless you counted Mother's ghost, of course. She wondered how much of the dreams about her mother she dared to share, and how much other stuff she could share, like feelings, fears, fantasies, those private things that were vulnerable to judgements?

"Just each other," Margie agreed, giving her a smile that covered her own secrets, grown from her own living. Something about her ex-marriage, perhaps? her daughter Dianne? something about That Night still haunting her. Or Peter Anderson? Lydia smiled back, over the top of her cocoa mug.

"Jake Jackson called the day I got here," Margie continued as she got up and took her cup to the sink, ran hot water and busied herself washing a few dishes piled on the drain board. "I'd asked him to stock some groceries and he called to see if everything was okay, which it was. And I thanked him. Then he hung up like he was mad or something. No welcome, or how was your trip, or let me know if there's something else you need. It didn't feel very friendly." She paused and looked over at Lydia, wet soapy hands in the air until she reached over for a towel and dried them.

"Hmmmm. You think he felt put upon?" Lydia puzzled over it. The Jackson family lived across the street. Jake's father has been the school caretaker thirty years ago. Then he got sick and Jake Jr. took over. "Are we asking him to do something outside his contract?" Lydia got up and took her cup to the sink and slipped it into the water, then found a dish towel and dried the few dishes Margie had washed.

"I don't think so. It's pretty much the same as when Grandpa and Grandma hired him those winters they were in Arizona. After they died we just continued with him." Margie opened cupboards and put dishes away. "You realize some of these dishes are the same we used when we were kids living here?"

"Really?" Lydia looked. "Oh, where did you find these?" She picked up a plate and turned it over. "'Homer Ltd'" she read. "These are old. Too bad they have so many little nicks and cracks in them. Might be valuable."

"They were in the basement, packed away. You wouldn't believe how many things I'm finding. This house has so many storage spots I guess Grandma and Grandpa just packed everything away when they started renting it out."

"I sense you're feeling more about Jake than you're saying." Lydia turned to Sid who was meowing for attention. "Hey, I've got to get his things in. His water and food bowls. Litter box. You know." She gave an apologetic shrug and made a face. She grabbed her coat. "Stay here. No sense in getting us both wet."

Soon the porch had suitcases and boxes, from which Lydia extracted Sid's things. "So, tell me what you think, about Jake." She set about placing Sid's water and food bowl at the end of the kitchen with the six windows—three on one side overlooking the driveway, three on the side with the windowed-in back porch. Hot water radiators stood underneath the driveway side windows. On their metal covers their grandmother had placed African violets which seemed to bloom all the time.

Margie leaned against the stove while Lydia worked. "Jake knows what happened That Night, Lydia. He was there. And I'm thinking he's not so happy we're back." She watched Lydia dump fresh litter into the box she had placed in the hallway next to the basement stairs, and stepped back away from the dust that rose from the bag.

Lydia sneezed, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and blew her nose. "Kitty litter's not so good on the lungs. After a moment to recover, Lydia said "Well, he wanted us to do something with the house. He expected us to do it long distance?"

"He didn't say that. It's just something about his manner that makes me uncomfortable."

"Maybe it has nothing to do with That Night. But guess we're going to have to ask him what's wrong, huh?" Lydia watched Sid sniff out the box to see if it met his approval. She took the bag and carefully folded it up. Marge showed her the garbage can on the porch where she could discard it.

"If he wants the house torn down and we don't, then he could see us as a threat," Margie said when Lydia stepped back into the kitchen.

"Surely it's just a matter of talking about it, finding out his reasons, and explaining ours," Lydia suggested.

"Unless he's got everyone on his side," Margie sighed.

"Guess we'll just have to find out, won't we?" Lydia said, feeling like she was repeating herself. She was just too tired to speculate further.

"I'm so glad you're here, Lydia." Tears welled in Margie's eyes. "I got so lonely, you can't imagine." Lydia opened her arms and Margie walked into them. Lydia, puzzled, visualized light filling the room, blessing the house, blessing them both. This sure wasn't the strong Margie she had expected to see.

Margie pulled out a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. "Thanks for coming," she said, then reached down and actually tried to stroke Sid who was sniffing her out. He pulled back his head, lifted his wet nose to her hand, keeping himself in charge of this interaction. Lydia smiled to herself.

"I was so determined to get into this publishing business," Margie went on as she gave up on Sid and stood up. "Now I'm not so sure. I may have bitten off more than I can chew."

"Well, we'll have to see about that." Lydia reached up and gave her sister a pat on the arm. Maybe she, too, had bitten off more than she could chew. Except that she did have that back-up team.

Chapter 3

Lydia had forgotten how cold the little bedroom could get. Its one register that allowed heat to come up from below was like a spoon dipping into the lake to drain it. It brought to mind those cold days in Chicago when Uncle Ted and Aunt Nora took them to the ice-skating pond near Lake Michigan and to the Museum of Science and Industry. They were so bundled up in heavy coats and pants, mittens and hats that falling down was about as fun as skating. She never did get much past learning to keep her ankles straight and a few stiff-legged strides that took her across the ice in a random, uncontrolled path. She hadn't gotten past being a menace.

Now she was bundled up in a heavy comforter, trying to tuck it around her cross-legged sitting position so she could meditate. It wasn't the best arrangement, she'd have to adjust it tomorrow. Ice was forming on the window, making frost patterns inside that used to put her into fantasies of frozen forests and ice-maiden lands where everything was white and silvery and sculptured. Sculptures could be changed, chiseled a little here and a little there, making an entirely different object. Kind of like human beings, Lydia thought, that change over the years as experience chisels us here and there until what we are is not what we were.

Gradually her body warmed and the thick comforter pulled up around her neck became heavy, but still she sat in the dark with her eyes closed and let her mind calm until it became an almost sleep, in an almost other place which was dark and still. In this place she started walking slowly, reaching out like a blind person, her fingers touching a cool rough surface; brick she determined. A brick wall. It guided her in the dark toward something that filled her with fear. Some unknown danger ahead, some unknown threat. She was suddenly jerked out of the almost sleep to a startled wakefulness of wide open eyes. Of course it was dark, quite dark in the room, as dark as it had been outside, along that wall. It was the dead of night. The thought stopped her. Dead of night. She shivered.

This wasn't the meditation she was expecting. Not at all. Maybe she was just tired—the trip, the weather, the house, the different location, the absence of the usual group chanting after work was done, just before going to her small room at the Ranch, which until now she hadn't realized had really been heated. Such was the efficiency of the straw-bale building that Randy Taylor had them build, she decided. She'd put that in her report tomorrow, if they got the computer up and running.

Lydia was about to throw off her covers, now that she was wide awake, and pull out something to read, when she heard a scratching at the door and a muffled meow. "OK, Sid," she whispered as she crept to the door and opened it. "I'll let you in tonight, but let's not make a habit of this." He streaked in past her and slid under the bed as if he'd seen a ghost—or something. It raised goose-bumps on her arms. Or maybe she was just cold. She found the switch by the door—it seemed a lot lower than she remembered it, and turned on the overhead light, not exactly blasting the room with light from its 60 watt bulb, but at least giving enough to find some socks and a book of poems to take back under the covers with her. Another matter to take care of tomorrow, or as soon as possible—get a reading lamp near the bed. She left the door open a crack, hoping Sid would go on down to his own bed. But soon he crawled out and jumped up, purring and rubbing her arm, as if she had rescued him from some nightmare. Again she attributed it to the move, the new place. Why not?

It was daylight when next she woke, to her surprise. Sid was gone, the ceiling light was on, and a smell of coffee drifted up from below. How long had Margie been up? She felt guilty. Her watch said eight o'clock. She pulled on sweat pants and shirt and padded down the stairs, opened the closed door. Closed door. They had closed it when they came upstairs for bed. Hadn't they? So how did Sid get it open for his trip upstairs?

It was the first question she asked Margie. The first words out of her mouth. No good-morning. Just "Didn't we close that door last night?"

Margie looked at her, pan of hot oatmeal in her mittened hand, about to take it to the table. "I suppose. Why?"

"Well, then, did Sid open it? He climbed in bed with me sometime in the middle of the night."

"Not if it were latched tight." Margie laughed. "And he was down here when I got up. A light sleeper I'd say, your cat."

Lydia began to wonder. Had he seen a ghost? Mother, she said to herself. What mischief are you up to? Opening doors for Sid? None of this would she mention to Margie. "Yeah," she answered and headed for the bathroom. Then she remembered the brick wall dream. Nor that, she added.

"I've hired Jake to clear the driveway," Margie announced when Lydia returned to the kitchen, dressed in grey sweats with a blue and white neckerchief serving as a collar. "He's got a small tractor with a blade, he said, and will give it a zip after he clears the school drives. I presume that will be soon, since the buses are already over there with their kids."

"Gosh, how many inches did we get?" Lydia went to the living room windows which looked out toward the school. The sun was so bright on the snow that it hurt her eyes. It sparkled like diamonds thrown carelessly and capriciously over it. By noon they would no doubt be gone, trampled into snow angels, or circles for games of stop and go.

"About six, I guess. Not enough to close the school." Margie came over to stand beside Lydia and watch the gaiety of kids tramping up the steps and into the school building where they had spent their first few years. "Low enrollment, though, is going to close the school. Sherrie said this might be the last year. Then they'll be bused to Delora. What they'll do with the buildings I don't know." Margie headed back to the kitchen. "Hey, ready for some coffee?"

"Sure." Lydia followed. "Seems like you're depending a lot on Jake, who knows what happened, Margie. And who's not too happy we're back." Lydia saw Margie's back stiffen and immediately wished she hadn't said that. Margie turned, gave Lydia a hurt look, then moved on to the stove where she began to pour coffee into two mugs.

"He's all we have at the moment, Lydia. He knows this house and what used to be the farm before it was sold off, better than we do." Margie handed her a steaming mug and took her own to the table. "Help yourself to the oatmeal."

"I guess you're right. Grandma and Grandpa surely depended on him. And Jake's father, too. I just find it ironic that he's the one we're going to have to work through, or with. The one who can tell us or not tell us what we want to know."

"We're going to meet others, too," Margie said. "We're going to meet the other four that were there That Night and some who weren't. I mean, everyone in New Hope knows everyone else, so we need to be careful and friendly and treat everyone with respect and not hurry into questions about the past." She had her hands around the mug and her arms tucked into her sides in reaction to the chill in the house.

Lydia dipped oatmeal into a bowl, brought it over and set it in front of Margie. "You are going to eat this, aren't you? After fixing it?" Margie gave a distracted grunt which Lydia took as a yes, then filled a bowl for herself.

"We can go over to Delora soon and get the groceries we need," Margie said. "The store here in town doesn't carry much and they charge an arm and a leg." She sighed. "I'm going to miss those big shopping centers."

"I never liked Jake and his father," Lydia blurted out, remembering something that sent a small shiver through her. It was a vague something, a look perhaps, a grin maybe, a tease, something that big boys enjoyed and little girls did not.

"You didn't?" Marge stirred milk and sugar into her oatmeal. "Something happen you haven't told me?"

"Remember the last time we were here that summer it happened?" Lydia asked. "They were both out in back, near the tool shed, I think." Lydia squinted her eyes, thinking, concentrating on an image. "They looked over at me and laughed. It scared me. Why were they laughing? Because I was little? I must have run inside, but I never told anyone. I didn't want to cause any trouble."

"Oh, boys liked to tease you Lydia, because you were so easy to scare. It was fun for them. That's all." Margie flicked her hand as if shooing away a fly.

Lydia looked at her in astonishment. "How can you stick up for them? It wasn't fun for me! It was sexual...somehow." Lydia felt suddenly deflated, embarrassed, confused. "You think it's all right to be teased for being a girl?" She just couldn't accept Margie's dismissal.

"Oh, Lydia. Boys tease because they can get a reaction. Men, too. It's their way of puffing themselves up. I wasn't a tomboy, but I could tag boys about as good as they could tag me, and I could win a few hand wrestles, too. You just ran off."

Maybe she was right. It was Margie, after all, that Lydia ran to some-times when she got a skinned knee or some other hurt. Margie, not Mother. Margie was available. Lydia relaxed somewhat but found herself turning the spoon in her hand over and over as if studying it would settle her mind, and emotions.

Margie looked over at her as if to check if she were all right before she started on her next thought. "I want to know what you think of this, from Sherrie." She paused, studied her coffee. "About those that were in the gym that night Mom and Dad were killed. She thinks they are still afraid they might be charged with something."

"Oh? I thought the case was closed, that Dale Harris admitted to attacking them. In that letter the newspapers mentioned that he wrote from Vietnam."

"He didn't admit to killing them, though. He just said he was sorry if he had hurt them. Like he didn't know they'd died. Maybe he never knew. Maybe he died without knowing."

"But the others knew."

"Sure, and it took a while for them to tell the sheriff."

"Well, I guess I'd be scared too if someone I was with did what Dale Harris did. But I'd like to know why they ran away and let our parents lie there and die."

"And how they got away with not being charged as accomplices."

"So, if they're still feeling guilty about the whole thing maybe they're afraid we'll try to get them charged, even now?" Lydia leaned down and petted Sid who had come over and was now rubbing her legs and purring so hard he vibrated. Purring as if he wanted to enter the conversation, tell about that door, maybe. Tell them about what he had encountered in the dark of night.

"All I want is the truth," Margie said in a way that reminded Lydia of her project for The Ranch and the question Mr. Taylor had asked her. What is truth?

"If the truth is so charged with horror and guilt how does one start to talk about it?" Lydia asked, blowing on her oatmeal, steaming still.

Margie frowned as she considered the question. "Well, we're not here to be their personal therapists, that's for sure."

"Maybe we'll have to start with the friends of Mom and Dad's that are still around. They'll surely tell us what they know. Like Pearl Palmer, the sheriff's wife, who still teaches here. Fifth grade, I think."

"Such faith you have, Lydia."

"We may find people want to talk. If there's unfinished business." She was thinking of her mother, but maybe it was not so far off to think others still living had not had closure, as they now called it. She got up and stirred Sid's dry food. He wasn't eating, she didn't know why. He came over and sniffed, tried it again. She stayed awhile as he chewed a few of the niblets, then went back to the table.

"The sheriff died several years ago," Margie said, thinking about Pearl. "Is that why she still teaches? I mean, she must be in her sixties, maybe?" Margie spooned oatmeal into her mouth, savoring the taste of cinnamon and raisins.

"Maybe she just likes kids," Lydia said.

"Maybe," Margie agreed, then changed the subject. "Sherrie's really nice, Lydia. She'll help get people to talk to us, until she leaves. Lots of people come in for things they want printed up—flyers, church bulletins, Christmas letters, Newsletters. And she's very good at helping them with layout. You know, what gets noticed. What catches the eye. So in-between the business talk she gets their news about people. Who has what sickness. Who had visitors from out of town. Who is going where. Who came back from where. She's like the barber or beauty operator."

"So she shares the gossip?" Lydia made a face. Gossip was discouraged at the Ranch. But in this case, it could be useful. She wouldn't scorn it too much, anyway.

Margie shrugged. "She's friendly. Anyway, you might want to know why she wants us to learn the business and take it over." "Wait a minute. You said 'us'? I didn't come here to learn a business. I have to work up this course material." Lydia struggled not to feel put upon but she knew her face betrayed her.

"You'll want to, Lydia. It will make a great place to meet these people in a casual way." Margie smiled. It was maddening.

Lydia pushed her empty bowl away and leaned on her elbows, bringing her hands up under her chin. She took a deep breath, then another, letting the oxygen clear out the sudden anger. "Perhaps," she managed to say. Truth in interpersonal relationships, she reminded herself, might after all be something one could learn from gossip. Maybe Margie would be a help in sizing people up. Maybe she had the gumption to ask questions she would never think of asking. And she, Lydia, could write up the reports. She gave a little laugh. "We're spies, Margie. Nancy Drew detectives." And just what would they find out that would set her mother at ease?

Margie humphed. "Yeah, right."

"So why does she want you to take over the business?" Lydia made sure she didn't use the word 'we.'

"Oh. Her ex-husband wants to give their relationship another try. He has a trip to the Bahamas in mind."

Lydia looked at her skeptically. "You encourage that? Or is that what you wish Brad would do?"

"Brad? You mean His Lordship the Judge?" Margie rolled her eyes. "Lydia, that man doesn't want an unhappy, whiny woman weighing him down."

"And what about a demanding 17 year old daughter?" Lydia hadn't seen her niece in many years, but pictures revealed her as a pretty, long-haired blonde, her perfect smile showing confidence, and from the many complaints Margie had voiced over the phone, a girl adept at manipulation.

"Ha. Dianne gets what Dianne wants. She doesn't have to demand." Margie got up and took her dishes to the sink and started running water into a pan of suds. Lydia could almost see the sparks of anger and hurt rising from her like an erupting volcano.

"I'm sorry, Margie." Lydia thought about going over and putting an arm around her, but held back. She waited for the rest of what Margie wanted to say to come out.

"You know what that little ingrate said? 'You can't make me live in that dump.' Her favorite words, 'you can't make me.' I'd just run away, she says." Margie had tears streaking down her face and she just let them.

"Is this the first time you've cried?" Lydia asked gently.

Margie nodded. "I've been too ashamed," she said, pulling her hands out of the water and wiping them and her face on the nearest towel.

Lydia got up then and gave her that hug. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Margie. That's a teen talking, remember. The identity searching teen. Didn't we all go through it one way or another?" Lydia was listening to her words as if to someone else, thinking at the same time of the teens of thirty years ago, the ones they wanted to confront, to reprimand, to light into. The ones who took away their parents. The ones who now were adult parents. What could they be feeling? remembering?

Margie was back in control, tears wiped away, smile back in place. "I'm sorry. Maybe some day Dianne will wake up and discover her father's indulgences aren't all she wants. That maybe she wants a mother's love. Only, what if she just transfers that habit of getting everything she wants from her father to her some day boyfriend or husband? That's what worries me." Margie, a wet cloth in her hand, busily wiped off the table, the stove, the counters, the refrigerator. Lydia stood and watched, becoming slightly amused.

"Well, I guess you're just going to scrub those men right out of this kitchen," she commented with a slight crooked smile.

"Oh," Margie said, looking over at her, then laughing. "Right."

"So, when am I going to meet Sherrie?" Lydia noticed that Sid had wandered off, probably to get away from the sparks in the air.

"Today, if you want. Unless the snow has closed her down. I'll call." Margie went to the phone on the kitchen wall next to the door into the living room. But before she could make the call, the sound of Jake's snowplow on the drive made her decide to wait. The noise grew louder as he came closer to the back of the house and toward the garage. They could hear snow being blown onto the side of the house, as if angry children were pounding it with snowballs.

A few minutes later Jake knocked at the kitchen door, having opened the porch door and come on in. Margie answered.

"I'll have to shovel the last bit, Miss Kinnen, up against the garage. Then I'll be off. Only, I think you ought to know I'm not going to be able to use this snowplow anymore. It's the school's, and the school board doesn't want it off their property. It's not like you can't do it yourself, though. You can probably get a small snow blower second-hand, you know. Don't need a big machine like this. And of course you have to keep the sidewalk out in front clear. That's where school kids walk all the time so it's got to be done real early, by seven in the morning about. Now you're living here, guess that's up to you." During this long talk, Margie had the kitchen door open letting in cold air from the porch. True, the storm windows were on, but that didn't keep the cold out much. Margie seemed torn between inviting him in and standing there as they negotiated. Lydia was behind her trying to look busy.

"But our contract," Margie said, pulling her sweater close to her chin, and holding the door partly open. "Maybe you ought to come in and talk about this."

Jake wiped his boots on the mud rug but didn't move to take them off. In his orange overalls over other clothes, he looked bulky but not any taller than Margie. He stepped in and Margie closed the door behind him. She offered him a cup of coffee and motioned toward a chair at the table, which he took.

Lydia poured coffee into a mug and set it in front of him.

Jake stared at her as if trying to figure out who she was, as if he should know but couldn't quite place her. He watched her every move as she brought her own half-filled mug of coffee to the other side of the round table and settled in beside Margie. The gaze of those dark eyes made her skin crawl. Still, it wasn't quite the same as that childhood recollection. There was apprehension in that look, no teasing, no smirch.

"Who are you?" he asked, finally.

"Lydia," she answered. "The younger one." She smiled inwardly, guiltily pleased with his discomfort.

"Oh, yeah," he said slowly, then brought the mug up to his lips and he looked over at Margie. "The contract." He lowered his cup, balanced it in his left hand as he took off his cap and laid it on the table. "Frankly, Miss Kinnen, I've got enough to do at the school, and now you're living in the house, seems to me you probably want to take care of things yourself. That's what the tenants did. Now, I don't mean I won't be available if there's a problem. Like with the furnace, or whatever..."

Margie interrupted. "All right. But then the $50 we've been paying every month..."

"Don't need it. Starting April, you can just forget about it. Guess you're getting the house ready to sell? I know an agent at Century 21 over in Delora. He's the one they call on here, mostly. John Cramer's the name. Tell him I suggested him if you call. Phone number's in the book." Jake downed his coffee and grabbed his hat, and swung around ready to get up.

Margie looked flustered. Lydia could see she had questions. As did she. "So, we're supposed to shovel the walk. And we can buy a blower where?"

"Oh, I bet your friend Sherrie can tell you that. She gets all the sales notices to print up doesn't she?" Jake stood and moved to the door. "Thanks for the coffee. Oh, there's shovels in the garage. Want me to leave the door up for you? That's what most people do. Not much stealing around here." He had his hand on the doorknob and melting snow left puddles on the linoleum floor.

"Yes," Margie answered, and he was out the door, opening the porch door and down the two steps before she could say anything else. She turned to Lydia and sighed. "What was that all about?"

"He's scared of us, Margie. And he's scared of someone on the school board, too." Lydia said. "Where's a rag?" She gestured toward the puddles.

"Goodness. I didn't bring any rags. Use those paper towels under the sink." Margie looked beat, like she had lost a battle. Did she wilt like that with Brad? Truth in interpersonal relationships. She was getting material all right. Didn't take long, once you began to notice, pay attention to how people interacted. She bent to her task of wiping up Jake's footprints, the evidence of his being here. Only, she thought, that evidence will be remembered long after his footprints are gone.

Chapter 4

Margie stood at the phone on the wall, lifted the receiver but did not dial. "What do you mean he was scared of us and someone on the school board?" She turned toward Lydia and replaced the receiver.

"Isn't that why he can't plow for us anymore? Someone on the school board told him not to. It wasn't just that the plow shouldn't be taken off the school grounds. I think he was told to leave us alone." With an exaggerated motion Lydia dropped the wet paper towels into the waste basket under the sink.

"Why?"

"Don't know, Margie." Lydia shrugged. "Who knows what secrets lie in the hearts of men," she quipped. "The Shaaaadow knows." She drew it out in a lowered voice, in imitation of a mysterious authority which compels that false fear that children love. She smiled over at Margie and told her to make her call.

They walked to Sherrie's office, just down the street at the corner of Main Street north and south and Main Street east and west that intersected at the business section. Margie wore her hiking boots, Lydia her high-topped snow boots that had regular use in Illinois.

Sherrie greeted them with ink-stained hands, having just refilled one of the printers. They waited while she cleaned up. In the front of her three-room shop, a counter separated her work space from the customers. In one corner was a copier for the public at 10 cents a page. She also sold the usual items that went with mailings—different sized envelopes, address labels, pens and pencils, note cards, post-it notes, paper, and so forth.

"Come on back," Sherrie said as she lifted the half-door and let them through. She showed them her operations—the computer where she designed her lay-outs, and the different printers. Sherrie was tall and slim, with the energy and enthusiasm of a twenty-something taking possession of her place in the world. She talked fast, gestured fast, moved fast. Her hair refused to stay in the pin she held it back with, and fuzzed around her face as if it were attuned to a fast wild nature.

"This project might especially interest you, Lydia. One of our local women has written a book of poems and essays which I'm helping her put together. We'll get it print ready and I'll make a run of about a hundred." Sherrie showed her the work, then had to leave to attend to a customer. Lydia sat down at the computer and started reading, making sure not to handle anything. The poems were good. "Night takes on the look of ice/my breath steams like smoke messages/stillness abounds/I wait." Lydia would like to meet this Persia Cartier Gregory. How did she get to New Hope? She sounded so French, or something. She'd have to ask Sherrie when she was free from customers how this woman fit into the community. Were people interested in her poetry? Did she have readings? Was there a book club, or writing club somewhere?

The man at the counter was being introduced to Margie. "She's learning the business here, Stanley, so I can go check up on Harry."

The man grinned. "Harry behaving himself now?" His eyes shifted to Margie and he nodded. He was a thin man of average height with blonde hair under a cap with an ear of corn pictured on it. He rested long, thin arms on the counter and leaned on them. His face and ears showed the wear of hours in the sun.

"Yeah, we're going to give it another try." Sherrie nervously ran fingers through her hair, readjusted the clips. "But you remember Margie and her sister, Lydia Kinnen, over there, I'm sure. They're living in the house, now." Sherrie nodded to the sisters. "This is Stanley Seward."

Lydia and Margie looked at each other. He was one of them. They had read his name in the articles saved. Mike Harris, brother to the killer, was the other boy besides Jake. And two girls.

"I'm Margie Brown, now," Margie said, giving Mr. Seward a quick smile. Lydia thought she saw her pull herself up

"Oh, of course," Sherrie said, flustered. "I forgot."

Lydia turned from the computer toward the man who looked startled for a minute just as Jake Jackson had when he first saw her. Did she look that much like her mother? She smiled, waved a greeting but kept sitting.

The man managed a soft "Heard you were coming back," that Lydia found hard to interpret. Nervousness, perhaps. A lingering shock. It certainly wasn't elation. Then he said, "Glad to see something's being done. Can't leave a house empty too long before it starts to show its age." He gave a short-lived smile, widened his lips, let them fall back, as if his mind had raced ahead and hooked onto something more expedient, something long neglected that needed to be said. "Real sorry about what happened to your folks." He fingered the papers he was holding, squaring them up, first sideways, then lengthwise, over and over again. "Guess you know the whole community's sorry about what happened. They were good people." He cleared his throat, his eyes floating from Margie to Lydia and back again.

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Seward," Margie said, a cautious relief in her voice, one that acknowledged his sympathy but didn't quite trust it. She squared her shoulders, as if gathering strength to speak of the unspeakable. "We've often wondered, you know, what really happened That Night." Margie looked him straight in the eyes and Lydia held her breath. "We were never told much. Just whisked away into the big city." Margie lifted her arms like a bird flying, and she ended with a light little laugh. Lydia smiled inwardly. Way to go. Make him feel so guilty he has to break down and tell them something. But it wasn't to be just then.

"Don't we all," Mr. Seward said, his face looking grieved, lines deepening. "Life's complicated." He looked at the counter in his hand as if deciding which way was up, then headed over to the copier. He lifted the lid, hesitated, then asked for help. Sherrie went over. "Can't even run this machine by myself," he muttered.

"I heard Mike's had some problems again?" Sherrie asked as she helped him at the machine.

"He went through some tests. Guess it was just ulcers again. Took him off caffeine."

At the cash register Sherrie took the counter and Stanley paid her in cash. "That agenda," she said, pointing to the papers he was taking. "For the school board. You going to talk about closing the school?"

"Something has to happen. Enrollment's way down. We've got empty rooms. Rooms maybe we could rent out to a business, if we could find the right one." Sherrie closed the register. "We'll be having a community meeting soon," he said, then turned to the sisters. "I hope you'll be there. You need to know what's happening here. Actually, I hope a lot of people will be there. We need their input on this thing." Lydia wondered if he was really asking for some support. "It'll be in the gym, but we haven't set a date yet." He picked up the papers and turned to leave.

"You going to discuss our house?" Margie asked.

Stanley looked surprised. "No, that's a separate subject entirely."

"Are you on that committee that wants to tear it down?" she persisted. Nothing like being direct, Lydia thought.

Stanley made a guttural sound, a tired humph. "Don't know about that. Sometimes I'm consulted, sometimes I'm not, depending on what mood Jake's in."

"But you are on the school board?" Margie asked before he had a chance to get away.

"That I am, for sure." He cracked a smile.

"Well then, I gather you know why Jake says he can't use the school plow for our driveway anymore. Not that we asked him to. We assumed it was his."

"Ma'am, I'd stay clear of Jake, now that you're here. Do your own work as much as possible. He tends to get himself..." He fumbled for some appropriate words. "...excited about things, maybe more than he needs to."

"Oh," Margie said.

"We've begun to do that," Lydia added. "Our own work, that is."

"Ladies, I have to go. Glad to have met you." He stuck out his hand and they took turns shaking it. It was a rough hand, used to outdoor work and weather. Also a firm hand. Lydia felt the vibrations were good, well-grounded, strong.

"He didn't explain about the plow," Margie said after he left, disappointed.

"Maybe he couldn't," suggested Lydia.

"He avoided it. What gives, Sherrie?" Margie looked over at her for an explanation. She shrugged her shoulders.

"Just sounds like he and Jake don't get along." Sherrie moved over to stand behind Lydia still sitting at the computer. She put her hand on Lydia's shoulder when she started to get up.

"Don't move. I just want to check my 'to do' list," Sherrie said.

"What gives with that committee?" Lydia asked, and felt Sherrie's hand tense, then deliberately relax.

"I would suggest there's disagreement, and let it go at that." She obviously didn't want to deal with the topic.

"So, two different issues, the school situation, and our house," Margie said. "I guess some people want it kept that way."

"We need to find out who wants what," Lydia suggested. "Does anyone besides Jake Jackson care whether our house is torn down or preserved?" She meant this as a question for Sherrie, but Sherrie didn't respond. She had taken her list and started setting one of the printing machines for a project she said she had to get out, leaving Lydia and Margie looking at each other.

That done Sherrie suggested she show Margie the paper stock. She had a variety of colors, weights and sizes in the cupboard. Then she picked what she needed and took it over to the copier.

Sherrie started the machine and let it run. "Stanley Seward's an OK guy, one of the most decent and responsible people you'll ever find. He sacrificed a teaching career to come back to the farm and pull together the families most effected by what Dale Harris did." She suddenly stopped and brushed hair out of her eyes and took a moment to focus her thoughts. "I mean, your family wasn't the only one that suffered," she said in a soft voice, giving the sisters a careful smile. "The Harrises, Reeds and Sewards all had their own pain." Sherrie turned away, looked vaguely out of the front window of the shop.

"It hasn't been easy for Stanley and Shirley. They were sweethearts in high school." She turned and smiled again at the sisters. "Bet you didn't know that. I know because I was in that graduating class with Stanley. 1969. There were twelve of us in that class. Yeah, we were small even back then. Anyway, Stanley's mother died that winter from her breast cancer and that left his father pretty desolate. He wanted to get down to Arizona and retire from farming. So Stanley came home after that first college year and ran his dad's farm. Then he and Shirley were married right after she graduated high school. It wasn't much of a move for Shirley. She virtually lived there anyway. Shirley and Charlette, you see lived at an adjoining farm."

"Shirley and Charlette were Reeds?" Lydia asked. She was trying to get the picture of these three interrelated families.

"That's right. A year or two later Charlette married Mike Harris, brother to Dale Harris, whose parents were Alice and Fred." Sherry shook her head, put her hands on her hips. "Sad story there, too. But I'm not going to get into that. Anyway, now we've got Stanley and Shirley on the Seward farm and Charlette and Mike on the Harris farm. Understand? Mr. and Mrs. Reed continued on their own farm until they, too, finally moved to Arizona and left their farm in the hands of their children."

"Ah, a triumvirate," Lydia exclaimed with a smile.

"You're thinking of power, but it was anything but that. It was a coming together in a time of need. That's what people do around here." Sherrie laughed. "Gosh, I didn't mean to sound defensive. But, now you've both spent time in big cities, you must find it a bit different here." Sherrie started playing with her hair, all the time keeping an ear out for the printer working away in the background.

"I'd never really considered much about the others," Lydia admitted. "But you're right. Dale's mother must have had some real problems with what happened."

"Well, Alice was very disturbed. She concentrated on Dale's death in Vietnam, not on what he'd done here in New Hope. I guess when something is too intolerable one can think up all kinds of excuses to justify some action or other. She was perfectly willing to believe that some stranger was there in that gym and Dale had nothing to do with your parents deaths." Sherry looked at the sisters to gauge their reaction. What she saw was bewilderment.

"You mean, our parents deaths meant nothing to her?" It was Margie this time, her voice showing hurt and annoyance.

"I can see what you're saying," Lydia said. "But it's kind of disap-pointing."

Sherrie shrugged her shoulders. "Mike was the one who felt the burden. He took on the whole responsibility for his brother's evil action and his mother's total denial. That's why he kept having accidents and ulcers. You heard Stanley say Mike just went through tests? Ulcers again." Sherrie shook her head. "It hasn't gone away, you see, the pain."

"And his father?" Margie asked. How did he handle it?

"I don't really know. I was gone right after graduation, had a summer job in Omaha, wasn't here while the investigation was going on. But my mother kept me informed on some of it. She was such a gossip." Sherrie chuckled. "But what I was getting at, current situation, is that the Seward farm, then the Harris farm, then the Reed farm became one big operation. And that's why they've succeeded in farming." She raised her eyebrows. "You can't make it here anymore with less than a thousand acres. Some say it takes 3,000," Sherrie said.

The copier stopped its job and Sherrie gathered up the papers, put them into a bag, attached the invoice and put it in the customer pick-up pile.

"No small farmers anymore?" Lydia asked.

"With less than a thousand, or three thousand acres, somebody has to have an outside job. Sometimes a wife will work somewhere, or the husband will have a side job. Farming can't be the total focus as far as income's concerned."

"That's so sad," Lydia exclaimed.

"Someday you'll have to go out and see their operation,

Sherrie continued. "You'll be amazed at what they do these days with their big machines that cost a hundred thousand dollars and more and what they have to do to keep in good with the big corporations who buy what they raise. Can't be easy."

Lydia felt uncomfortable, almost chastised. There was always more than one side to a story. She was being persuaded that what happened thirty years ago did need to be explained, not just buried and forgotten. These were the details her mother wanted. Her scalp tingled, as if ants were walking through her hair.

"You think Jake Jackson's jealous of those thousand acres?" Margie asked mildly. She could imagine that he saw those he was with that night thirty years ago coalesce and leave him outside the circle. "You think he was an outsider thirty years ago?" she asked of no one in particular. In her own mind she wondered how these people, who were of course teenagers at the time, acted that night when Dale Harris erupted and killed. Did they just let this Dale Harris do what he did?

"Do they speak very often of That Night, Sherrie?"

Sherrie shook her head. "No. I'm surprised he said what he did. I guess it's still on his mind."

"Unfinished business," Lydia commented, softly.

"Yeah," Sherrie replied. She bent down to retrieve a crumpled paper that had missed the waste basket.

"So, does Stanley Seward have a family?" Lydia asked.

"Three kids, only one still at home. Tanya's about eleven, I guess, looks more like 15. Tall and slim. Bright, lively, talkative. She likes to tell tales." Sherrie had moved off and was looking at the next print job that needed to be done.

"How about the other family? Mike and Charlette, is it?" Margie asked.

"Also three. A son in a boarding high school. The oldest girl in the east somewhere. And Jennifer, at home. Same age as Tanya." She was about to say something else, but stopped. "You'll meet them all, I'm sure, one way or another. If you go to church here in town, you'll meet them. Or one of those PTA meetings. Hey, do you want to help me with this, or not?"

Margie rushed to her side and let her explain what the steps were for this particular job. Lydia sat at the computer reading more of the poetry of Persia Cartier Gregory, and thinking about Sherrie's summary of the three families that seemed so entwined in the event that had changed her and Margie's lives. She wondered vaguely if Sherrie had heard stories of her dead mother's hauntings. She wondered if Stanley Seward, just as startled as Jake at seeing her looking so much like her mother, kept reliving that night. Were others doing so too? If thoughts were energy, no wonder her mother was around. Her energy felt their thought energy and kept her here. Lydia shoved that to the back of her mind for consideration later.

It took some time for Sherrie to show the two of them how to operate the printers. As they neared the end of the instructions, Sherrie suddenly said, "They're not going to tear down your house. They're going to find some way to make money out of it. You can get grant money to preserve historical structures. I bet if nothing else they'll find a way to get it. And they'll do the same with the school property and its buildings."

Margie looked at her. "You think? Maybe Peter can help us get our own best deal."

Sherrie smiled "Peter your attorney?"

Lydia smiled too, wondering when she was going to meet Peter, and how much more than attorney he was to Margie. "We'll go to that meeting, Margie, and we're going to figure out what this community wants."

"Hey, I need to show you how to run the cash register. After all, that's the bottom line of this business, keep the money coming in." Sherrie motioned them to come over and watch as she explained how it worked, explained a bit about the bookkeeping, and then about the daily routine of things that had to be done, how things got prioritized, how many hours it took to do certain jobs, the kind of calls they would need to make, and finally the art of dealing with custome

Chapter 5

Lydia's first message to The Ranch was short and to the point. "I am well and working hard. Margie and I are learning how to work a snow blower, run a house with peevish radiators pounding out their grievances, strange noises and creaks in its arthritic wooden joints, slow to give us heat, and lethargic in giving us hot water from faucets that sing soulfully. But I don't really complain. It's the memories resurfacing as we pull out old pictures and books and other items long stored away that give us real pause. I believe even more so that truth is an ever-changing, ever evasive matter. It strikes me that it can be molded like wax, melted down like a candle, burned precariously like a flame, threatened with extinguishment at any breeze of doubt or unearthed contradictory fact. Furthermore people choose their truth. It is a matter of perspective, the angle at which one looks at a thing. Just like climbing a mountain when you look up to see a peak and think it's the top, yet a little further on you see a higher peak beyond. So how are we to approach Truth in Interpersonal Relationships? That is my question for now and my last thought at this time." She signed it, sent it and made a copy for her file. She didn't expect an answer. She hadn't asked for news, didn't really want any. Someone would probably send some anyway.

Lydia considered how personal to make this report, or draft of a course outline. She had barely begun to be introduced to the characters involved in That Night, the title that sprang to mind in reconstructing the episode. It was almost like writing a play, developing the roles to be played out. The motives. The desires. The actions and reactions.

Obviously people hadn't forgotten. Certainly not Stanley Seward. Nor Jake Jackson. And Mike Harris having ulcers, surely an anxiety carry-over. If his mother was as disturbed as Sherrie indicated, and in denial, it must bother Mike a great deal. What was his truth? He had taken the burden of his evil brother, Sherrie had said. Lydia thought Mike must be a very sensitive person, one who cared about others.

One day Lydia followed Margie through the downstairs rooms, looking at the furnishings and talking about the problems with the house. Before she had even gotten here, Margie had walked through it with Mr. Lambert, a carpenter and retired farmer who had known their parents and grandparents. Why Margie hadn't probed into that, Lydia couldn't figure out. Just showed her intentions were on the house and not on their mother. But Lydia was going to talk to Charles and Hazel Lambert as soon as she could. She more and more wanted to know what her parents were involved in when they went on their trips and why they were always writing letters.

Margie pointed out the essential repairs that he said would be needed to bring it up to code. "One thing is the roof, which has leaks around the chimney. Another is the wiring, which needs updating at the least. And then there's the furnace which isn't very efficient. In fact, the whole heating system needs to be replaced. He suggested baseboard water pipes to replace the radiators. Of course, the outside needs painting, but you and I could do a lot with the inside to make it look nicer." Lydia couldn't believe her enthusiasm. Was Margie a project person, needing things to do to keep her going, make her feel important?

They had stopped and were standing at the living room windows watching the children play in the snow on the schoolyard next door, all bundled up making them look fat, though some had their coats open in front and hanging on their shoulders like they were ready to throw them away.

"Remember when we did that?" Margie said, poking her sister in the ribs, a grin on her face.

"You're up to mischief," Lydia replied maybe a little too seriously. Certainly she didn't feel like poking back, as she might have done had she not been thinking over what she had just heard.

"Hey, let's get this clear right now. I didn't come here to do any physical work on the house." She looked at her sister holding back a curtain to get a better view, still smiling as if wanting to go back to the good old times. Lydia sighed. "You have something specific in mind?"

"Well, we could strip off the wallpaper and ceiling paper. Then give it a coat of light colored paint. Maybe oyster. Or off-white."

"Whoa," Lydia said. "Didn't you hear me? I didn't come here to strip wallpaper and paint." Outside, some little girls were screaming, and Lydia turned to see what was happening. It looked like a snowball fight. Boys pelting girls, girls in turn pelting boys. "Suppose one of them is Stanley and Shirley Seward's daughter? Tanya? Or the other one, Jennifer? Mike and Charlette Harris's daughter?"

Margie didn't answer and when Lydia looked over to see why, Margie had her mouth open into a rounded O as if the words had been suddenly quenched, a look of hurt in her dark blue eyes, and shoulder's drooping as if all the energy had been drained out of her.

Lydia laughed. "Margie, if we want the house to get an historical designation we have to follow their guidelines." Lydia reached over and touched Margie's cheek, let her finger slide down gently. No tears, at least. How things had changed. When they were growing up Margie was her idol and she did everything Margie asked, without question. Now, she had to weigh Margie's expectations that seemed to change from one day to the next, with practicalities.

"They don't want it decorated just any old way. It has to be kept authentic, whatever that means. We better wait a while. See what's in the minds of people in the community."

Margie dropped the curtain and went over to examine a watercolor she had dug out and put on the wall. "Maybe. I guess nothing's urgent."

"Only, maybe we could get a garage door that opened automatically?" Lydia pressed. "That's what I promised myself when I parked the car. That was a bugger to lift." Lydia left the window too and hooked her arm over Margie's shoulder.

"Or we can leave the door open, Lydia. As Jake suggested." Margie straightened the painting that didn't need straightening. It was old. Glass covered it. The frame was dark wood about a half inch wide all around.

"I remember that," Lydia said. It's Aunt Lola's, isn't it? Dad's sister? She was a big woman and wore a silk-like dress that had big flowers all over it. She used to float when she walked." The image came suddenly. Aunt Lola walking up to the front door, kind of...floating. That's the only way she could describe it.

"Float?" Margie looked at Lydia for explanation.

"Like she walked on air," Lydia said. "I thought she was Jesus." She gave a small, embarrassed laugh and let her arm drop to her side.

"Well, she was a Sunday School teacher," Margie said, smiling again. "But Jesus?"

"Oh, you know how kids see things sometimes. There was something special about her."

"She was Grandma's friend. I don't think she was an aunt. Dad didn't have a sister, Lydia. He was an only child."

"Okay. So I was only three or thereabouts. Anyway, where did you find it?"

"In the attic like the other antique stuff that was stored away when renters wanted to use their own furniture. I had Jake and a friend get it down for me. Some of it came from that little shed out back." Margie sat down in the rocking chair next to the corner fireplace. "Remember this rocker?" She started rocking back and forth.

"Sure. That's where Grandma rocked us. It still has that squeak." It was the comfort chair, when Grandma drew you up to her lap, put her arms around you, and rocked. Sometimes she quoted a poem or sang a hymn. A cold or sore throat was made more bearable with that special attention. "Isn't it odd that Mother never rocked us?" Lydia moved over to the old oak library table that sat against one wall, its shelves on each end empty of books. She ran her hand over the top with its lovely dark grain lines. The wood was thick and heavy, as the furniture was in those days before pine and fiberboard became so popular and cheap.

"Mom had papers to grade. Don't you remember? She was always busy at her desk, or at the kitchen table where she spread out her papers." It was a simple statement of fact, but even so Lydia felt there was a tinge of regret in Margie's voice.

"Yeah, they were both pretty busy. I guess teaching would make you so." Lydia walked past the windows and noticed the children had gone inside and quiet had descended. "It's really too bad to close the school. That'll mean a really long bus trip for those kids. Delora's six miles from here. I wonder what the parents think about it." Lydia went over to the brown couch that she didn't remember, and slunk down on it, suddenly tired. She needed a pillow to her back so she could put her feet flat on the floor. Furniture just wasn't made for short people.

"I guess we'll have to go to that community meeting and find out, though I'm not too enthusiastic about going into that gym." Margie started rocking slowly, and the squeak almost brought tears as they remembered their grandmother's comfortable arms and lap.

Lydia watched the curtain move slightly. A draft, she gathered, not a grandmother ghost, too. No, just another repair for someone. Probably the old caulking was all dried up and useless. She put her head back and closed her eyes, watched the little floaters behind her lids like paramecia swimming in a pool of water under the microscope. What innocent little creatures, living their lives without complications, just swimming around, swimming around.

Margie sighed. "You know, this house was built in 1910, Lydia. A good, solid lathe and plaster house that doesn't match these modern dry walls that you can hear through. It just needs some love and care to bring it back to life."

Lydia was silent for a minute. She wasn't going to encourage any fixing up on their part. There would be enough to do with the printing business. Maybe this house preoccupation was a way for Margie to keep from thinking about her divorce from Brad and Dianne's decision to stay with her dad. "So Dianne doesn't like Iowa?" she asked, raising her head just enough to look over at Margie.

"She's 17. She likes her friends. No, Iowa didn't seem very exciting to her." Margie sounded sad and Lydia was sorry she had been so curt.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said. "I suppose New Hope doesn't have much to offer when you're used to the city. I remember that first day of school in Chicago." She shuddered involuntarily.

"You were holding my hand so tight it hurt," Margie said, a tiny smile creeping onto her face. "I had to pull it off when I left you at the 4th grade room. You later said the teacher made you sit at a desk next to a big girl who looked at you as if you were some alien from outer space."

"Oh, God, that was Turnip." Lydia sat up, pulled her legs under her and crossed them. "A big, lumpy girl that kids made fun of and I got to feeling sorry for. Even helped her with arithmetic sometimes. I wonder what ever happened to her?"

"The important thing is, we survived, Lydia. Dianne could have survived, too, but with Brad she's going to have everything she wants. He's got plenty of money now that he's a federal judge. Plus he's learned to play the stock market, with the help of a few friends." Margie let out a sound of disgust.

"You getting alimony?"

Margie gave a pained expression. "That cheapskate? Not likely. I have a business degree. I'm supposed to be well able to take care of myself. I have this big inheritance, he claims, as if half a big rundown house is going to somehow make me rich and half a small trust account will do me just fine."

"I see." The trust money, which came from the life insurance their parents were foresightful enough to have, had helped them both with schooling, but it wouldn't last forever. "Our food and heat money. Our electricity and telephone and car gas money," Lydia said, nodding. "Well, I won't have anything more until I get this course written up and start using it for retreat seminars."

"Sherrie's publishing business is running a good profit. With a couple of months orientation and introduction to the community, we should do all right. That's exciting, don't you think?" Margie gave her an enthusiastic smile.

Lydia looked at her skeptically. "Yeah, right," she said.

"So, the truth of the matter is," Lydia wrote later that evening, "life is complicated. Just like Stanley Seward said. I will continue on the path to find truth. I will let you know who appears to me next in this unfolding drama." With that she clicked the send button and the email went into that cyberspace that was as mysterious as truth.

### Chapter 6

It was the 31st of March and the second full moon of the month spilled its rays into the room where Lydia rocked in their Grandmother's chair. Margie had gone up to bed and Lydia had not bothered to turn on lights. The muted illumination and the silence were perfect for contemplation. On that night of May, 1969 when her parents were killed, there had been a full moon, also the second one that month. It was a bit strange that thirty years later she was here, in the presence of a blue moon, just as her parents had been that fateful night. Full moons were supposed to have an effect on human emotions, bringing out sensitivities, whether negative or positive. Did that happen that night? Were their emotions heightened? And more importantly, was there something special she was supposed to be feeling right now? Some intuitive insight she was supposed to achieve? Some awareness in the cosmos she was supposed to tune into? Well, if time stood still, or if time could be overcome in some Einsteinian calculation, or by some advanced yogic meditation practice, she could make That Night replay itself and be an observer of what happened. But she had no such calculation, nor was her practice that advanced.

Still, she did have the power of imagination. And it wouldn't have been the first time she had tried to envision what had taken her parents over to the gym that night, and what had brought on such a violent end. The little she had been told, and read in newspaper accounts, indicated her parents had attended a meeting and gotten home late. Something had attracted their attention. Lights, perhaps? Some noise?

Lydia got up and went to the window. The moonlight on the snow and from the street lights made it quite easy to see the gym and the big oak tree standing in the middle of the drive in front of the school house. She could see the bushes up against the gym, and remembrance of that dream on her first night here flashed through her mind. She had felt the rough brick exterior of the gym in that dream, and the tension of something about to happen. It was Mother, wasn't it, going over to see what happened when Father didn't come back. The prickles on her head felt like hair standing on end and she knew she had hit upon a bit of truth. But still, what was it that took her father over? Closer to their house, moonlight made shadows of the fence with its gate that separated the two properties. One would go through that fence to reach the gym, walking either to its front door or the back door. Windows spanned the gym's curved surface. She was startled for a moment when it seemed there were flickering lights in the gym, but then realized it was headlights reflected on the windows. A car had passed on the road that went in front of the house and school grounds. Its red tail lights trailed off in the distance.

As rare as a blue moon the expression went. What did that mean? Curious, she went to the computer and hooked into the internet and made a search. Lots of references came up. She read a few of them. There were different theories as to the term's origin. Some attributed it to a Maine almanac that printed the first moon red and the second blue when two appeared in the same month. Others noted that in certain atmospheric conditions the moon appeared blue, but that wasn't too convincing to Lydia. It didn't take long for the search to bore her. That wasn't really the search she was interested in. It was the night of May 31, 1969 she was interested in. Her fingers lightly tapped the keys, not enough to engage them, just a restless movement as she let her thoughts float without direction, float off the words onto the reflections on the screen. In the near dark it seemed the shadows behind her were especially acute, as if the other side of the room, that part of the room in back of her, with the rocking chair, the corner fireplace, the table and unlit lamp, were slowly changing. As if in that space a figure, ethereal, transparent, was looking at her. Lydia stiffened, a chill ran up her spine. The woman was like a reflection of herself. She stared into the computer, her eyes focusing on the reflection, the words on the screen a blur.

"What?" she whispered, just a whisper to herself.

"Why?" came a question and Lydia couldn't tell whether it was from her own mind or from behind, from the phantom.

"The hands were so strong, Lydia. Why? Tell me why?"

"But I don't know," Lydia said, her fingers frozen on the keys, her back as straight as a pin.

"Find out," came the words, and then a plaintive "please."

"How?"

"Just ask." The voice was faint, and when Lydia shifted, the screen changed, started into its shut-off mode. She must have moved the mouse without realizing what she was doing. When she turned around, the room was dark and empty. The moon had moved and no longer shed its light through the window. Sid came meowing through the kitchen door, as if asking why she was still up. He came over and rubbed her ankles. She reached down and gave him the strokes he wanted, then pulled him into her lap and buried her face in his fur a moment.

"Who am I supposed to ask, Sid?" she mumbled. "Was that real, or what?" Of course he had no answer, only it did seem he was happy to see her. "Well, we have a secret, we do, Sid. A secret." Lydia checked Sid's water and then went up to bed, leaving the stairway door ajar. Margie didn't like Sid's night strolling, but agreed to keep her door closed. Lydia, on the other hand, left hers open just a crack.

#

April 1 dawned clear and bright and Margie puttered around in the kitchen in bathrobe and slippers humming to herself. This was the day she was to work with Sherrie on the layout of the first issue of The New Hope Weekly, a free advertising issue with a few local news items. She felt that for the first time in a long while she was working on something important, something entirely free of a husband and daughter's demands on her time and energy. It didn't even matter that Lydia had her mind on her own things. Maybe the house improvements could wait. Maybe she should just get into this new work and blend into the community and forget trying to find all the details of That Night. She bet they'd come out eventually. Just their presence was going to make people remember, and they couldn't keep silent forever.

Margie was so deep in thought she didn't hear Lydia come into the kitchen and was startled when she said she was ready to go over to the gym and see what it looked like after all these years.

"You are?" Margie asked. She turned toward Lydia, raised spatula in hand, and bits of scrambled egg dripped onto the stove. She quickly dabbed at the drips and pulled the pan off the heat. "What are you going to look for?"

"Nothing in particular." Lydia was staring out the door window that looked onto the porch. "You want to go with me?"

"Well, sure, sometime. I'm busy today."

"I thought it might be a good idea to check it out before that meeting they're talking about. Ought to check out the schoolhouse, too. See what shape it's in. Get more informed so we know what they're talking about when those businesses are proposed. I suppose the town could use some industry."

"You want some eggs?" Margie asked as if she'd not heard a word Lydia had said.

"As long as you've got enough." Lydia left the window and poured herself some coffee while Margie dished out the eggs and gingerly plucked out the hot toast from the toaster and placed it on the plate. "How come the fancy food this morning?" she asked her sister.

"Just felt like it. Sort of a celebration, maybe. My first real workday with Sherrie. That's why I can't go to the gym."

"But you'll be done my noon, won't you?"

"How would I know? I've never done this before. And don't forget you're supposed to take those flyers over to the school today. You'll get to meet Pearl and see what her fifth and sixth graders are up to."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot." Lydia took her coffee to the table and poured a cup for Margie. They sat down, bowed their heads in prayer, a habit from childhood training they both continued. "I'll walk down with you, then." Lydia didn't mention last night's visitation, yet she still felt a quivering inside, something pulling at her, a kind of urgency, as if she had to know something before some other thing occurred, or could occur, perhaps.

#

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 Margie 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

Lydia was fuming when she got home, and Margie was not there to vent all the anger and frustration built up by Mr. Stephenson's righteous indignation about their parents. Dale a good boy? Our parents badgering with their pacifist propaganda? She made herself a cup of tea and went to the rocking chair to sit and think as she rocked. If it had been her grand-mother, she would go to her Bible and find some passage of comfort. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death... How did it go? I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Well, she had her back-up team, same thing. Thy rod and staff? Perhaps the rules of right living? Those first steps of yoga, the yama, or moral code of noninjury to others, truthfulness, nonstealing, continence, and noncovetousness, and the niyama prescripts of purity of body and mind, contentment in all circumstances, self-discipline, contemplation, and devotion to God and guru of Patanjali's eight-fold path. Lydia's rocking slowed and the warm tea in her hands grew cold as she settled into that feeling of bringing the presence into her space. With that presence she could try to understand the strong differences of beliefs that could tear a small community apart, especially in a time of war.

War and peace. One fighting with weapons that kill. The other fighting with words, petitions, group protests. She would need to find out more about those Vietnam years. She was sure she would find lots on the internet, but she wasn't quite ready for that, at least not today. Maybe not until they visited the gym and got a feel for what might be waiting there.

#

Steam rose from the ground after an all night rain the morning Lydia and Margie decided to make their first visit to the gym. Sun broke through clouds scattered across the sky. The smell of new vegetation filled the air. Yellow dandelions had popped out in the green lawn between their house and the school buildings. Along the fence between their two properties violets bloomed. A current of excitement run through Lydia at the thought of getting her hands into the earth and discovering what else it might be sheltering. Soon she would give herself time to explore.

Lydia had shared with Margie only briefly her little talk with Mr. Stephenson, not wanting to upset her more than necessary. But she did wonder who Mr. Stephenson felt close to these days. Apparently not the "rich Quakers." Maybe Jake Jackson? She tucked it all in the back of her mind.

The gym sat back from the schoolhouse, a bit toward the Kinnen property. The school driveway ran between the two buildings and around the big oak newly leafing that spread its limbs protectively over the drive, some of them nearly touching the windows of the schoolhouse. The lawn that came up to their property was popular with children for games of tag, hide and seek, stop and go. The regular ball diamond and playground equipment were on the other side of the school buildings out of their sight. Lately, Lydia noticed the girls she had met in Pearl Palmer's class gathered on the lawn on this side, whispering to each other, giggling, and sometimes looking toward their house as if they were planning some mischief.

Right now, just after lunch, all the children were in class and they would not be disturbed by them in a visit to the gym. Lydia and Margie made their way over wet ground, avoiding a few patches of melting ice that had once been trampled snow. Once on the cleared sidewalk they stamped their feet to free them of moisture.

They looked up to the double front doors of the round red brick gym. Lydia thought it looked like a squatting woman about to give birth, but maybe it was the secrets it held that were about to give birth. Apprehensive, she held back, let Margie plunge ahead, open one of the doors and hold it for her.

"Coming?" Margie called.

"Yes," Lydia said with a resigned sigh. She wanted to ask why she so was gung-ho all of a sudden, why it wasn't hitting her that this was the place where their parents had taken their last breath and that they hadn't been in the gym since.

In the summers when they had visited their grandparents the gym was closed and the school grounds empty except when Little League used the ball diamonds. Still, she and Margie had played on the swings and slide at times. She supposed the town children were as busy as those on the farms, though she wasn't sure at what. By their teens, of course, most probably hired out to farmers needing extra help, either in the fields or in the house. Now, with her mother calling her in her dreams, as well as those other little episodes, this visit to the gym felt like stepping into the lion's den. She already felt it's heavy darkness. Lydia was glad Margie was along, even though she refused to take seriously that their mother was trying to get through for some answers. Ask them 'why' she had said. Who is 'them' mother? The five there that night? Or those like Mr. Stephenson? Lydia stepped into the foyer and a cold blast of air made her shiver. But it wasn't air conditioning because there was none. Maybe just left-over night cooling.

Or some force that didn't like them there. Whatever it was she had to stop and catch her breath. Lydia swallowed hard, hoping Margie hadn't noticed and took a moment to study the trophies in the glass case in the foyer, between the two sets of stairs. It held the basketball awards given out through the years. She breathed slowly in and slowly out several times to calm her nerves and relax the tension that had come into her neck.

"The place has shrunk," Lydia whispered to Margie, right beside her, doing her own "adjusting."

"Guess you've grown in the past 30 years," Margie whispered back, then gave a little chuckle. "I wonder where the trophy is that Dale Harris was supposed to have won for the team back before he graduated."

"Probably stored somewhere. I don't see any here older than five years, ten." Lydia wondered, too. "Deliberate, you think? Or just practical, no more room."

"Yeah," Margie answered. "Those old articles in the Delora Times that Uncle Ted and Aunt Nora saved indicated he was some kind of star player. Remember? The reason those kids came to the gym That Night was because he wanted to see the court again?"

"Yes, and that's where our parents found them, down in the basement. And interrupted..." Lydia didn't know how the finish the sentence. What had they interrupted? Kids smoking pot the papers suggested. But Mr. Stephenson accused them of confronting Dale. With what? Yes, Dale, what was it? Here she was, just as the children said, talking to ghosts. Lydia silently chuckled, half expecting to get another blast of cold air.

Margie and Lydia continued to look at the trophies. Talking side by side this way, not looking at each other was a lot safer with this delicate topic.

"So you don't hold any anger toward him?" Lydia asked, fully aware that an eavesdropping ghost was around. Still, though this Dale was the one who took their parents away, in her own heart it was her grandparents that had sent them away. And forgiven him.

Margie sighed. "I used to, Lydia. But what's the use? Life takes people away." She turned away from the cases and looked at the stairs. "Which shall we take? Up to the basketball court and bleachers, or up to the basketball court and stage?"

Lydia imagined Margie referred to her divorce. Maybe Dianne, too. "Well, yeah," Lydia said. "We get abandoned. But that's only to make us look for what Grandma called The Comforter." Lydia was calling on her back-up team right now, for comfort, and protection if need be. She didn't know what spiritual life Margie had, if any, so she didn't say anything more. Their aunt and uncle had taken them to Sunday School and church faithfully, for all those years. Then when they left home for college, the world took over, the world of work to support the body.

"We're going to have to attend church soon, you know. It's going to be expected in this community," Lydia said behind Margie's retreating back. She was headed toward the stairs to the left.

"I wonder if the stage looks as big as it used to," Margie said, turning to smile at Lydia.

So much for the topic of religion, Lydia thought. At the top of the stairs Margie pushed open the double doors onto the basketball court and held it for Lydia. The stage was at the left. Margie headed for it's door.

"They've sure kept the gym floor in good condition," Lydia exclaimed. A high sheen reflected off the floor and she remembered the squeak of rubber-soled shoes as children twisted and turned in their running and shooting baskets. It had been a noon-time free for all back in those days that Lydia sometimes briefly watched with her friends, all too small to enter into as the big kids bumped into each other without thinking.

Margie crossed the court without apparent interest, eager to find the light switch for the stage. Lydia followed her through the door and up the steps. Dusty tan side curtains hid the stage from their view until they walked over to the small opening for performance entrances and exits. A faded maroon curtain was pulled across the front of the stage.

"That's where we waited," Margie said, pointing to the place where she and the other fairies lined up. "Then the prompter motioned us forward into the bright foot-lights. I was so relieved when we couldn't see the audience, and could just do our dance like any practice routine." She giggled, remembering.

"Mom made our dresses," Lydia added.

"Actually, Grandma," Margie replied. "Mom never had time for that, Lydia." The tone in her voice was neither accusatory nor regretful, but maybe a tinge of each with a measured portion of empathy. "Mom had her books to study. Papers to grade. Her writing to do."

"Well, then where are all her notes?" This was a new thought for Lydia. What if some of her writing still existed? Wouldn't that be revealing?

Margie looked at her as if the thought were new to her also. "The old shed out in back?" Her eyes sparkled conspiratorially, the first time Lydia saw any interest her sister take in understanding their mother.

"Almost all covered with raspberry brambles, I noticed. As well as other weeds and little oak trees. I don't know how you and Jake got anything out of there."

"It wasn't easy," Margie said.

"Everything's covered up back there—the graves in the old family cemetery, the old garden plot, too. But I'm making that one of my projects, Margie. Soon as the weather breaks. Get my hands into some soil. You do the papering and painting if you want. Let me work outside."

Margie laughed. "You and Sid, I suppose. I can see you now, nosing around in the cold and wet weeds. As for the inside work, we've still got to decide the future of the house. And that depends on the future of the school, maybe."

"Maybe. But Sherrie seemed pretty sure our house wouldn't be torn down. Not if there's some money to be made. And if there's really two different issues..."

"Don't know, Lydia. We just need more information from the community. Where is it headed?"

Behind them a man cleared his throat, startling the sisters. They whirled around, and saw Jake Jackson coming up the stairs in his blue work pants and shirt. He wore a heavy tool belt and his hands were dark and greasy looking. "Saw you come in," he said, "but couldn't stop what I was doing just then. Can I help you with something?"

"We're just looking, thanks. Recalling some of the plays when we were kids," Margie said.

"Guess it's probably changed since then," Jake said with a bit of quizzical smile. "I suppose you're going downstairs and see the place," he added, his expression a curious blend of taunting and anxiety.

Lydia felt Margie tense beside her. They had unconsciously moved closer together, shoulder to shoulder, like one unit against an enemy.

"The place," Lydia repeated. "Like it's some special attraction?" The reference made it sound circus-like, a barker yelling out come one, come all, see the place. "Where you saw our parents murdered, and so you keep the story going. It must make you important," she threw out, the burn in every cell of her body slowly increasing, slowly heating her whole skin. Of course ghosts would be attracted to 'the place,' when encouraged by the constant energy of talk by a caretaker wanting to impress children with his phenomenal experience of being there and seeing it all. And in a small school, small town everyone knows everyone else so the story gets telegraphed by eager mouths.

"You're wrong there," Jake said, in a defensive bark. "Wasn't any murder. Just Dale going crazy, thinking some enemy was coming after him. Crazy people do crazy things." He shrugged his shoulders. "What I'm talking about, is the place where they come back and it isn't me telling the little kids about ghosts. They do that on their own."

Margie raised her eyebrows and Lydia took a deep breath.

"So why'd you let Dale do what he did?" Lydia asked.

"Ma'am, nobody could stop him. We piled on him, Mike and Stanley and me and he just kept hitting and beating and we were like ants on an enraged elephant." Jake raised his hand, then let it down in a defeated manner, his eyes down too. "There wasn't anything more we could do." "Is that what you tell the children?" Lydia accused.

"Well, now," Jake snorted. "Kids keep at me, year after year, driving me nuts with their questions. Bad enough that my father couldn't take it. Now they're after me. So as long as you're back, set those kids straight. Tell them they shouldn't keep thinking about that place the way they do. Tell them ghosts don't exist unless they keep talking them up."

Chills slid up Lydia's spine. Goose bumps spread over her arms. You make ghosts appear...and disappear, the children had said. Lydia felt Margie beside her but didn't dare send her a look. "Why is that our responsibility?" Lydia asked.

"It's bad enough I have to take care of the school grounds," Jake complained, completely ignoring the question. "And your grandparents property, too. You ask where the community is going? Well, if I had my druthers they'd tear these buildings down, your place, too, and get back to some peace."

"Then you'd be out of a job."

"Then I could move on, Misses. I've had plans, you know. Here I am forty-five years old and still doing what my Dad was doing." His voice was becoming plaintive and Lydia felt embarrassed for him. She wanted to escape but he was between them and the stairs, and he seemed to want to talk, and talk.

"Is your father still living?" Margie asked, perhaps for curiosity, perhaps for compassion.

"Now that's a good question. Is Alzheimer's living? In hell, maybe. Naw, he's in a nursing home over in Delora. Mom got a job there so she takes care of him. My wife and I keep the place here running."

"You've done a good job, Jake," Margie said.

"Maybe. Not been easy, though. You know that cemetery, that old shed out back of your place? Used to try to keep it cleared. But kids." He shook his head. "Those headstones were just too tempting come Halloween time. Even with your grandparents here. Had to rescue those stones several times. Should've gotten paid as a private detective. The superintendent finally got the school board to threaten lawsuits if the parents couldn't keep their kids in line. Tried to keep the sheriff out of it. It works best to keep the weeds growing over that part of the lot." Jake took out a red handkerchief and wiped his face.

"So, I guess you'd find it easier if everything was just torn down," Margie said. "Out of sight, out of mind, sort of."

"You said that right."

"How many people agree with you?" Lydia asked.

"Oh, a few. Guess we'll see soon. When they have that meeting. Well, say, I've got to get back to work. Didn't mean to run off at the mouth this way. Sorry, ladies. But maybe you can see my position."

"We'll try," Margie said.

Jake turned, went down the stairs and disappeared. Margie and Lydia were left exhausted, the information almost too much to take in.

"I've got to get out of here," Margie said, a sick look on her face. Lydia nodded.

"We'll come back some other time," Lydia said in a soft consoling voice. Inwardly, she was calling her back-up team to send her strength, patience and understanding and visualizing peace and harmony around Jake and themselves, then spreading it out to the whole gym.

Chapter 8

A chicken lasagna baked in the oven as Lydia tore lettuce and chopped vegetables for a salad. She was almost done when the doorbell rang. Margie went to answer it. It was Pearl, with a big smile. Grey hair peeked out from a bright red wool hat. A light brown coat with cape-like attachment over her shoulders emphasized her solidness, as did her feet-apart stance. But it was her assessing look that made Margie smile in amusement.

"Our little Margie," Pearl said, pressing strong hands on Margie's upper arms. "You're a Kinnen all right, your father's child. Bigger than your sister. She's a spitting image of her mother." Pearl let go, smiled quickly, lowered her voice. "It's almost scary, her looking so much like Brenda."

So what did that mean, Margie wondered, scowling a bit. This must be the third time she'd heard the remark. What were people thinking? Not knowing what to say, Margie kept silent as she watched Pearl with quick efficient movements shed her coat and hat then hand them to her. Margie took them to the hall tree and hung them up as Pearl, behind her, sat down on a foyer chair and took off her shoes. When Margie turned around Pearl had pulled out slippers from her large purse and put them on.

"There," Pearl said. "I hope you don't mind. It just saves a bit of vacuuming. Just my little thing." Pearl stood up and spread her arms. "Now for a real hug." Margie stepped into the embrace, Pearl's large breasts like a pillow that she could have leaned into if she were younger, still a little girl, and it touched a longing that brought tears.

"Thanks for coming," Margie said as she broke the embrace, a bit embarrassed at her reaction. "Lydia's in the kitchen."

"Smells like something good," Pearl said, and Margie let pass the notion that the good smell was Lydia's creation. Lydia cook? She had to smile.

"Mmm-hmmm." Pearl thought about the years gone by, the two little orphans now the same age their parents when she last saw them.

As they walked through the living room toward the kitchen, Pearl noted Emma's rocking chair near the corner fireplace, and other furniture familiar to her visits with the Kinnens years ago. It seemed a bit odd, in a way. Most people had gotten rid of all their old heavy furniture. Surely the tenants hadn't used it. They must have pulled it out from storage, or something. "Brings back memories," she commented. "Your grandmother loved that chair."

"Yes," agreed Margie. "She rocked us in that chair. We hope you'll share your memories. There's things we want to know," Margie said, as they went on into the kitchen.

Lydia had finished the salad and put it on the table. She too, enclosed herself in Pearl's warm embrace for a moment and then introduced Sid who had come out to inspect this new presence. Pearl reached down and stroked his head, soon evoking a contented purr. "He's yours forever," Lydia laughed.

As they sat down to eat, the trio looked through the bank of windows lining the kitchen and back porch, through tall oaks beginning to leaf, past the shed and small ancestral cemetery and watched the sun as it lowered in the sky. A gossamer pink curtain spread out over the landscape.

"Just look at that, Lydia," Margie said. "Something you don't see in the city."

"And it's so quiet at night," Lydia added. "No city hum, no cars honking, no trains wailing through town, hardly any airplanes."

Pearl laughed. "I'm sure you'll discover noises soon enough. Insects, for instance. You'd be surprised how noisy they can get in their eating and mating and whatever they do. And you'll hear machinery out in the fields when it gets busy."

"At night?" Lydia asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes. They can't stop when it's planting or harvesting time. You'll see their lights, too."

They paused for a silent prayer, then passed food and filled their plates.

"So what do they plant in the fields these days?" Margie wanted to know.

"Oh, they'll be planting corn in a few weeks, late April, early May. They may already be out spreading Roundup on the fields. That sits for a couple weeks before they spread nitrogen fertilizer."

"Nitrogen." Lydia's eyes widened. "The stuff Timothy McVeigh used to blow up the Murrah building?"

Pearl nodded. "The same."

"Don't they have to be careful? I mean, doesn't it get into the air?" Lydia imagined all these farm people breathing the chemicals that helped them make a living, and then coming up with asthma and cancer. She wondered if there were any statistics on it.

"They wear masks when working with chemicals," Pearl stated matter-of-factly. "And soon after spreading fertilizer they plant."

Lydia held a fork in the air, about to express her astonishment when Margie broke in with a new observation and the topic of health concern was passed.

"But it looks like the fields are full of old corn stalks," Margie complained. Lydia put her fork down and listened.

"True, but the latest wisdom is to just leave them after fall combining to hold in the moisture. But the planter has a front end disc that cuts the stalks before the seeds are released. I'm sure any of the farmers would welcome you to come out and take a look at what they do."

"Sherrie said the same thing," Margie commented. "I suppose we'll have to sometime. But my memory of farms is mud and manure. Guess I've become too 'citified,' as they say."

"Well, you'll discover that farming is a big operation. Huge, powerful tractors pull ever larger and heavier machinery. Pearl eyed the room they were in, measuring. "Wouldn't fit in here. Imagine one planter doing twelve rows of corn thirty inches apart." She stretched out her arms, looked from one end to the other. "For soybeans it folds up to plant rows fifteen inches apart."

"And those are the $100,000 machines?" Lydia wanted to know. "Well, tractors, $100,000, combines $120,000. Planters, I don't know." Pearl shrugged and reached for a roll which she carefully buttered.

"How does one family finance a farm?" Margie asked. "Sherrie told us it takes 1,000-3,000 acres to make a go of it.

"She's right," Pearl said. "And one family doesn't do it alone. Not really. It's fathers and sons or daughters. It's intermarriages that bring farms together."

"Like the triumvirate," Lydia put in.

Pearl laughed, knowing just what she was referring to. "I guess Sherrie's been educating you."

"She started," Lydia admitted. "But we can learn more from you, I'm sure."

"Well, you know incorporating started years ago." She paused and thought for a moment. "Probably close to fifty years. Farm families put their business into corporations for tax purposes. And over the years farms have gotten larger and larger because it took more acres to make a living, and now a farmer with a thousand acres has to have another job to keep it going." Pearl was gesturing with her fork as if she might like to have a blackboard on which to scribble notes and figures and maybe drawings.

"So the three families of That Night have taken over their parents farms..." Lydia saw the look on Pearl's face and stopped to explain. "That's how we've begun to refer to, you know, when everything changed."

"Yes, I understand," Pearl said sympathetically. "But you understand that the children there that night are now two couples plus Jake. Jake's wife wasn't involved. In fact she's not a local. But for the rest, all their parents are gone from the community." She smiled at the sisters. Lydia noted how she deliberately included Jake and his wife, as if she and Margie had been excluding him. Had they?

Lydia frowned, ate a few bites, then mentioned they had seen Jake in the gym and heard some of his complaints about his father having Alzheimer's and his mother in Delora trying to care for him at the nursing home.

"Yes, it's sad," Pearl acknowledged. "On the one hand you have to admire Jake for taking over his father's duties. On the other hand some-times he uses it as an excuse to complain."

"That's an interesting thought," Margie said. She wasn't eating much, just picking, and thinking.

"So do the Harris and Seward families share the expenses?" Lydia asked, getting back to the farm situation.

"And the work," Pearl said. "When they're out planting they run the machines 14 hours a day. They change drivers every 4 or 5 hours. I imagine it takes a lot of concentration." Then she paused, thinking. "Though now I believe they have GPS, that's global positioning system," she explained, "whereby they can set an exact path for the planter to go, and even pinpoint where each seed is to be dropped. All by computer in the cab of their tractor." She chuckled. "Really, you need to ask the farmers. I'm only an elementary teacher. But your father, if he were alive, would have been up on all the new technology." Pearl cleared her throat. "Anyway, when you see the green coming up it's very beautiful the way the rows contour around the hills. I guess it's science made into art." Pearl cut a bite of lasagna. "They have a right to be proud of their work."

For several minutes the three ate in silence, Pearl in quick, steady motions like a teacher who had to get back to work, Margie and Lydia with more concentration on what they were eating. Silverware clanked on plates. Soon Pearl had cleared her plate and placed her knife and fork neatly across it.

Margie got up and brought coffee and poured out three cups, which she distributed, then took the pot back to the stove. She had dessert to offer, but she, at least was not ready for that. It was as if, now that the basics were laid out they could get to the real issues that were smoldering underneath waiting to be brought up. Dessert could come later.

"Sherrie was telling us about some of the changes since That Night," Margie stated as she sat down again.

"That Night." Pearl tightened her hands around the cup of coffee and looked into it as if it might have something to say.

"Thirty years has brought a lot of changes, girls," Pearl said, shaking her head sadly. "I lost my Tom to a heart attack not long after Alice killed herself. Alice was Mike Harris' mother," she added for clarification. "Sometimes I think all the sadness in New Hope was responsible for her doing that. But..." She shrugged, sipped coffee, then fell into silence.

"Stanley Seward's mother also died?" Margie asked gently, wanting to get things started but not wanting to interrupt.

"Oh, yes. She had cancer. Died a few months after...That Night." Pearl gave the sisters a wry smile.

"And then, some of them moved to Arizona?" Margie inquired.

"Arizona was a relief from cold Iowa winters. People here got to going after corn was harvested, and came back before spring planting. Those without farm animals, that is. Your grandparents, after a few years, made a permanent move."

"We visited them a few times in Arizona. Too hot for me," Lydia said. The visits had been brief, a quick flying in for a couple days and back. The last time was for funerals; first Grandma, then a few months later Grandpa who was lonely and passed on almost intentionally. A shiver came over her. Yes, people could do that, she was sure.

Margie nodded toward the end of their property where the sun was still red on the horizon. "I remember when Grandpa owned all that land back there. He and Dad farmed it together in the summers when Dad wasn't teaching. Then, afterwards Grandpa leased it out, I think, until he finally sold it. I wonder who bought it?" She was pushed back from the table, sipped coffee, let the cup warm her hands.

"I don't really know, Margie. So many farms have been sold, mostly foreclosed, but I haven't kept track of where one farm starts and another begins." Pearl gave the girls a look that was part sigh, part evaluation, part contemplation.

"That Night, as you call it, was like a pebble thrown into a pond, with ripples spreading out and out." Pearl sucked in her breath, gave them her teacher look, a pay attention look, a look beyond yourselves look. "That night hurt your grandparents, and you two, of course. It took away your parents, but after what happened That Night, Fred and Alice Harris lived a nightmare. Their son Dale came home in a coffin from Vietnam, their son Mike tortured himself with accidents and other illnesses. Ralph and Norma Reed agonized over what their daughters had done or not done and what kind of punishment they'd be dealt, or should be dealt. Edith Seward was slowly dying with cancer during that summer and fall, finally passing away in December. Her husband Leonard cared for her the best he could and Stanley went off to college." Pearl paused and slowly folded her napkin, first in half, then in quarters and placed it beside her plate. "Then there was Jake and Mavis Jackson. Jake, Sr. we're talking about now. When he found your parents he simply went to pieces, started drinking, and JJ, as he was called then, or Jake, Jr., the one you know, had to do all his work that summer." Pearl smoothed the napkin with her fingers, as if there were wrinkles that needed to be ironed out. "Oh, what we learned from all this, about people's private lives. I told Tom that we just never knew what went on behind closed doors, in the homes we thought we knew." She sighed again. "We saw Jake slowly drowning, in a sense, destroying his liver and brain. They call it Alzheimer's, but there was brain damage before that."

Lydia and Margie watched her and looked at each other. They had second cups of coffee, not caring that they might be up all night. But they were getting what they wanted, weren't they?

"You mustn't forget that Alice and Fred Harris lost a son in all this. Oh yes, Dale did a very bad thing, but he _was_ their son. I don't know how I can make you see how unbelievable the whole incident seemed to us. How can one acknowledge that your son killed the teachers they loved?" Pearl put down her cup and pushed back her plate just enough to lean her arms on the table. "After the funerals and people started back living again, Alice withdrew from almost everything. We didn't really notice at first. But when classes started again that fall, Mike didn't return. I guess people wondered about it, but then, later we heard that Alice was in a mental hospital and Mike and his father were just trying to keep the household together. I wasn't in a position to be involved with the families. Tom and I lived in Delora, after all. And even though my classes are on the same floor as the high school, I didn't have any interaction with those students. What information I got was from the other teachers, really."

"Mike knew what his brother had done?" Margie asked. She remembered the brief conversation in Sherrie's office when Stanley Seward came in. She'd told him they'd like to know what really happened that night and he'd answered 'don't we all.' She couldn't believe he wouldn't know, figured he was just evading the question.

"Good question. He was there, but things were complicated."

"That's the word Mr. Seward used, the one time we met him," Lydia commented. "Complicated. After all these years are we still not going to be told exactly why Dale Harris attacked our parents?" Lydia's voice showed her impatience, and she silently berated herself.

"Give it time, girls," Pearl pleaded. "Stories can be short or they can be long. But they all take some amount of time."

"I'm sorry, Pearl," Lydia said. "I'm beginning to get a picture of the families involved as they were then. But Sherrie said something about Stanley sacrificing his career to come back and pull things together."

"Well, Stanley went to college that fall, 1969. He stayed through that year but came back to the farm after Edith died. If they'd had the treatments they have today she probably would have survived. Anyway, the church people tried to help but it was hard. Suddenly your grandparents needed help, then it was the Harris family with Alice's problem and Mike, then when Edith died, it was Stanley and his father. Yes, Stanley came back, but before that it was the Reeds that stepped in and kept those families going. Those two girls, you see, took up the slack. Shirley Reed with Stanley, and Charlette Reed with Mike. The three families almost became one and then separated themselves from the rest of us."

Lydia felt goose-bumps rise on her arms as she listened. She had not imagined that so many people had been affected—that the whole school, the whole community had been changed. All because of one person. "And Jake the younger," Lydia began, "he got all screwed up, too. From what he told us the other day. I can almost be sympathetic. But I still get the feeling he's got demons inside of him that are just barely contained."

"Maybe it was just as well we weren't left here," Margie said. "Maybe we didn't miss too much. Or what we missed was worth missing." She gave a contorted laugh. The evening was darkening and she got up to turn on the overhead light. Obsidian came out of a corner and asked to be let out. "You want him out, Lydia?"

"Yeah, why not. He won't go far, I think." She got up and opened the screened porch door for him and he disappeared into the shadows. "How about some dessert?" she asked. "We've got some butter pecan ice cream."

"Sounds delicious," Pearl said. "But let me help clear the dishes."

When they were all settled again, Margie asked her how many years it had taken to get things back to normal. "If they ever have," she added.

"Well, maybe when the Reed sisters got married. Maybe that's what started the path back. Stanley had intended to go through college and get a degree, but that didn't work out. And Shirley was going to be a nurse, but she didn't follow through on that, either. So, she and Stanley got married, and they lived at the Seward place for a while, as I recall. I believe Charlette and Mike were already married by that time. They married right after she graduated from high school." Pearl sat and pondered. Lydia noticed that the story was slightly different from Sherrie's summary.

In the silence, the refrigerator hummed and the radiators crackled as they heated, or cooled. Lydia felt the information sinking in, making her conscious of the question 'why,' that 'why' that her ghost mother was pestering her about. And still, she didn't know how to ask.

"Why did That Night happen?" Margie asked, surprising Lydia. It was as if their ghost mother couldn't wait, had to switch daughters. Margie continued, "I mean, why did that guy Dale get so angry and do what he did? How could someone pound a person to death, and strangle?" Margie was thinking about Brad, whose temper sometimes erupted into hateful words, but mostly he would stalk off and sulk when he didn't like something about her. She had never felt physically threatened.

"That's what we all asked at the time. But when we found out Dale had used cocaine that evening, before the marijuana he shared with the rest of them, we could sort of understand his paranoia when Ed and Brenda came upon them unexpectedly," Pearl said. She narrowed her eyes. Lydia interrupted before she could go on.

"Jake said Dale went crazy, that when he and Mike and Stanley tried to stop him but they were like ants on a wild elephant." Lydia felt unwelcome tears well up and swell her throat. In a softer voice she asked, "And why did they all run away and leave them to die?"

Pearl nodded. "My husband told me that cocaine was used by the soldiers to make them aggressive in battle. Then after they get back to camp, they relax with pot." She sighed. "Whether Dale knew what his buddies had given him, we don't know. But his superhuman strength was probably from that cocaine. But also, some people get so angry without any help from drugs that striking out is how they relieve it." Pearl looked down at her empty bowl, struggling with memories and attempts at explanations. "As for why they ran, I suppose they were scared to death." Pearl made a guttural sound. "Not a good phrase," she apologized. "Also, apparently they really believed Ed and Brenda were just hurt and someone would come and help. I suppose that's why one of them, apparently Stanley, called Jake, Sr." Silence fell on the room. Pearl had trouble finding the right words. "I can't excuse anybody, girls. It's just hard to tell you what an unbelievable thing it all was."

It was black outside now, and their reflections came back to them from the windows. Lydia imagined another woman there listening intently.

"Anger was Alice's problem, too," Pearl went on. "Sometimes it made us uncomfortable. It wasn't considered Quakerly. We probably didn't handle it very well. In those days it didn't occur to us that emotional outbursts could be a brain chemistry disorder." Pearl sighed. "Maybe if we'd been more sympathetic we could have altered what happened. But we'll never really know, will we?" Pearl didn't look at either sister. It was almost like she was talking to herself. "Alice committed suicide about ten years after Dale's death." Pearl took a sip of water, as if to soften the abrupt way she had spoken.

Lydia groaned. "Like a stone thrown into a pond, the ripples just kept going," she said, getting up to refill her coffee cup. She brought over the pot, but neither Pearl nor Margie cared for any more. Lydia took the pot back to the stove and turned off the heat. She stood there awhile, tears hot on her cheeks. What happens, she was wondering, on the other side, when these souls are taken in. Is there a welcoming committee? Do they have arms to fall into? Is there hope there?

Pearl began an apology. "This community is resilient, Lydia. Death happens. Those of us left move on. We have things to do, to learn. We have things to teach. New children come along. They have to learn to read and write and how to add and subtract and how to broaden their minds and question what they see and hear. That's just the way it is."

Lydia sat down again, put her hand gently on Pearl's arm. "Oh, Pearl, I'm glad you're telling us these things. Yes, life does move on. So I take it that those three families plunged into farm work as one way of dealing with their losses. More land and more equipment to work the land and all that?"

"That might be what happened."

Margie asked about the husbands who lost their wives, Mr. Seward and then Mr. Harris. "How did they fare? And what about Shirley and Charlette's parents? The Reeds? What happened to them?" Margie paused and then added "Everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort."

"Well, the young couples worked alongside Stanley and Mike's fathers, and the Reeds for several years." Pearl paused, fiddled with a spoon, frowned. "Charlette and Mike had a little girl before they were even married a year." Pearl shook her head. "She was a little mother, all right. When Mike had that accident with his arm, right after his brother had left, and Mike was all worried about what had happened that night, Charlette was right there at the hospital, and helping out when he got home. Alice was not doing so well with all that was happening. Dale just couldn't have killed anyone and Mike had no right to accuse him. So Charlette became Mike's friend and companion." She looked at the sisters, a twinkle in her eye. "Sex is a great healer, right? If it just didn't have certain consequences." Margie laughed. Lydia grinned.

"At eighteen Charlette was a mother. Now she and Mike are grand-parents."

"Grandparents?" Lydia asked. "Let me guess. That girl in your room. That's not their daughter? That's their granddaughter?"

"That's right, Lydia."

Lydia started figuring. "You mean Jennifer, who is about eleven, has a grandmother who's about forty-four, and a mother who's, how old? She must have been terribly young, too."

"Jennifer's mother is about twenty-six," Pearl calculated.

"And where is she?" Margie asked.

"In the east somewhere. There doesn't seem to be much contact. We hear about her from time to time. There's problems with drugs, I guess. With men." Pearl looked sad. "Sometimes, we just can't help."

Lydia didn't want to change the subject, but just had to ask, "So why are those girls interested in ghosts? Jake seems interested in keeping the story of our parents' murder alive. Although he calls it an accident. As does Mr. Stephenson, by the way." Lydia turned toward Pearl and asked if she knew that. Pearl just raised her eyebrows. "Anyway," Lydia went on, "I think telling stories makes Jake feel important. I think he feels Dale there, maybe egging him on. I think Jake doesn't really know what to do with That Night. Maybe it's haunting him." She didn't mention the cold in the gym she felt, or the listening presence right here. Not with Margie present.

Pearl smiled, slightly embarrassed, it seemed. "Actually, there are a few little strange things that go on in that part of the gym sometimes. The phone rings and no one is there. Dishes, or silverware get rearranged. Like someone playing tricks."

Margie looked shocked. "Ghosts don't exist," she declared. "Our mother died and is in...a better place. She's not a ghost. That's insulting."

"She's just wanting some answers," Lydia stated, not believing for a moment that she was in a better place. "She just wants to know why she got killed." She wanted to explain about the energies, about karma, about our souls living on, never dying, but knew it would fall on deaf ears.

"Well, I don't believe it." Margie got up and started clearing the table of ice cream bowls and coffee cups. She took the dirty dishes to the sink and ran water. Once again she was scrubbing out unwanted thoughts, unwanted images, unwanted tellings.

"The thing is, there's more than one, isn't there Pearl?" Lydia searched Pearl's face for some recognition and thought she saw it. "In the gym, there's another restless soul, and he's more unhappy than Mother. What was Dale like, Pearl? Other than being manic, or depressive. What troubled him so?"

"It was the war. The draft. The confusion he felt, I'm sure. He was being pulled two ways. The military wanted young men and the media and politicians had ways of making the war seem right and just and necessary and anyone opposed was deemed traitorous, unpatriotic. Your parents and others spoke out against the propaganda. The young men of draft age listened to both sides. Dale wanted to do his part—he didn't really want to be a killer." She let out a soft sigh. "Ironic, isn't it? He wanted to train for saving lives and they wouldn't let him, so he ends up killing. He didn't hate your parents. I'm just sure of that. He didn't know what he was doing, was the way your grandparents saw it. And that was probably true. That's why he couldn't live with himself. So, if there are restless souls trying to understand, I guess he'd be one."

"You two are crazy, talking like that," Margie burst in. She spun around and looked at them sharply. They looked back. "You're being serious!" It was incredulous. "So you just feed those kids ghost stories? You just keep this thing going?"

"Oh, Margie, honey," Pearl said. "There still needs to be some resolution. There was forgiveness. Your grandparents were great. But can forgiveness be felt by the dead? Is there some way to reach them? I think Lydia would like to understand the rage that night. Maybe if she understands she can convey it to..."

"Oh, right," Margie said. "Well, I've had enough. I'm not going to listen to any more of this. Excuse me." And with that she left the room.

Pearl and Lydia looked at each other, raised their eyebrows. "I'm glad you talked, Pearl. You know, I've been having these dreams. I really wasn't going to tell anyone. It's private. But you seem to have a sense of this. Please, let's talk again."

"Of course, Lydia." It was Pearl's time to put a gentle hand on Lydia's arm. "But I guess that's enough for one evening."

Chapter 9

Lydia sat down at the computer that evening to send another email to the Yoga Ranch. Margie had retreated upstairs and she was alone in the living room with its shadows and the reflections on the computer screen. She was beginning to think of this as a special place of communication. Not just that she could write out the words as she thought through an issue, but that sometimes they seemed to appear on their own. As if her thoughts opened a secret door into another consciousness—a bodiless consciousness. As if, like she was doing now, thinking about this murderer, this Dale person, she could tune in to what might be happening to him, over there. She could feel a restlessness in her fingers, a blurring in her sight, as if the screen were a hypnotizing element that took on, went into...the words of another person, being, or whatever. She let it flow.

Of course there is a welcoming committee. How would you get around in this space without a little direction? But what's really weird, if you really want to know, is the silence. Just space and silence. Movement, yeah. But that's really weird, too. I'm still figuring that out and it's been a while since I looked down and knew I'd never return to that mashed up thing. I mean, it used to be so serious, that death thing. Really scary. But look, this place is just full of bodies floating around bumping into each other and bouncing off again. Or just like, passing through one another. Cool. Can't hurt anybody here. A relief, a real relief. You see, these 'hands' are just rays of light. These arms, legs, this whole body are just rays, like those old fashioned sunbeams humans thought were so great. I'm being rehabilitated, actually. Learning to think in ray talk. Kind of like mental hands. I guess the brain and body aren't so much separated. Oh, it's something humans could do down on earth if they concentrated on it. Here they're working with my anger habit, helping me see some thought patterns that were giving me trouble. Right now, I'm told to communicate with whatever vibration comes in and try to analyze it. Colors have a lot of meaning and I'm beginning to see beyond the heavy ones that I came in with.

You remember writing in the sky? Airplanes leaving messages in white letters that stayed awhile, then dissipated? Well, things are pretty temporary, if you know what I mean. Things don't become things just right away. Like down there. But if you keep the thought vibration going, kind of like boiling water, maybe, just letting them boil and boil, which takes a lot of energy, and concentration, eventually, you get a form. Here, you start making your own body this way. Only, you've really got to know what you want. Not just any old body. But before that, even, you've got to know what you want to do with it. What's a body for? It's like we've got these rays and we can just keep moving about and through other rays, but what's the purpose? After a while, the idea comes to you that there's a reaction going on, an interaction, you know. Took me a time to realize that. Maybe I wasn't ready, or something. I guess I was learning to relax. I must have made it real hard for Them; they must have put me in a silence straightjacket or something. It was pretty lonely. I guess I was still kicking and screaming and making storm clouds so bad they had to leave me alone until I got tired of being alone. Strange, though, there never was any pain, or hunger, or thirst, or tiredness. Just a bit of rocking when I relaxed and quit fighting. Like a cradle almost. Rocking, rocking. Then it was like I could look around and notice the pretty colors, and it was like they began to stay around and take notice of me. It was OK. I wasn't afraid. And the more I wasn't afraid the more I could move here and there and sort of swing, yeah, like swing from this ray to that, with a sort of will power of my own. Make myself fly. I always wanted to do that down there, but never could. Here, though, it's the way it happens. Kind of a gut jump, all the juices flowing as they will, or mind, gets the thoughts into action. How can I say it? Well, don't know how much you want to know. Your purple inquiry is giving me blue shivers, like waves and waves bouncing off each other. But space is so vast here, I can step out of their way and they'll go on and find another target. Maybe that's the point? You're after another ray being? Well, believe me, there are mansions and mansions and they can't all be explored at once. I'll keep your request in mind. And tell my little brother Mike not to worry so. Tell him it's all OK and not to take life so seriously.

The words stopped coming and Lydia stopped typing. She stared at the screen, read words that came as if an email directly to her from... Cyberspace? The other side? Impossible, impossible, impossible. Some trick of her imagination, had to be. Chills ran through her body. She felt confused. The Ranch had writings describing the other side, after the soul drops its physical body and finds itself in the astral world. She must have gone into some subconscious trance and just written the dream she was having. She laughed. She'd file it in her journal, along with other purely personal thoughts. She printed it off, then saved it in her journal file. But she couldn't get over the feeling that it was real.

Real or not, what did it tell her? That Dale had passed over and entered some kind of nice acceptance? Yes, a welcoming committee. But, didn't he have to pay for what he did? More than just feel relieved he couldn't hurt anyone, and feeling lonely? Did the dead ever learn to be sorry? He did say 'they' were helping him work on his anger habit, as if 'they' had a kind of psychotherapy, or psyche/soul therapy. Maybe 'they'd' help him face what evil he had done on earth? Or would he have to come back to earth for another chance to learn truth in interpersonal relationships? And just what were 'they?'

Her thoughts shifted to her mother. What might she be learning over there? Would she ever be allowed to confront Dale's form with her whys? Lydia sat there with the computer humming, and her eyes getting heavy wondering how rays really communicated with each other. She knew about energy fields around human beings. Certainly she believed that thoughts were energy. Believed, not really understood. What kind of an energy force were rays? Light seemed to her so weightless, so inconsequential. And energy seemed equated with power. But maybe she was mistaken. Jesus knew how to make his physical body weightless enough to walk on water. He knew himself to be spirit, not merely a physical body. Some people claim to be able to go out of their body and travel astrally. Could she have done that accidentally? Lydia shook her head.

She went back again to her mother and her last minutes of this life, wondering if she knew she was being killed. Maybe she didn't even know Dad had been killed. Maybe she just lost consciousness in the middle of a thought and suddenly was in a strange place fighting and kicking like Dale described, and feeling alone in a silent space. Maybe she didn't even know she was dead. Lydia tried to imagine the confusion that would bring. And how long would it take to understand?

Lydia wanted so much to go to bed. She could hardly find the strength to shut down the computer, turn out the lights and find her way upstairs. She forced herself into the meditation posture, willing to keep her back straight, willing herself to feel weightless, in space. How comfortable it would be to forget the body. But she wasn't able to achieve that.

Instead her thoughts turned toward the world, so heavy with turmoil, friction, hurts, disappointments. Who in their right mind would want to stay, if they knew how to get out? So deluded are people that they really believe that if they just work hard enough, learn enough, sacrifice enough, practice whatever enough, they will gain what? happiness? It isn't meant to be. Everything here is temporary. There is no stability. It is all movement, vibration, energy, opposites, first this, then that. Always. So what is it all for? Why is there life? lifetimes? Why is there Earth filled with people? What does God want? Those were some of the questions pouring into her mind as she sat there on her bed until Sid jumped up and purred so loud she had to stroke and pet, hold and love him. Is that it, Sid? God wants us to love one another?

#

Next morning, Lydia felt dazed and it was hard to wake up. Something extraordinary had happened and she didn't know what to make of it. It was like she had left her body and gone somewhere else. Now, she had to get this one moving, and concentrated on the many things that had to be done. This was a world of time, and duties, work, achievements, goals, jobs. That is how people defined themselves.

Then she remembered Margie's hurt looks when she and Pearl talked about Mother's ghost. How was she going to deal with that? And how much did Pearl really understand? And what if she had been keeping the ghost image going? Sometimes a community prided itself on having a local ghost or two. Even gaining publicity. Sometimes getting outsiders to come and take a look. Maybe even charge a fee for a ghost tour. Jeez. Lydia hated to think of that happening in New Hope. All she wanted was to find some way to help her mother find peace and go on doing what people are supposed to do in the astral world, leaving the physical world behind.

Lydia stumbled down the stairs to the smell of coffee already made and found Margie solemnly pouring cold cereal into a dish. She checked Sid's food and water and then poured out cereal for herself and sat down at the table near her sister.

"Have you looked out at the side lawn?" Margie asked, not looking up from her eating.

"Well, no, I didn't bother this morning."

"It's those girls. All five of them standing there, staring at our house."

"But hasn't school started?" Lydia didn't think she had gotten up that late. Surely the buses had come and gone and the children already in their classes.

"Oh, now they have. But earlier. Like they're planning something. Nudging each other, laughing, looking over our way."

"Margie, it's probably nothing."

"No, I can feel it. They're going to start harassing us. They don't want us here. And it's their parents and that Pearl that's put them up to it."

"Margie, what's gotten into you? What's bothering you? What's happened?" Lydia worried. Her sister sounded paranoid, and that wasn't like her at all. Margie looked like she was close to tears. "You get a call from Dianne?"

"How'd you know?"

"The way you're acting. What'd she have to say?"

"She's complaining about Brad. Blaming me for making him restrict her from going to this party. But I didn't even know anything about it."

"Did you tell her to take it up with him?"

"She says he's not speaking to her. She's threatening to sneak out and go anyway. And if I tell Brad she'll just lie and tell him she wouldn't do that."

"So, she's playing you two against each other, sounds like."

Margie put down her spoon and sat back, spread out her legs and lifted her arms like a plea to the heavens. "I'm totally helpless, Lydia. And she knows it. She's going to be the death of me. If not of herself. Lydia, Lydia, what can I do?" Margie stood up, said she didn't feel like eating, her stomach wasn't up to it.

"First of all, don't blame yourself. Second of all, I think she wants you to call Brad and be angry with him. Which maybe you are, but you can't afford to let him know that. Maybe an email would be the best. He does read them, doesn't he? Maybe you could offer to let her come here when school's out. Or tell her we'd be happy to have her here if she's not happy there. Or lastly, ignore her. And not worry about her. She asked to be with Brad, right? Let him work it out."

Margie let out a long sigh. "You might be right. What can I do, anyway?" She let her hands drop heavily to her sides. "I've got to help Sherrie get out some Craft Fair flyers this morning." She sighed again. "I told Dianne I had no intention of calling Brad and I told her if she went against his wishes she'd just have to pay the consequences. She hung up on me."

"Well, that's that. She's had her temper tantrum. We can only pray that she not be too foolish." Lydia couldn't help but think about the teenagers who were with Dale on his murderous night. None of the parents could imagine what their children were doing, could they?

"Look," Lydia said, "those girls. They're just curious. We're going to have to get to know them, have them come over and show them around or something. Pearl said something about their class planning an end of year party. It's kind of a celebration for the sixth grade going on into junior high. She said something about them making it a treasure hunt all over the school grounds. Maybe that was what they were doing, Margie."

"Oh." Margie let the word out as if startled, embarrassed. "You might be right."

The day was warm and spring like. Lydia wanted to be outdoors, see what might be coming up. "Hey," she said. "I think I'll take a crack at cleaning up the back yard today. Work at those vines covering the shed. What do you think?"

"Sure, if that's what you want." Margie was never one to like outdoor work. "I guess Sherrie and I can do without you." She smiled at Lydia. "I'm sorry if I was cross, Lydia. I do get worried."

"Well, of course. Jeez, what kids can put parents through. It's a wonder, isn't it?" She was going to say more, but let it go. Today was too nice to be analyzing and philosophizing.

Chapter 10

The class bells buzzed as Lydia stepped out the back door dressed in old jeans, long-sleeved cotton shirt, gloves and sunhat. After retrieving the long-handled heavy clippers she had purchased, a rake, garbage bags and heavy string, she headed for the bushes. With the first clips she knew the task was not an easy one. Thorns from the raspberry bushes pushed through her gloves as if in protest, as she cut and pulled the brambles from their resting places, their home of many years. Finding a way to compress them into a manageable bundle meant cutting each long berry branch into small segments, then stomping on them and tying them loosely. She gave up on the garbage bags, and resorted to starting a pile toward the back of the lot with the hopes that they would disintegrate into compost.

It was noontime when Lydia finally paused long enough to look up and notice five faces looking at her over the fence.

"Hi, Miss Kinnen," one of them said. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she answered, somewhat testily. She was tired, her arms were scratched and bleeding, she was sticky with perspiration and dust, and now she had curious onlookers. The shed was uncovered, but dirt, dead leaves and ivy vines still needed removing before she was ready to crack open the door.

"You going to let out the dead children?" another asked.

"Can we come see?" asked a third.

The startling question made Lydia laugh. She leaned on the rake handle and eyed the girls. One of them fiddled with the hook on the gate, got it unlatched, then hesitated.

"Well, come on in," Lydia said, "but watch where you step. It's pretty dirty here."

The five girls came closer and one of them stooped down to pet Sid who had come around investigating, then sat down on the sidewalk as he twined around her arms purring happily. "You're not going to have pink slacks very long...Amber." Lydia guessed at the name. The girl wore a white blouse and her long blonde hair was pulled back and tied with a small white ribbon. Her bangs came down to her eyebrows.

"He likes me," the girl said, smiling.

"So are you opening the door?" asked the girl in overalls whose long brown hair was parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. She was a stocky girl with strong looking arms and legs, and her expression was impatient and a bit peevish. Lydia remembered her in Pearl's class as the one who asked if she were the ghost lady. And, Pearl had said, the granddaughter of Mike and Charlette Harris.

"You're Jennifer Harris, right?" Lydia asked.

"Yeahhh," she grunted, cast her eyes down and stuck her hands in her pockets.

"And you're looking for some dead children, or something?"

Jennifer squirmed, frowned, pouted.

"She's just kidding, Miss Kinnen," said the girl in a long blue and white trundle skirt, standing close to Jennifer.

"Ah," said Lydia. "And if I recall, you're Tanya Seward. You two are like sisters. Only I guess you're cousins or something." Tanya grinned but didn't clarify. "Your mothers are sisters, or something," Lydia went on. "Shirley and Charlette. Shirley Seward and Charlette Harris, am I getting it right?" Lydia felt a bit conspiratorial, pretending she didn't know it really was grandmother and mother. She figured it might be a private thing and if it were really important she'd be straightened out eventually.

The two girls nodded solemnly, as the others looked on with puzzled expressions, as if they were being left out of something but weren't sure it was something they wanted to know.

Lydia took off her dirty gloves and slapped them together to shake off dust. Without really looking at the girls she said, "I believe we're more likely to find some dead dolls, girls," Lydia turned to Jennifer and smiled. "As I recall there were a couple dolls that my sister and I had to leave behind." She turned away as a flash of memory envisioned decisions they were forced to make. You can't take everything, were the words. Leave something to play with when you come back to visit. But the feeling was hurry, hurry. Lydia sighed. "Maybe we'll find some books, too. Or pictures. Maybe games. Who knows? Like a good mystery, huh?" Lydia noticed one of the girls hanging back, the same one that seemed so embarrassed and shy in Pearl's classroom. If she remembered correctly that would be Meagan, a relative newcomer to the community. And that left the other one, the red-head with freckles to be Robin. Yeah, like the red-red-robin. She chuckled to herself. One way to remember names. But also, Robin's mother was the poet, the actress. Persia. She almost mentioned having seen her mother's poems that had impressed her, then remembered the rule of confidentiality.

"I hear your class is giving a graduation party for the 6th grade in a few weeks. A treasure hunt, or something? And you've got two boys in your class. Where are they?" Lydia was chiding a bit. "You let them in on your plans?"

"Morgan's making the map for the treasure hunt," volunteered Robin. "He's the smart one." She said this in all seriousness.

"And Cliff's his helper," Amber said with a giggle that ended with her burrowing her head into Sid's fur. "They're going to take us all over the school grounds. And it's going to be at night so we have to use flashlights," she said looking up from her awkward, head bent position. Sid began to growl from her tight embrace. Startled, she let him go. He shook himself and walked away.

"And that's when the ghosts will be out," Jennifer said too matter-of-factly, making Lydia wonder if it covered some fear.

"Oh, well, I suppose that should be exciting," Lydia said, to see what reaction she'd get. Then she thought of something. "As I recall there were Indians in this area a long time ago. Maybe they had some battles here. You think? Maybe the long dead Mesquakee will come out and put on a show for you." Lydia felt mean. How could they know she was teasing? leading them on? And she was put out with Jake Jackson for keeping the stories about her ghost mother going? What was wrong with her?

Tanya actually clapped her hands. "Miss Kinnen, maybe we could use something in the shed for the treasure hunt."

"My, you really are eager for me to open that door, aren't you?"

The girls stepped closer. Amber got up from the sidewalk. But just as Lydia was trying the various keys she had found in the lock, the class bells buzzed for the end of the noon recess and the girls gave a unified groan.

"Tell you what. Come over tomorrow noon and I'll tell you what I've found. Show you, maybe. It'll be cleaner."

"But tomorrow's Saturday," complained Tanya.

"Well, Monday, then. That's even better, give me more time to clean the place. I'll even make some lemonade and cookies. Tell Pearl, your teacher. All right?" The girls nodded, and slowly left. Sid at first followed, but Lydia called him back.

She gave a long sigh as she watched them walk back to the schoolhouse. What in the world was in their minds? What in the world was in hers?

In the end, Lydia resorted to a hammer to break the lock, succeeding in tearing into the wood frame, which would now need a repair. But the small door swung open and she dipped her head to look in. Windowless and dark, it smelled mostly of dust and mice. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a humped-back trunk, a green metal trunk, and other wood and cardboard boxes. She guessed the trunks would have the toys and dolls and other memorabilia from her parents and grandparents days. But she checked the cardboard boxes first, as they seemed to be files of letters, pamphlets, clippings. One of the boxes held grade books, which Lydia pulled out, curious as to what children's names they might include from thirty years ago. She opened one, apparently one of her mother's English classes and ran down the list of names. No Harris, no Reed. There was a Seward, though. Stanley. She noted the grades—A's ran across the line, one B+ tucked in there. What was the subject? Composition. Lydia wondered what composition consisted of, and what class, junior, senior? She looked for the year but it wasn't obvious. She wondered if any student papers existed. Wouldn't that be revealing. Squatting next to the box, Lydia's legs started to feel prickly and numb. She shifted position, and in so doing knocked into another box that spilled some of its contents. Old folded newspaper clippings, falling apart, yellowed, headlines "Couple found dead in New Hope gym. No motive, but teenagers suspected of doing drugs, being interrupted. Not a break-in."

Lydia got the picture. This was the early stage of the murder investigation. Suspicions, puzzles, silence. How long had it taken for the truth to unravel?

"Why" was the question her ghost mother was asking. She half expected her to show up and look over her shoulder, but maybe it wasn't necessary. Maybe her own curiosity was enough. She wondered, could those on the other side know what was happening here? Wouldn't they have to get in sync, so to speak, somehow will themselves into the right vibrations to break that veil between the two realms? Lydia let the thought go, concentrating on what was before her. She rifled through a variety of articles that were saved in a folder. Another folder held some pages that looked like notices of some kind. Letters cut out from something spelled out "traitor," and "down with peace," "love it or leave it," "support our troops, not our enemy." The letters were pasted on in a careless, crooked, way as if to add to the insults and threats.

Lydia couldn't take any more. She went to the trunk, which was unlocked, opened the lid—there lay Jane, hair all matted, eyes closed. Lydia sat her up so the eyes opened, and her pert, pink mouth formed a kind of "oh." A tightness came to Lydia's throat, seeing the blushed cheeks on this china head still trying to be cheerful. She pressed down the wrinkled dress, straightened the little white shoes and anklets, and hugged the doll to her breast, her own cheeks becoming wet and eyes blurry.

"Well, well, well," came a voice from the door. Margie was looking in. "I wondered where you were. Lunch time, you know," she advised. Lydia released the doll from her grasp and slipped Jane back into the trunk.

Lydia choked out an answer. "Yeah." She suddenly felt very tired. "Guess I could use a pick-me-up about now."

Out in the sunshine, Lydia squinted as she adjusted to the light. "Those five girls came over," she commented as she walked with Margie to the kitchen.

"I noticed," Margie said. "What'd they want?"

"They wanted me to let the dead children out," Lydia snorted, then coughed, trying to recover from tears and laughter. "I told them to come over Monday noon for cookies and lemonade. They also wanted something for the treasure hunt. I said I'd try to find something."

"Great. Just what we need. Some kids snooping into our lives." Margie marched ahead, then ran as she heard the whistling teakettle.

Chapter 11

The dead children. The phrase rang in Lydia's head, being repeated and repeated as if it were some song that she had once heard, or known. Some vague memories started coming, meetings in the living room where adults, their parents, grandparents, and friends talked about serious things. It seemed that dead children were part of that talk. Perhaps it had to do with the draft counseling her parents had done. She followed Margie into the kitchen. She had put out a plate of sandwiches on the round table and asked Lydia if she wanted some tea.

"OK, that might be good." Lydia collapsed into a chair and let Margie bring the tea. "Thanks, Margie." She proceeded to swish the tea bag, pulling it out and dropping it back into the cup as if it were a most important, delicate job. "You know what I found out there? Besides Jane, of course."

"Should I care?" Margie asked. She plopped herself down across from Lydia.

Lydia looked at her. Margie kept her attention on unfolding a napkin and placing it in her lap, her shoulder and arms tense with disinterest.

"Maybe. It's stuff our parents must have gotten in the mail, or some-thing. Crude hate mail. I wonder if anyone figured out who sent it. I wonder why it was saved." Lydia reached for a sandwich. "Ah, tuna. Thanks, Margie." She took a bite. "Good."

Margie raised her eyes but did not quite look at Lydia. Her face expressed caution and discomfort. "I think I heard something about that. I suspect its stuff the police returned when the case was closed. Grandma probably just stuck it away without looking at it."

"Do you remember when people came over in the evenings and we were shuttled off to our rooms? Did they ever talk about dead children in those meetings?" Lydia took the tea bag out of the cup and squeezed it, the heat nearly burning her fingers.

"Yes, I remember. Sometimes they worked around this table. But no, I don't remember what was said." Margie watched Sid amble into the room and go over to the windows, choosing one and jumping up on the sill. His tail soon twitched as he watched something outside.

"I found these yellow ribbon bookmarks with the words 'war is not healthy for children and other living things.' I gather that was a special slogan for their cause?" Lydia found herself hungry and the sandwich disappeared quickly. "Do you remember them?"

"No," Margie said in a tone that said she didn't want to remember, either.

"Well, I'm going to do a search on the internet. I'm getting more and more curious about what draft counseling was all about. And just how it affected the relationships in this community." She was ready to get up, but saw that Margie was lingering over her food. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Lydia. I'm just not as eager as you to know all those little details. But I'm sure you'll find lots on the internet. I have to help Sherrie this afternoon. She's going to leave in a couple weeks and I'm just a little nervous, that's all."

"Oh, well, I guess." Lydia got up, took her dishes to the sink. "My turn to fix supper? How about some vegetarian chili?"

"Sounds fine."

#

After a shower to get off the dust and grime, Lydia sat down at the computer, went into Google and typed in "war is not healthy for children and other living things" and pressed the "search" icon. Up came a list of over 9,610,000 references. She pressed the first one, discovered Another Mother for Peace had designed the logo. In further search she learned that AMP was a group of fifteen Beverly Hills housewives who, in 1967, fed up with all the killing in the ongoing undeclared Vietnam War decided to send Mother's Day cards to members of Congress and the President, asking them to end the killing. The card read "For my Mother's Day gift this year, I don't want candy or flowers, I want an end to killing. We who have given life must be dedicated to preserving it. Please talk peace." The logo itself, designed by Lorraine Schneider, was drawn child-like, with a simple sunflower in black ink on a yellow background and the words written around the flower stalk. Lydia visualized these women, gathered around a table much like the one in the kitchen where her mother, grandmother and others had gathered. Perhaps they, too, had sent out some of those cards. One of them had acquired the heavy chain and logo she had found in the shed, so they had known of AMP. She wondered how often the chain was worn. Did her mother wear it to school while she taught? Did she wear it to the peace marches in Washington D.C. and New York? And, how many others in the New Hope community went to those demonstrations? So many questions came to mind. She could have gone on reading about AMP, but it was the draft counseling that had gotten her mother killed, wasn't it?

She turned her search to "Vietnam War conscientious objectors" and up came page after page of articles and statistics. She discovered a long history of men objecting to war and refusing to enter the military. By World War II provisions had been made so that these men could serve their country in another way. Civilian Public Service camps were set up by the government and 12,000 men went into that service. Another 6,000 went to prison rather than serving in any way, and another 25,000 served in the military as noncombatants. In the Vietnam war 170,000 men were officially recognized as conscientious objectors. So who were these CO's? The official definition of Conscientious Objector, she read, is someone with "sincere conviction(s), motivated by conscience, that forbids someone from participating in war. This objection may apply to all forms or to particular aspects of war." It sounded like something that would need a good bit of thought. Was that what a counselor helped young men like Dale think through? There had been no war when she was eighteen. No distraction from her first year in college experiencing an exciting new independence, budgeting her limited income against the needed books, clothes, and other things. And, how would one know to object to war when all those around you said it was right and glorious and patriotic? Of course, if in your church, like with the Quakers, that idea was instilled from the time a child could talk and think, maybe you'd wonder how anyone could not object to war. Lydia supposed that had been her parents, and grandparents experience. She couldn't remember, though, that her uncle and aunt ever talked about conscientious objection one way or another. Nor politics. They simply lived their lives, day by day, year after year. College, though, had been expected, had been looked forward to, planned for. Maybe it had been the escape they all four had unconsciously looked for. Lydia chuckled, imagined her aunt letting out a sigh of relief when she was finally free. Or was that her own sigh of relief. In any case the trust fund had made it possible.

Lydia focused her mind back to her mother. She was getting a picture of her as restless, anxious even, and highly concerned about her high school students. Now picture them being thrust into decisions about being drafted into war, or going on to college. It wasn't something that could be postponed. Lydia learned that when one registered with the Selective Service, at the age of eighteen, you could register right then as a conscientious objector. So it was important to know at that point what you believed. That was the problem wasn't it? How to know? That was what her mother was faced with, wasn't it? Helping a student to think things through without making the decision for him, not letting her own strong beliefs influence their decisions. Is that what Mr. Stephenson was referring to? Lydia felt a chill run up her spine as she asked the question. How did her mother interact with Dale? Truth in interpersonal relationships. The truth, Mother. Did you pressure Dale? Did he come to resent you? The thought rooted her to her chair. It was like being in a car, suddenly realizing you were going off the road, about to crash and there was nothing you could do about it. There was no turning back. The chill then turned to a slow heavy pressure against her chest making it hard to breathe. And she wondered if this distress was simply thoughts, or had she touched another energy, the energy of listening ghosts perhaps, now that she was getting used to the idea of ghosts.

Lydia took her hands off the computer keys and rubbed her arms, took a slow deep breath. She was not going to let this search for truth be hindered and sidetracked by an emotional ghost. Mother, she whispered, be patient. Just back off, now. You, or Dale, or whomever. Just let me find what I have to find. She took another deep breath and the pressure relaxed. She got up and took some time to get a drink of water, go to the bathroom, do a few yoga stretches.

Back at the computer she returned to the Vietnam War references. It had gone on for eleven years, she learned, with 58,202 killed in action and 304,704 wounded. The figures were staggering. President Johnson was said to have become discouraged and decided not to run for another term. Nixon became president in 1969 but still the draft went on until 1975. Now, a man (or boy?) must register when he reaches his eighteenth birthday, but the military fills its ranks with volunteers. Even so, Lydia reasoned, that means the military has names all ready to pull out of the hat when someone decides a draft is necessary. What a startling thought.

Lydia had not paid much attention to these things. The Gulf War eight years ago had been no more than a bleep on her consciousness. But now, doing this research, and going through some of her mother's papers, she began to realize how different her mother was from herself. Her mother dared to be disliked. She endured hate mail. She assumed her parents would support her efforts, would babysit while she was off to the demonstrations. Now she wanted her support. Right, Mother? Well, what can I tell you? I'll try not to judge. You did what you felt you needed to do. Now, it's up to you to forgive Dale for doing what he maybe felt he had to do.

As she scrolled from site to site she saw pictures of the thousands with their picket signs at the Lincoln Memorial, in the streets of Washington D.C., the streets of New York. They looked so determined, so passionate. Was her mother among them? Could she take a magnifying glass and pick her out? Of course not.

But it must have been an exciting time. She could imagine her mother felt the enthusiasm of the movement for peace, the hope that one could change attitudes and stop a war. She sighed. So many meetings, conferences, rallies, marches—and her mother died before what she wanted could be accomplished. No wonder she was hanging around. Lydia slumped back in her chair. She'd had enough for now. Getting to know her mother was exhausting. Besides, it was time to go fix vegetarian chili.

Chapter 12

On Sunday a bright sun sparkled the dew on the grass and made it look like glittering glass beads. Easter was past. The sisters decided it was time they went to church and meet the girls' parents as well as others they would have to meet sooner or later. It would not be the silent meditation of the Yoga Ranch that Lydia longed for, nor even the unprogrammed Friends Meeting where the congregation sat in silence, centered down to the Spirit within, spoke as they were led, gave testimony to that inner vision. Nor would it be the jog along the ocean beach that was Margie's Sunday morning meditation in California.

New Hope Friends had a minister, a choir, and the bulletin which programmed the order of service. They had heard the minister was young, fresh out of seminary, and newly wed. Lydia was glad they would not know the Kinnen past history but wondered what rumors would have preceded them.

Though the church was not far, just on the outskirts of town on the other side, they drove, thinking maybe they'd drive around the country a little bit afterward, maybe even drive out to the cemetery and look for their parents and grandparents headstones.

The building was fairly new, not the one they had attended as children. Its design was a simple one story brick building with plain windows, a slanted roof over the front entrance where wooden double doors were unadorned. Inside, the foyer held a table with literature, a place to hang coats, and a welcome sign. A small office was to one side and restrooms on the other.

A sign notified the way to downstairs, where voices were heard.

Lydia and Margie guessed there were Sunday School rooms down there along with an activities room and kitchen.

Lydia and Margie entered the sanctuary and slipped into a seat at the back, hoping to avoid curious eyes. Lydia closed hers and listened to the buzz of conversations as people gathered for the service. It annoyed her actually. At the Ranch people kept silence in the chapel and started to settle into meditation before a leader appeared. She was glad Margie sat quietly beside her. She seemed at peace.

Presently, the choir came in from a side door and took their places behind the pulpit. They kept the Friends simplicity by not wearing robes, though the women were in fairly uniform white blouses and dark skirts and the men in dark suits and white shirts. They stood as the minister came in and opened the service with a prayer.

After the welcoming of visitors and friends, a hymn and short period of silent prayer, the minister started his sermon. Margie drifted into thoughts about Dianne who had received little spiritual training. It wasn't that they hadn't tried, but the churches they visited felt alien and superficial. The so-called New Age churches with large congregations seemed to have mostly motivational speakers with feel-good messages, while the main stream were too conservative, literal, and narrow. And the Friends she had encountered had been so engrossed in their activist activities that if you were not ready to write letters to congress, attend protest gatherings, help gather signatures on petitions, or pack up food and other items to be sent to disaster areas, you felt guilty and inadequate. Not that anyone ever said anything; it was her own feelings that bothered her.

Perhaps some resentment about her parents' activist life style had robbed them of their presence still lingered. Dying for one's beliefs was a noble and cherished tradition in Friends' history. But maybe Lydia had gotten it right. They were abandoned. By their parents, their grandparents, their community. Which brought her mind back to Dianne. Did Dianne feel abandoned, even though her choice was to stay in California where there was 'some life' as Dianne put it? Waitressing at that restaurant and bar near where she and her dad lived worried her. Did Brad ever check on what people she was exposed to? Did he ever check with her employers to know what they were like? Teenagers could be so single minded, which was good, and they could be naive, impulsive, which could be bad. Impulsive, like leading to actions never intended, one thing leading to another, until a whole evening could go by and end with an unspeakable deed. Like thirty years ago. It made her shiver to think about it.

Lydia, sitting beside her, sensed Margie's thoughts, noticed the defeated droop of her shoulders, felt the shiver that ran through her body. She took her hand, squeezed it and gave her a smile. At the Ranch right now the service would be coming to an end and the Leader preparing for the healing service, which was practiced every time. She mentally added Margie's name to those who would be prayed for, visualized the group energizing for the long droning "om" they would repeat, visualized that healing vibration surrounding Margie and herself. She almost missed the minister announcing a final hymn, and the standing of the congregation, then the closing prayer. Lydia smiled to herself, thinking how people really weren't so different deep down, all wanting that touch of God, peace, love. All really wanted to walk with Him and talk with Him and feel that comforting presence greater than themselves. No one wanted to be alone.

At the break of the meeting, people didn't wait to get out of the pews before welcoming them with an extended hand. They had been sitting near an older couple who Margie had whispered to her were Charles and Hazel Lambert. He was the carpenter Margie had consulted with.

"Well, of course you are Lydia Kinnen," Hazel said with a gracious smile. "You could be Brenda herself if I didn't know better." She held Lydia's hand in her own two soft ones, talking on about how wonderful people her parents had been. Lydia could see moisture in the woman's eyes, her face deep-lined with age or wisdom, her head bobbing slightly from early Parkinsons perhaps, her voice a bit shaky. Fragile was what went through Lydia's mind. Yet a certain fundamental solidity, like one who knew what was right, good, true.

They slowly moved out of the pew toward the door where the minister shook hands. Charles Lambert held forth with Margie, his words overlapping with his wife's, but it seemed she kept hearing the word "house" and she found herself listening less to Hazel and more to Charles. Hazel obviously noticed.

"He's a carpenter, you know," Hazel said, "since retiring from the farm, that is. He can't do the heavy work any longer, but our grandson is a big help. He's done a lot of work with your house over the years. If you want someone who knows that house, just ask Charles." Lydia nodded, but saw no point in saying she already knew.

When they shook hands with the minister, Charles introduced Margie and Hazel introduced Lydia. The man was cordial and somewhat indifferent, which was a relief to Lydia. No past history needed to be revealed.

Once they were outside in the open air and free to move about, Charles turned to Lydia, leaving his hand on Margie's arm. "You know," he said to both, "I've been thinking more about the house. You've probably heard that there's differences of opinion about what to do with it. I hear you're sort of being pushed to make a decision. Have any of those realtors been at you yet?"

"Well, Jake mentioned one we could call," Margie said. "We haven't done so yet, though." She didn't tell him that Sherrie had said the realtor was on the Park committee. Of course, Sherrie could have been mistaken. And it could be that members of the committee were divided on what they wanted. And weren't they assured by Stanley that their house and the school were two separate issues?

"And who was that?" Charles queried with raised eyebrows.

"John Cramer," Margie replied.

Charles snorted. "I might have known. Cramer is a developer." He spit out the word as if it were poison, as if 'developer' were the same as thief, or shark, or tax evader. "He won't preserve the house, girls, even though he might say so. Once he gets his hand on the property he'll tear down the house, then turn around and try to sell it to the Park Committee for an increased price." Charles drew his hands together and exhaled. "Jake, Jake," he said, shaking his head. Lydia noticed that his hands shook a bit, but she judged it was to control anger, rather than his wife's probable Parkinsons. "Jake has some issues he's trying to put to rest. He's bitter and resentful, just because his dad gave up on life. But Jake chose to carry on, doing his father's job. Maybe his memories are different than ours. Maybe he just remembers how he let those kids into the gym and how that one act led to other acts that changed everything." He stood close to Hazel as if depending on her to temper his emotions. Which she did.

"Now Charles," Hazel smiled, lifting her eyes to his. Then she put her hand up to pick off a piece of lint from his collar in a clever distraction.

"Well, that house has a history. It's old enough to be on the historical register. A good solid house they don't make much anymore. When your family lived there it was taken care of. Seems like once they were gone, the house grew sad. Renters didn't help. But Margie, I could go in there and tell you exactly what's needed to fix it up, bring it up to code and make it into a museum. We don't have one in this town, you know."

"So you're on the side of those who want a park?" Lydia asked.

"The whole place, the gym, the schoolhouse. All of it. Should be a state park. Unless, of course, you plan to live there."

"Well, I don't," Lydia said with a little laugh. "Do you?" she turned to Margie.

Margie actually blushed, then shrugged. "Maybe," she admitted. "But maybe not," she added. Lydia couldn't help but wonder what that meant. Did Peter have something to do with it?

The conversation ended when Jennifer and Tanya came over with their moms in tow. Shirley Seward introduced herself and Tanya first, then Charlette Harris and Jennifer. Charles and Hazel stepped back but did not leave. It just became a larger group, the older couple looking comfortable and pleased. Shirley explained that their husbands were in the fields, the weather being so beautiful. "After all, God made it necessary for us to eat," she laughed nervously, looking especially at Hazel.

"Yes, honey, we understand. God made the weather, too," Hazel replied with a smile and Shirley looked relieved.

"But I thought Mike was ill, Charlette?" Charles asked, a concerned look coming over his face. Shirley looked over at her sister as if this was news.

"Oh, the ulcers were acting up, Mr. Lambert." Charlette gave a little embarrassed laugh. "Now they've put him on a new medicine. And totally off the caffeine."

"Well, we mustn't have him fainting again," Charles said. "It might not be in such a handy place." He had a twinkle in his eyes.

Hazel turned to Lydia and Margie to explain. "It was at the town hall meeting inaugurating our new Fire and Rescue truck when he just keeled over, almost into the arms of our two volunteer paramedics. They loaded him in and took him to the hospital."

Charlette covered her face with her hands and turned away, as if wanting to hide. Hazel put her arm around her. "Oh, dear, you know we're all concerned, that's all."

"Yes, yes, I know." She laughed, then. "Guess we couldn't have planned a better trial run. It's just that he wants to be so strong and self-sufficient and then something like that happens."

Lydia thought of the words his big brother Dale from the other side wanted to pass along to him, 'it's OK, don't take life so seriously.' It was not bad advice, but would she ever be able to deliver it?

Charlette cleverly changed the subject by saying she guessed they knew about the end of school party, and apologized for the girls "if they are being a nuisance." She directed this to Lydia, gave her a tentative smile. "They met you at school? then over at your place?"

"In Pearl Palmer's class," Lydia acknowledged. Then she laughed. "And when I was working at all those bushes and vines covering that old shed. Oh, they were so interested in that shed." Charlette looked puzzled. The two girls stared at Lydia wide-eyed and seemed to be holding their breath. Lydia guessed they hadn't told their mothers about asking her to let out the dead children. "I promised them something for the treasure hunt," she said, glancing over to see the girls relaxing and giving her a grateful look.

These sisters, Lydia was thinking, were really not so much older than she and Margie, five years, seven maybe. Thirty years ago, when she and Margie were pre-teens and they were teens, that difference felt much greater. Now Shirley and Charlette's daughter and granddaughter were the pre-teens, the little girls.

"You don't really have to do that, Ms. Kinnen," said Shirley. "The girls sometimes get too...persuasive." She gave the girls a disapproving look and they returned it with a look of total innocence, blank of all expression.

"Oh, no trouble, Shirley," Lydia said with a sympathetic smile. "And please, I'm Lydia. Hey, I've already got something for the hunt. But shouldn't it go to whoever's laying out the treasures? Those boys, maybe? Morgan and Cliff?"

"Wellll," Tanya said, corkscrewing her lips as if deciding the right words. "They're just making the map."

"Sure," Jennifer piped up. "They're writing out the clues to where we go for the next treasure."

"Then you shouldn't know what it is."

"But then they'll know everything and we won't have any secrets." The whine was good, but not very persuasive. Lydia smiled and said she's need to check with their teacher. That'd give her another chance to pick Pearl's mind about this community and its inhabitants.

"They're going to end up in the gym," Charlette pointed out. "We mothers will have refreshments there."

"Perhaps we can help with the food," Margie offered. Lydia saw her strained expression, sensing her heart was not really in it. But she was proud of her just the same for making the effort.

"Are you going to get the ghosts out of there before then?" Jennifer asked Lydia, as if this were a simple matter, and not an unusual request.

"What?" Charlette gave her granddaughter a look of horror, of deep embarrassment, once again seeming to barely hold the cover over a family secret.

"Well, Mom, this is the ghost lady, the one who's called them up to be there at the end of our party." Jennifer's chin went up defiantly.

"Jennifer!" Charlette's mouth tightened, and the veins stood out along the side of her face. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Kin.., Lydia, Margie. I don't know what's gotten into her." But she narrowed her eyes at Tanya, suggesting she was the likely culprit. Tanya, the teaser, blinked her pretty brown eyes, tried to keep a straight face and succeeded until Jennifer gave her a poke. Then Tanya turned away only to giggle into the startled faces of Charles and Hazel.

Lydia wasn't about to let this go. If the girls really heard or saw things she'd like to know. But if they were just pulling her leg, she'd like to know that, too. "Prove it," she challenged. "Tell us what you've seen." She watched Jennifer consider. The girl crossed her arms, took her time to think up her story.

Margie pursed her lips as if suppressing a scream and looked away. Tanya pulled in her cheeks and puckered her lips. Lydia waited.

"In the gym, that corner near the boys' lockers. You know." Jennifer looked at her mom and aunt as if they would verify it all. "We've told you about it."

"Not now!" Shirley said. "This is not the time." She put a hand on her niece's shoulder, tried to turn her toward the direction of the car. Jennifer, however, refused to be turned.

"What happens there?" Lydia asked. She gave Shirley and Charlette a pleading look. Charles and Hazel, Margie, all stood silent, as if pretending not to be there.

"It's on the stairs, as if someone's coming down," Jennifer said in a grumpy way, "only no one really is." She looked down at her feet like she was sorry about going this far, that maybe whatever point she had wanted to make was past the time of its effectiveness. As if she'd gotten more shock reaction than she had bargained for.

"Or stumbling," Tanya suggested, too eagerly. The little group stood there in utter disbelief. Tanya looked at Jennifer expectantly, then when she didn't go on, said "And then there's like someone bouncing a basketball on the court, only no one is there." She was holding her own, now. Jennifer seemed to have backed out of the spotlight.

"When does this happen?" Lydia asked keeping her voice as temperate as she could, but inside feeling confusion, a sense of betrayal almost. Margie stared at something in the distance, her body gone still as a statue.

"At night when you have to go down there to the bathroom. No one wants to go down there alone." Tanya's eyes sparkled.

"This is your own experience?" Lydia asked, her suspicions of made-up tales increasing.

"It's just known," Jennifer said, shrugging indifferently. Lydia gave her a quizzical look. "Tanya's brother said so," Jennifer offered. "When the boys go down to the lockers after a game they feel someone watching them."

"That's right," Tanya verified.

"But he's in boarding school," Lydia pointed out. It was curious how important these stories seemed to be to the girls. And it also crossed her mind that maybe boarding school was as much to get the boys away from the stories as it was to help them get a better education. What would it feel like to have your children come up with stories about the very people you were with the night they died coming back as ghosts? She thought it might very well be maddening. Maddening enough to want the school closed?

"Oh, your brother," Shirley said, letting out a long raspy sound. "He was teasing. You girls just eat up those stories. What's so fascinating about ghosts?" She looked angry and close to tears. Lydia felt sorry for her.

"I suppose ghosts would liven up a treasure hunt on the school grounds," Lydia grinned, trying to lighten up the tension that was building. "Maybe when you come over tomorrow noon we can talk about why ghosts are so fascinating."

"Don't encourage them," Charlette said, her eyes troubled and piercing, but her tone permissive as if happy to let someone else deal with a troubling phenomenon. "They'll just run you ragged."

"Maybe," Lydia said, smiling. "Or maybe we'll all learn something we need to learn."

Chapter 13

Margie exploded when they got back in the car. "Do you know what you're doing? Those girls, those women are simply encouraging imaginations. And for what? To get out of accepting responsibility for our parents' deaths. They were there that night! They were there when our parents were killed! They're just protecting their husbands!" She jerked open the door, slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. She watched others going to their cars while Lydia seemed to be taking her time getting into the car.

"You're getting irrational," Lydia said, her voice soft in an effort to calm the emotions, and slipped into her seat. "Their husbands didn't kill anyone. It was just Dale," she reminded her. She pulled the seat belt over her and locked it. "And they know they can't change what happened." She looked out the window, then muttered, "Isn't that something to live with." Turning back to Margie, she said "It could be they're trying to protect their children, though. I mean Jennifer's awfully curious about what her uncle did, don't you think? Don't you wonder what she's actually been told? She and the other children?" Lydia felt a tingling on her head, at the back of her neck, and down her arms. Something had been going on in that group she couldn't quite put her finger on. Some feeling like when you just about find the right word in a game of anagrams but have one letter missing. Almost as if the heightened emotions in that discussion were vibrating into the air and attracting a listening energy looking for that answer to "why?"

"Well, you think their husbands are really in the fields just because it is good weather? I get the impression church is pretty important to people around here. I think they're just avoiding us. I think they really are afraid of us, Lydia. Afraid we're going to bring some kind of trouble into their lives." Margie started the engine, pulled her seat belt over her shoulder and checked Lydia. "Ready?" she asked. "To the cemetery?"

"Yeah," Lydia agreed. "I'm ready."

"Of course, we probably are bringing trouble into their lives," Margie said as she backed out and hit the highway. "They're probably like Jake, wanting to tear down everything so there won't be any physical evidence to remember."

"That's not how you get rid of ghosts, Margie," Lydia said. "If our mom is still asking why she got killed, then we need to find the answer and convey it to her. That will put her to rest." She dared not look over at Margie so she watched the countryside, the brown fields that extended like an ocean without break of trees or houses.

"Lydia! Listen to yourself! You act as if this is all real. As if you could talk to our mom, who is dead, Lydia. You can't talk to her killer, either. He's dead." Margie drove so slowly that a car coming up behind began honking, then rushed past them showering them with gravel and dust. "Well, I guess that guy's in a hurry," she said bitterly, but then picked up her own speed.

"Yeah," Lydia said, thinking of her new experiences and how incomprehensible they would be to Margie. "But have you wondered what kind of relationship Mom had with Dale Harris as her student? What made her care about him so much?"

"No, Lydia, I have not."

Ooookay, Lydia thought, vowing to keep her thoughts to herself for a while. It was the draft counseling that she wondered about. Had her mother put undue pressure on Dale to become a conscientious objector? Did he go into the military in defiance of her advice? And what part did his own mother, Alice, play in all this? Lydia got the feeling of a young man being pulled in two different directions. "If we could find something Dale wrote in her class, maybe we'd get a better picture of him," she said out loud without thinking.

Margie humphed. "I suppose you're going to ask Mike Harris what he thought went through his brother's head and really arouse some feathers."

"Hadn't thought of that. It's an idea," Lydia said, giving Margie a teasing smile. "But I think I'll look into the shed a bit more and see what I find before I do that." In the distance Lydia noticed birds flocked behind a moving object. Probably a farmer discing or planting or herbiciding or whatever. She hoped the birds weren't being poisoned.

"I've never heard Dianne mention one teacher that she likes," Margie said in a more thoughtful tone. "She and her friends find bashing teachers and principals, and all adults, 'cool.' It's like finding anything in common with them would be disloyal. Sometimes she seems to hate the whole world." Margie gestured with one hand then dropped it on the steering wheel with a bang, making Lydia wince. Then she added "Maybe it was that way back then, too," as if pondering the bitterness of that teenager we were wanting to hate, or in lieu of that, to explain.

"Maybe," Lydia agreed, thankful for Margie's contemplation. "The teenage years are a chaotic time in life when the brain isn't quite fully developed and you're in a battle between reason and feelings. Or should I say between brain and hormones. They haven't formed a clear idea of who they are."

"She comes home sometimes with the oddest requests. Demands, really. Like she just has to have a certain piece of jewelry, or clothing, or haircut, or makeup, or she just has to go to some party, or performance." Margie sighed. And sighed again.

"I don't remember being so out of sorts all the time like Dianne," Margie went on. "I remember us being pretty disciplined. We did our chores. We did our homework. We even played those awful piano exercises for Aunt Nora. Remember those old, torn books?" Margie sounded almost amused, much to Lydia's relief.

"The ones her daughter had used," Lydia laughed. "We should be grateful, I guess. They couldn't afford to give us lessons but Aunt Nora at least taught us scales and how to read notes. You didn't do so badly, you know. You got past the Third Grade Thompson book and I didn't."

"You could have, if you'd wanted," Margie retorted. She had pulled into the fenced-in cemetery lane and followed the tracks in the grass. "I left music stuff when I went to college," she confessed. When they got to a locked gate Margie stopped the car, wondering how they were going to turn around, how they were even going to get in, but then she spotted a break between gate and fence just big enough to squeeze their bodies through. She'd deal with turning around later.

Lydia had brought a map of the cemetery, locating graves. She and Margie studied it awhile before setting about to walk between graves. They commented once in awhile on the marker inscriptions. "Gone home," "beloved wife/husband," "Here for a little while," "Just at rest," "called home," until finally they came upon what they were looking for. A flat stone identified Brenda May Kinnen, wife of Ed (January 5 1930-May 30 1969) and next to it another flat stone identifying Edwin Elliot Kinnen, husband of Brenda (July 20, 1929-May 30, 1969), with neither having an inscription of any kind. The two graves next to them were Robert Roy Kinnen (1909-1996) and Emma Jane Kinnen (1910-1997). It was a small family. There were almost as many graves in their backyard. Those were Kinnens who had emigrated with others from North Carolina in the 1850's. Jake, and the superintendent said they had been vandalized years ago as a Halloween prank. Lydia was glad the superintendent made them replace and repair them.

"You know," Lydia said, "if our place ever becomes a park, our own little graveyard might become a visitors' attraction. We might need to put up a fence around them."

"Mr. Lambert thinks a park and museum would be a way of honoring our family," Margie added. "But how many people in New Hope want to honor our family?" Margie kicked at a clump of dried grass left from mowing, slowly breaking it apart.

"You like Mr. Lambert," Lydia said, wondering if Margie were making him a sort of grandfather substitute. "Well, he is a worthy man. Didn't someone say he was the town mayor for many years, as well as town board member?"

"I believe so," Margie answered. She stared at the family graves, then bent down and brushed off bits of grass and twigs. She wished she'd thought to bring a flower. Violets, maybe, one of the early flowers they used to put in May baskets when they were little. She remembered the thrill she and her friends felt when secretly leaving them on people's porches. That was one thing her mother loved to help with, making up those baskets.

Lydia interrupted her thoughts by suggesting they look for the Harris family headstones. She stood and they looked around just in time to see a figure kneeling and placing something on a gravestone not too far away. They waited, not wanting to interrupt the man's private moment. Soon the man got up and started walking away, but not toward the gate they had come in. He disappeared down a little hill and behind bushes. Soon they heard the noise of a tractor and noticed dust rising from a neighboring field. Curious, they went over to where the man had been. There, they saw he had left a sprig of blooming plum, or perhaps apple. It was placed on the grave of Alice Harris. Nearby, a similar sprig was left on Dale Harris' grave.

The sisters looked at each other. "Mike," they said in unison. Had he seen them? Lydia thought not. He was too engrossed in what he was doing. Margie agreed. They both had tears in their eyes and reached for each other's hand. Neither could speak.

Dale's grave was marked with a flag and a military sign, with dates 1948-1969. Around the grave were other Harrises, his grandparents, uncles, aunts. His mother, Alice Harris had the dates 1927-1980.

Lydia felt the sadness coming up from those graves, no ghost necessary to address the unfinished business in this family. So sad that Alice could not admit the reality of Dale's action. So sad that Mike was still trying to do it for her. She would indeed have to talk to Mike Harris, but how? It wouldn't be easy. Would she sympathize with his mother's death? Not refer to her suicide? And how had Mike's father reacted to all that had happened? Was he still in Arizona, alive? No grave. Not here, anyway. She'd have to ask. Maybe Pearl would know.

Margie nudged her, said she was ready to go. "This is too depressing. I'm cold." Margie hugged her arms to herself, shivering.

A breeze had come up. A dust devil whirled in the dirt tracks of the road that ran the perimeter of the cemetery. Lydia suggested Margie go stand in the sun. "I'll come in a few minutes."

Margie left. "I'll see you in the car," she said.

" _What would you have me do, go to Vietnam and kill some mother there? Mothers, mothers, mothers. Protective, possessive, pushing, pushing. What do they want? What do they want?"_

The familiar goose-bumps rose on Lydia's arms. The words came whispering like insects swarming. Bees buzzing. It was time to leave. It was hard to distinguish the impressions she was getting from the thoughts she was thinking. The sun was out. It was warm, she told herself. The small cemetery was really quite peaceful. Tall oak trees and bushes lined the outside, provided shade. One could have a picnic here. The newer section had flat smooth stones to make mowing easier. The older section had upright stones that would look like figures in the dark. They could be guarding the place.

Walking back to the car, Lydia tried to put her mind to something practical, something non-analytical, not involved with figuring out people's behavior. She thought about what she could give to the girls for their treasure hunt. Perhaps one of those bookmark ribbons with the peace symbol on it. There were several of them, as if it had been a promotional item. It was probably better than any of the jewelry items, which weren't many. Mother hadn't been into jewelry.

One time Grandma Kinnen had given her and Margie the few things of their mother's that she thought they might like to have. A watch for Lydia. Her diamond ring for Margie, being the older. Her wedding ring had been buried with her. There were a few necklaces, some scarves, a couple hats that were in fashion in the fifties.

Back at the house, they changed clothes and each made a sandwich for lunch, eating in silence. Speaking seemed impossible, as if voiced words would disturb the air, the mood, the very fine line between the living and the dead. Margie finished quickly, rinsed off her plate and placed it in the rack, took her coffee with her to the room she had dedicated as her office, what used to be the first floor bedroom. She even closed the door, something she'd never done before. Lydia heard her call and leave a message for Dianne. Then she heard her computer start up.

Obsidian meowed for attention as Lydia sat alone at the table staring at her empty plate and cup, trying to find the energy to get up and write a brief report to The Ranch on her newest feelings about Truth in Interpersonal Relationships. It was more and more elusive, this truth, this relationship thing. One question that occurred to her was whether truth was easier as one got to know another, or whether truth was easier with strangers. But that wasn't it entirely. There had to be a feeling about what the Other would do with the truth. Would it be protected? Would it be used against the truth teller? Would it be believed? But then, what was truth, anyway? What if their parents, for example, had been so determined that they knew what was right that no other belief could be accepted. If they believed war was totally wrong, acceptable in no circumstance, how did they answer to aggression against a country, against them. She needed to learn more about the pacifist position, needed to go to the internet again. She needed another talk with Pearl, maybe with the Lamberts. She wondered if they agreed on things, or did they have different points of view.

Lydia got up to let Obsidian outside. It was a warm afternoon, but clouds were building in the west, a breeze was picking up. She wandered outside anyway, noticed daffodils were in bud out in back along the fence shaded by bushes. A young rabbit suddenly bounded out from the shadows. Obsidian perked his ears but made no move, rabbit being too big an object to pursue. She felt drawn toward the shed, though she didn't intend to get too involved knowing she would dirty her clean clothes.

She pushed open the door though and ducked inside. The box of papers she had started to look through were right where she left them. She squatted down, pulled out the file with Dale's letter.

"Dear Sgt. Palmer—Something happened my last night in New Hope," Lydia read, "and I want to say I'm sorry. My actions that night are unexplainable. Probably a combination of tension, anger, uncertainty, and yeah, maybe that hit of, well, whatever it was. Something one of my buddies had given me. I don't even know why I sniffed it. Just something to try, but it didn't help. Made me feel outside myself. So, please, if I did something terrible, I'm really sorry. I think maybe I did because I remember being with Mike and these kids and we were on the way home and they wanted to hear about the service and I wanted to see the basketball court one more time and we kind of made an agreement. But then, when we were talking around this table and the candles giving off this wax and smoke odor, it was all private like and then here comes Mr. Kinnen and I guess I got mad and maybe hit him. I didn't mean to hurt him, but I may have. I really regret that. And then his wife was there, too, I think and I may have hurt her too. I just hope they're okay now, but you know, I'm writing to you because if anyone else is in trouble over that, I want you to know it was me. And I'll take the whole blame. So please excuse anyone else if that comes up.

We're on our way to the jungle and I just wanted to clear my mind before, well, before whatever happens happens. Tell the Kinnens I'm sorry and I would really like their forgiveness. Because I am... Dale Harris."

Lydia could barely read through the anger that welled up. How about us, Dale Harris? Did you ever think about two little girls when you killed their parents? But of course, you weren't thinking at all, were you. You'd turned your mind off, and your conscience, just let your emotions rampage on. With a little help from that coke, or whatever. Lydia's earlier attempt to understand teenager angst fled out the door. You didn't mean to hurt? Your actions were unexplainable? You hope they are okay? Dale, Dale, Dale. You ran away, didn't you? Oh sure, the army ordered you to the jungle, but tell me, did you hope to get killed so you wouldn't have to face what you did?

Lydia's hands were shaking so the letter slipped from her hands and drifted to the floor. She wanted to stamp on it. But no, she needed that letter. She crumpled to the floor and crossed her legs, bringing to mind what she had 'heard' at the cemetery. Mothers pushing. Who did you kill, Dale? My mother? or your mother? And why my father, Dale Harris? You didn't like him coming into your private little enclave and see what you were teaching to your private audience? Where does this leave us, Dale Harris. If you can't explain your actions, who can? Your therapist on the other side? Well, my mother wants an explanation. She's over there, but yet back here pestering me. You, Dale Harris have got to meet her and make it right with her. God, God, God, what kind of world have you made?

Lydia shifted to her knees, rocked back and forth. Karma, reaping what you sow. Cause and effect. School. OK, God. Why am I being used in this exchange? What would the Yoga Ranch say? Psychics say they have a gift. It can be painful, seeing what they see. They use it to help find answers. Well, God, if I'm to be some kind of intermediary, help me.

This is some crazy dream, Lydia moaned, caring no longer about keeping her slacks clean. As for Dale's 'sorry,' Mom and Dad never got to know that. Why Dad hadn't bothered her, Lydia didn't know. Maybe he's paid his karmic debt and is free. Maybe Mother has more to work out. So, God, you leave us in mystery, we come and go, live and die, over and over. And you watch us all puzzling and worrying and crying over the unfairness of it all. Why don't you just come like an angel and explain it? But of course you have sent angels, messiahs, haven't you. But people don't listen very well. They don't have the ears to hear and the eyes to see. But God, I can't imagine my mother ever in any lifetime killing someone. Lydia shuddered, remembering that somewhere along the line she had heard that Dale's mother in this lifetime thought her parents were responsible for Dale's death. How gross is that? The truth is, ah, yes, the truth is what? Lydia closed her eyes a moment, only to feel more intensely the hot, stuffy air in the small shed. The letter lay where it had fallen and though she felt like crushing it up into a ball, she instead put it carefully back into the folder where other "evidence" of the event had been stored. It must have been Sgt. Palmer that had given her grandparents this stuff. And they had kept it, for what reason? Had they ever figured out the truth? Or had they just left it, let it go, forgiving and moving on. Without her and Margie. Why couldn't they have just stayed and gone to school here and...

Lydia stopped her wailing. Margie was calling. Lydia stood up, dusted off her slacks and heaved a sigh. She would leave this conversation with God for another time.

Chapter 14

"You're wanted on the phone," Margie yelled, sounding irritated, as if the call was an interruption, or maybe a disappointment. Maybe she'd thought it was Dianne.

It was Pearl. "I understand you have something to give the children for their treasure hunt."

"Oh, yes. I found these little yellow ribbon bookmarks with the peace symbol on them. That'd be easy to hide, as well as easy to write out a clue for." She heard a slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone, then a strange pause.

"Ah, Lydia, I'm not so sure that would be a good idea. You see, those bookmarks...well, what can I say, they were one of the things we used to spread the word. That peace symbol was something special, nearly sacred. I really don't think the children, what I mean is, they're bound to ask questions."

"That's what children do, Pearl. You should have heard what they asked when I was about to open that shed door. 'Are you going to let out the dead children?' Can you imagine?" Her little laugh didn't get a response and Lydia paused, wondering.

"Could I come over? I think we need to talk face to face, Lydia. Margie, too. I'm at the school, actually, doing a little work."

"On Sunday?"

"Oh, yes. What else do I have to do? I like being busy. It's not so lonely that way."

Lydia supposed being a widow might be lonely, though she herself always liked aloneness, never seemed to get enough of it. Probably one reason she never got married. "Sure, come on over." It was late afternoon, but she could check her email later. It'll be good to see you."

The three sat around the kitchen table, sipped coffee that Margie had made and ate store-bought cookies. Pearl held the yellow ribbon bookmark with the peace symbol in her hands and turned it over and over. "We used to try to figure out what would persuade those who had misgivings about war, to get off the fence and start speaking out. We knew we couldn't persuade those already militant. Fear held a lot of people back. Fear of disapproval, even retaliation. It takes courage to speak truth to power. Truth to power, that's the term we used. When the powerful don't want to hear something they have ways to silence the messenger. They take words out of context, twist them around so that what was good is made to look bad, mock them, throw out accusations such as communist, unpatriotic, helping the enemy, or other derogatory terms. In a democracy where freedom of speech is sacrosanct, we have to be ever vigilant."

"But what do those girls want with something from that shed?" Margie asked, her tone impatient, fretful, as if the subject matter was distasteful. "What are they looking for?"

"Maybe they've been left wondering what went on with their parents just like we have," suggested Lydia. "What kind of rumors have been repeated down through the years, Pearl?"

Pearl lay the ribbon on the table and pushed it to one side. "I don't know where the myth of dead children came from. I suspect some older brother, or sister, enjoyed a bit of teasing to get that one going. As for hearing noises in that corner of the gym, that could be a set-up, too. Some child walks around overhead, boards squeak, and one of the group underneath knows exactly how to bring attention to the squeaks."

"That's one way to make ghosts appear and disappear," Lydia chuckled.

Pearl grinned. "Children love to scare each other; or at least get reactions from an unsuspecting victim. Just like they love to dress up, play-act, be someone they're not."

"And look for treasures," Lydia added.

"Yes, treasures. The unexpected, the surprise, the excitement leading up to finding that something. Just what keeps us all living for the future. If we knew what would happen life would be no fun," Pearl offered.

"And yet," Lydia started, then hesitated, not knowing for sure where her thought was taking her, "to talk about a real murder, one that you were involved in, well if I were a parent I don't think I'd pass that on to my children. Maybe it's easier to have a ghost than to live with what really happened." When she looked at Pearl she saw a pained expression, one that hinted at more than could be expressed.

"It's amazing what people do to avoid looking at the truth," Pearl said. She straightened her posture and smiled at the sisters. "'War is not healthy for children and other living things'" she quoted as she looked over at the ribbon. "And yet, knowing that, so-called civilization just goes right on killing each other."

Margie reached for another cookie, then passed the plate, but there were no other takers. "I gather that our grandparents packed up a lot of stuff after That Night and just stuck it in the shed?" Margie asked as she set the plate down again.

"I suspect that's about it," Pearl said. "After what happened to your parents, and to Dale, the war went right on. More young men went off to war and got killed. More people got together and marched to Washington with their peace signs. More silent vigils were held on courthouse lawns. More people began to ask questions about what we were doing in Vietnam. And finally, finally, the question of how to get out of Vietnam was the big one.

"And in this community, there was another kind of war going on. The shock of what happened made it a real struggle to look at each other and know what to say when we met in the store, or post office, or church even. Oh, yeah, the high school kids went back to school, and the graduates went on to college, and the farmers kept on farming. But the feeling, the feeling that something terribly confused had happened was hard to put aside."

"Could I just ask one question?" It was Margie this time. Pearl nodded. "What was the beef this Dale really had with our parents? I gather it was something to do with the draft."

"Well, when his draft number came up he was forced into a decision. He was no longer deferred because of college when he dropped out. So it was the army recruiter's promises against the draft counselor's advice about conscientious objection and alternative service."

"Is that what Mom and Dad were doing, trying to persuade him to be a CO?" Lydia asked.

"That wasn't the object of draft counseling. It was just to inform young men what the law said about conscientious objection and the options the law allowed. Most young men raised in the Friends meeting have heard all their lives that war is wrong. Now maybe they haven't been clear about why, but killing is against the ten commandments. As for Dale, he seemed to be undecided about what he believed. He latched onto the idea of being a medic, therefore not having to carry a gun. He was sorely disappointed when that didn't work out." Pearl looked at Lydia and Margie, her earnest blue eyes seeming to deepen in color.

"That letter," Lydia began. "I read it again. He said he was sorry. But Pearl, Mom and Dad didn't ever get to know that."

She wanted to go on and say that's why Mom is coming back asking why. Maybe she would have if Margie hadn't been there.

"That's true, Lydia, but what happens on this side isn't the end..." Pearl looked to Lydia, then Margie, studying their expressions, Lydia's open one and Margie's puzzled one. "You tell me you've felt your mother's presence, Lydia. Well, you're not alone on that one. And it's strange. No one has ever admitted to feeling your father around. As if he just passed on peacefully without questions holding him here. But knowing your mother in real life, she just was always asking questions. She wanted to know what one thought and why one thought it. It did offend some people, I'm afraid." She saw Margie look away, but Lydia seemed glued to her every word.
"So," Margie began, "did Dale hate her? Was he out to get her? Like she was an enemy or something?" There was strain on her face, her mouth turned down, near tears. "It seems like mothers get hated when they worry about their kids, and hated if they don't worry about them."

"She's talking about Dianne," Lydia explained. "Dianne is sort of like Dale, right? Not knowing what she believes? Only she doesn't have to think about being drafted into the army. Just how to get what she wants out of her parents." Lydia let out a quiet little laugh trying to lighten things up.

"Your daughter," Pearl acknowledged, just now realizing how personal this was getting. "Well, daughters are in competition with their mothers don't you think? They don't want to be anything like their mother, but it's a stage. Mother can never be a true enemy."

"Pearl, you don't know," Margie wailed. "Dianne's now blaming me for marrying Brad, as if how could I love someone who wants everything his way and won't listen. How can I explain that people change, that once you marry you find out who they really are. Then it's too late." Margie pulled her hands through her hair as if she'd like to pull it out, then let her head fall forward in defeat.

Pearl reached over and gently rubbed her shoulder. "So you know how volatile the teen-age psyche can be," she said.

Margie raised her head, her arms still on the table and gave Pearl a long look. "But murder?"

"An instant of striking out, never being able to take it back. Same thing with an accident. One moment of carelessness and the car is out of control. In Dale's case his hands were out of control. Your grandmother always said he didn't know what he was doing, and because Jesus said "Forgive them for they know not what they do," she would too.

"So we're just supposed to accept it as like an accident?"

Pearl sighed. Lydia looked like she wanted to speak but couldn't. Maybe what she was thinking was too unreal to be spoken. "If Mom could hear that, I wonder if it would console her. Would it answer her 'why'? Would it answer Jennifer's curiosity about dead children?"

"This treasure hunt," Margie snorted. "They're going to tramp around the school grounds some night looking for ghosts?"

Pearl laughed. "Margie, didn't you ever go with Dianne on a Halloween trick or treat night?"

Margie sighed, grudgingly said yes.

"Well, I think a treasure hunt is rather mild, actually," Lydia said. "It'll be a chance to see the children in action, so to speak. Maybe join with their parents, mothers at least, afterward in the gym for the refreshments."

"Oh stop it," Margie exclaimed, slapping her hand onto the table and pushing herself up. "The point is, those children have their noses in the tent, so to speak, and what for?"

Pearl said, "What you said awhile back, Lydia, about these children wondering about what their parents saw that night? It might be they think the whole truth is in that shed, or tent."

"You think Jennifer and Tanya want to see ghosts?" Margie asked, beginning to walk to the other side of the kitchen, then turning back and standing there over the other two as if daring them to come up with a rational explanation.

Lydia shrugged her shoulders. "Or already think they see ghosts," Lydia said.

"Well, we'll empty the shed, OK?" Margie threw up her arms. "Get them over here along with their parents and have a yard sale. How about that? Auction off all the mementoes of thirty years ago. Cleanse everyone's soul. Or heart. Or whatever." Margie turned on her heal and paced again. She looked at the clock. "Five thirty. Pearl, how about some supper?"

"Oh, no. I really must go. But find something besides that ribbon for the girls. Something simple." She stood up and got ready to leave.

"Well, there's some beadwork out there. I suppose from the Tama settlement. That should be neutral. No bad associations, memories. Okay?" Lydia then remembered she had spoken hastily about the Mesquakie wars and her suggestion they might appear the night of the treasure hunt. Maybe beadwork wasn't such a good idea either.

Chapter 15

The five little girls gathered around the round table where the promised cookies and lemonade waited. Lydia had something else for them also. She had found, upon more investigation of the shed, a small suitcase with magic articles, including some metal links that came apart, a cup and dice, a scarf, a plastic egg with a hole, and a couple of books describing magic tricks. She didn't remember where they came from, but Margie said it was their father's from when he was a child. She remembered him trying come tricks on her when she was little, but it hadn't lasted. Just a passing interest, she suggested to Lydia.

Lydia poured lemonade into glasses and passed them around. Meagan gave her a shy thank you and retreated to the seat near the radiators under the windows. Amber gave a whispered thanks and embarrassed giggle and sat next to Meagan. Red-headed Robin gave Lydia a smile that might have been sincere and sat next to Amber on the other side and next to her, almost cuddling up as if she were asking to be the favorite. Tanya and Jennifer helped themselves to cookies and finished the circle, Tanya on the other side of Lydia, Jennifer between Meagan and Tanya.

"Are these things for the treasure hunt?" Tanya asked, reaching out and picking up the three metal rings that were hooked together. They clanged noisily and she put them down.

"Things to choose from," Lydia clarified. "I haven't read this magic book but it seems to describe some simple tricks that we could learn maybe." Lydia wasn't really that interested, except in learning how those rings came apart. Otherwise, it seemed like a lot of work. But for now it was a point of interest. In sitting Lydia was not much taller than the girls. She felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland with her tea guests, so unused she was to children. But as the children kept their hands busy with food or testing magic items she relaxed a little.

"What's it like to be a ghost?" Tanya asked, looking at Lydia as if she were the expert. There were no teasing twinkles this time.

Lydia laughed, made a wry face. Was she going to have to come up with a rational answer? "Not being one, I don't really know," she said. "But it might be uncomfortable and, uh, frustrating, not having a body to talk through. What do you think it would be like, Tanya?" Lydia recalled the little 'communication' she had received from Dale from the other side, about rays and insubstantial bodies, but she wasn't about to bring that up.

"I think being a ghost would be fun," Robin piped up. "You could be around and hear what people said about you when they didn't think you were there." She was lining up the small paper cups and sponge ball that were one of the magic tricks, in front of her.

"What if they said something about you that you didn't like and that wasn't true?" Amber asked, a worried expression crossing her usually cheerful face.

"And you couldn't even talk back," Meagan added. She had taken three cookies and was carefully nibbling around the edge of one of them.

"You could pick something up and throw it at them," suggested Robin, picking up the little sponge and pretending to throw it. "That'd let them know you were there."

"But if you were invisible they wouldn't know who you were," exclaimed Amber, her giggle gone.

"Yeah, so what fun would that be?" asked Tanya. She drank some lemonade and set the glass down so hard the lemonade splashed up and over the rim. "I'm sorry," she apologized. Lydia got a wet rag and wiped up the sticky excess.

"So, then why are there ghosts?" Amber asked, before Lydia had sat down again. "I don't think I want to be a ghost."

"What makes a ghost?" Meagan asked, her round eyes on Lydia.

They all looked at her now, even Jennifer who hadn't spoken a word but whose attention had been keen. Lydia remained standing, silently calling on her backup team to help her come up with a satisfying answer, if possible.

"So you all think there are ghosts?" Lydia said as she sat down, again one of the group. "Have you seen something that makes you think you've seen a ghost?" Perhaps they'd expand on what they had said at church.

"Well, my brother said so," Tanya said. "He used to tell me all the time that I better watch out or the bugger man would get me."

"He was just teasing," said Jennifer, giving Tanya a sullen glower. "Josh and Duane were always teasing us, Tanya. They wanted to scare you."

"I believe it was your mother that said the same thing, right?" Lydia reminded Tanya. Tanya scowled and concentrated on examining the scarf and egg, poking it into the little hole she found.

"Josh and Duane are your older brothers?" Lydia asked for clarification. She hadn't remembered their names being mentioned before.

"Yeah," Tanya answered. "And I'm glad they're gone."

"They're in boarding school," Jennifer explained. "Getting a little discipline." It sounded like a direct quote from a mother. Jennifer was now examining the rings, twisting them this way and that. "I hope they get it, too, the big jerks. We couldn't even touch their precious basketball without getting yelled at. Dad put up a basketball hoop out by the garage, and they said it was just for them. But it wasn't."

"So they made up ghost stories?" Lydia asked.

"Well, those people got murdered right by the boys lockers, didn't they? Boys always brought that up. Oh, oh, look out, he's coming down the stairs, he's coming in the locker room. They'd reach out their arms and act crazy." Jennifer didn't seem to realize 'those people' were Lydia's parents. Or did she say it on purpose. Lydia sensed the anger in the girl, sensed she might be unconsciously taking it out on her. She apparently hadn't had a chance to do much with it, give it a proper expression.

"And who were they talking about?" Lydia asked from where she was rinsing out the dishrag at the sink. She hung it up to dry, then walked back to the table.

"The murderer. Jennifer's dead uncle," Tanya said, daring a sly look at Jennifer, then up at Lydia.

"I'm confused," Lydia said, her hand on the back of her chair, not quite ready to sit down. "Why would your brothers be talking about something they knew nothing about? something that happened before they were ever born?" Lydia took the cookie plate, filled it up and came back, placing it on the table. The silence that had followed her was settling in, getting uncomfortable.

Tanya broke the silence with a big drawn out "Wellll, they kept hearing about it from bigger boys," Tanya said, a bit defensively.

"Oh, I see," Lydia said as she slowly sat down. "It was a story that got passed down from big boys to little boys, and when the big boys graduated, the little boys became the big boys who passed on the stories to little sisters. I guess murder isn't something that happens around here very often." She reached for a cookie and bit into it, a bit dazed at the way the conversation was going.

"Josh always hated it when they talked about his dead uncle," Tanya said. "It made him mad when Duane, he's my brother, would laugh with them when they tried to act spooky." She sneaked a look at Jennifer, who was engrossed with the metal rings.

"Sounds like those two boys had some issues," Lydia said. "Compe-tition, maybe? Trying to be liked by their friends? Seeing who could make up the most frightening story?"

Tanya was busy twisting the scarf into a little ball and not looking at anyone. Jennifer looked unhappy, her lips tightly pressed together, her hands clanging the metal rings in frustration.

"I'm sure sorry about that," Lydia said. "I guess that made you both pretty uncomfortable."

"Yeah," Tanya admitted. "Jennifer takes it too seriously." She smiled up at Lydia, as if wanting her approval. A curious girl, Lydia thought. The wise protector, or savior. And competitor.

Suddenly the rings Jennifer had been playing with came apart and she gasped. "How'd that happen?" she asked. Immediately, Tanya leaned over and looked at the separated rings. Lydia suggested they pass it around for all to take a look.

"We'll have to read the book, girls," she said. "We'll learn that trick and then show it to your brothers on their next visit home. How would that be?" The suggestion met with enthusiastic 'yeahs'.

"So what happens to dead people?" Meagan asked as the metal clanked in her hands. Lydia realized her original question hadn't been answered, but the new topic seemed to be of immediate interest.

"They go to heaven," Robin answered. Her cookie had crumbled and she wiped her hands on the large paper napkin Lydia had given each of them.

"Or hell," Amber whispered and giggled again, her mood apparently returned to normal.

"But what's it like to be dead?" Meagan insisted, her voice rising in frustration. She put the rings down and pushed them to the middle of the table.

"It's like going to sleep, only you never wake up." Robin answered.

"Does an angel take them to heaven?" Meagan was really puzzled.

"Unless they become a ghost." Tanya said.

"All right, all right," Lydia exclaimed. "Let's see if we can understand something here. It's true we all have energy, right?" The girls nodded.

"And energy itself can't be seen. Just like electricity. We just see the result of energy." The girls were all attention. "OK, so most people leave their body when they die and go to an astral plane, which some call heaven. Did you ever hear about heaven having many mansions?"

They nodded.

"Well, that means our spirit, when it leaves the body, goes to whatever energy, or 'mansion,' it's most familiar with. If in this body you're used to being kind and good, you'll go to a 'mansion' where there are other people like you. If you are grouchy and mean, your 'mansion' will have people like that. At least, that's one way of thinking about heaven," Lydia explained. "But then," she continued, "there are some people who die in a terrible way, like being murdered, and their energy isn't ready to let go of the body. So maybe some of that energy is left hanging around in this world trying to figure out what happened to it. That's when we get a ghost. And hopefully, when there's an energy around like that we can help them move on. Because maybe they can hear us and know what we are saying. So if we say things that this energy can understand, maybe we can get it to release itself and go on into the light, into a higher purpose." Lydia felt exhausted, and didn't know whether her long speech had any meaning to these ten and eleven year olds. Still, they were asking some profound questions that must have puzzled them for a long time. Maybe they needed release, too.

"My mother's dead," Jennifer said, startling Lydia again. She remembered Pearl saying Jennifer's birth mother was in the east somewhere. She looked at Jennifer quizzically.

Tanya noticed and said "She means her real mother went off to school."

"But she never writes or anything. She might as well be dead." Jennifer had taken up the book and was looking at it idly, flipping its pages, staring at some of the pictures.

Lydia put a gentle hand on her shoulder, uncertain whether the child would allow it. But there was no resistance so she left it there awhile. Then she got up and offered the children more lemonade. She spoke as she went around the table. "We never know all the circumstances that make people do what they do, do we?" she asked.

"What's circumstances?" Robin asked.

"The stuff the other person is involved in, the things happening around them. Or what they're thinking, how they might be hurting." Lydia put the pitcher back on the counter near the sink. Sid wandered in and meowed as if asking what she was up to, why all these people around the table? He went to the wiggling fingers of Amber and started licking. She giggled.

"But if she weren't dead, she'd write, wouldn't she? Doesn't she love me?" Jennifer didn't look at anyone, just the book.

"Ah, it's love we want, isn't it?" Lydia asked. "Everyone wants to be loved. But sometimes, it's just hard to love. And sometimes, it's hard to see that we really are loved." Lydia wanted to think of something to illustrate what she was trying to say but not coming up with anything.

"Sid loves me," Amber offered. "He's purring."

"Sid loves just about everybody," Lydia said, smiling. "But if someone hurts him, or does something he doesn't like, he won't purr for you."

"My dad's afraid of death," Jennifer said, again startling Lydia. "He says we shouldn't talk about ghosts and dead people. It makes him nervous."

"Yes, I can imagine," Lydia said. "Your father..." she paused, wondering about correcting that to grandfather but decided to let it go. "...has had some bad experiences."

"He needs an angel," Meagan offered. "An angel to take his hand when he's scared."

"You can be an angel, Jennifer," Robin said. "Mom says we can all be angels. She calls me one sometimes."

"You're right, you know. We can all be kind and thoughtful and take someone's hand sometimes. I bet you do that anyway, Jennifer," Lydia suggested.

"He doesn't like to be touched," she replied.

"Well, soft words sometimes work. A 'love you, dad,' once in awhile. Bringing him a cup of coffee or something when you see he might want one." Lydia thought how Margie always seemed to know when Uncle Ted or Aunt Nora needed something and got it for them. It was a real knack, something Margie had learned that she seemed to lack. But she was thinking. If her mother was listening right now, wouldn't she think maybe it was love she wanted, too? These little girls yearned to know what made suffering, in the now and the hereafter. Maybe it was all a matter of loving. Maybe love was the cue to release all of us from our suffering.

"She does that," Tanya said. "But her dad doesn't seem to notice."

"Oh, you never know, girls. I bet he does, just doesn't show it. Some people are like that. We just love them, anyway." She thought of the man who had laid spring blooms on the graves of his mother and brother. A man who didn't say much about what he felt inside. Lydia clapped her hands. "So. Have you chosen anything for the treasure hunt? How about the egg with the scarf hidden inside? Then afterward, when you all come to the gym to have refreshments you can show the two boys and the 6th grade how to make the scarf appear? and disappear?" Lydia felt mischievous for a moment. And the girls were getting restless. Such a long, serious conversation she had never imagined.

Tanya said the egg would do just fine, and the others agreed. "Thanks for the cookies and lemonade, Miss Kinnen," she said, her smile not like the cockiness which Lydia remembered from that first day in Pearl's class.

"When can we come learn the magic tricks?" Robin asked.

Lydia shrugged. "Better wait until I've read the book and figured some out. I'll let you know."

It was past the noon hour when the girls left. The grounds were quiet. Lydia decided to walk over and explain to Pearl why her class didn't come in on time. How would she accept the explanation that they were discussing death and the hereafter?

Chapter 16

Lydia opened the door for Peter Anderson because Margie was busy in the kitchen finishing up the meal. At 55 his hair was thinning in front and showing a bit of grey. When she closed the door and his back was to her she noticed a beginning bald spot on the back of his head. Even so, he was impressively handsome, impressively neat and correct in a dark brown summer suit, tan shirt and red tie that made his brown eyes dark and enticing. Furthermore, he held out a bottle of Blue Nun wine. Lydia accepted it with an amused smile. Was he trying to impress her, get her approval perhaps for dating her sister? He certainly had impressed Margie.

"Thank you," she said, motioning the way through the living room to the kitchen. She was suddenly self-conscious in her jeans and tee-shirt. Had she missed a cue? Was this supposed to be a dress-up affair? The wine felt heavy and cold in her hands. She never drank alcoholic beverages, but wasn't about to spoil Peter's good intentions. She carried it carefully. Peter might be just what Margie needed. She certainly wasn't going to put a damper on any development in that relationship.

In the kitchen Margie put the finishing touches on the simple meal of salmon baked with lemon and herbs, salad and hot rolls. Lydia showed her the wine and asked in a whisper if she'd run across any appropriate glasses.

"Ohhhh," Margie said. They looked in cupboards knowing there would be no regular wine glasses. She pulled out three small juice glasses and said they'd have to do. Lydia decided they were small enough for a few polite sips and put them on the table.

"Well," Margie said. "You're so thoughtful, Peter. Wine." She hadn't had anything to drink since Brad had made happy-hour a regular ritual when he got home from work, and got quite cranky if something interrupted it. "I'll let you open it if you don't mind and pour us some." Fortunately it was not corked and he only had to twist the top.

They had pulled out a small drop-leaf table and placed it on the porch where they could get a breeze through the screened windows. It was unusually warm for early May.

"Rolls are in the oven," Margie said as she placed the salmon on a serving plate. Salads were on the table. Margie had found a white table cloth and set three places with their grandmother's best china. She was even in a dress! Lydia wished Margie had warned her.

As they settled around the table, Margie suggested silent prayer. Peter respectfully bowed his head. Lydia closed her eyes and repeated to herself the blessing she had learned at the Yoga Ranch. They might just be saying it, too. She liked to visualize the activities there, mentally putting herself into them. It helped to know she would be back there in a few weeks. That is, if she could get her mother settled and on her way.

Peter's chair faced the yard back of the house, now cleared of the debris around the old shed and garage and sported a newly mown lawn. The green grass was a bit sparse, especially under the sprawling elm growing near the shed, but it looked neat, and the few already blooming snapdragons, petunias and pansies Lydia had put out were colorful and healthy.

"You've done a ton of work back there," Peter remarked. "Last time I was here it was a jungle."

"Yeah, well, I had a bit of help," Lydia admitted. "Those curious girls kept urging me to open the shed so I had to keep at it. A couple of them even helped me plant the flowers."

"Who was that?" Margie asked in surprise. She passed the salmon, then rolls and butter, keeping her attention on being a good hostess.

"Meagan and Amber, one afternoon when their mothers were doing something at the school."

"I didn't know that." Margie looked over the table, then satisfied, settled into eating.

"I understand you're getting quite cozy with the five fillies," Peter said with a teasing smile.

"The five fillies?" Lydia laughed. She looked over at Margie, staring down in her plate.

"Well, they reminded me of young prancing colts," Margie admitted, lifting her gaze to the other two, "sticking their noses into what's over the fence." She'd obviously conveyed that to Peter.

"They're curious all right," Lydia admitted. "Which reminds me, I'm supposed to read that book on magic tricks and teach them a few." She sighed. "Not exactly where I want to spend my time." She had forgotten entirely.

"You're into magic? sleight of hand?" Peter asked. "I used to have a few card tricks to amuse my girls when they were young." He chuckled. "Little kids are so trusting," he added. "Until they lose their innocence." He bit into the salmon and expressed approval.

"And when would that be," Lydia inquired, trying to remember a time she had ever been 'innocent.' Innocent of what? Death? The Other Side? There had been no magic tricks to bring parents back from that invisible Mansion somewhere in the universe.

"Oh, I'd say around fifth grade, ten or eleven. Then they get interested in the opposite sex and it's all over." He grinned and spread his hands. "Then they just want to know how they look, what others think of them, do they approve." Peter wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin, a dainty pecking at the corners where he imagined salad dressing, or moist salmon might be.

"You have a family, then," Lydia said, concentrating on eating as she waited out the growing silence.

"I have three daughters. Marsha is a school teacher in Ohio, where her husband runs a business. Rachel is still in graduate school, in biochemistry, and our youngest, Ann, is in the military." Lydia thought he might get out his wallet with pictures of them, but he didn't.

Margie put a hand on Peter's arm, a gentle touch. "How long..."

"My wife died a couple years ago, Lydia," he said with a smile and a sigh. "Breast cancer. It was a long struggle. Many years of different treat-ments, some working for a while, some not, never knowing the future. We'd live for a birthday, or a holiday, pray for just another summer, another Christmas. We took what we could get. At least she was able to see our daughters through high school and into independence. So you see, we have something in common. We've both lost ones we love. It's a lonely feeling at times." He gave them a thin, sad smile.

"Yes," Lydia agreed. "But Margie and I did have each other. Until we grew up."

"And you still have each other," Peter said, his eyebrows going up for a moment.

"Hah," Margie exclaimed, too loud Lydia thought. "We may have each other, but I'm not so sure we want each other. Lydia wants to get back to her beloved Ranch." The sisters exchanged glances. The truth was probably there, but Lydia wished Margie didn't sound so chastising. She wished she could convey to Margie the feeling of purpose and happiness she felt at the Ranch. But Margie didn't want to know about yoga and meditation and her back-up team. Nor did she show a speck of interest in the books she read.

"Ahhh. What do you do at the Ranch?" Peter seemed to be relishing his salmon and salad, taking a bite of each on his fork. Definitely not a one at a time eater, Lydia observed.

"I teach some hatha yoga classes. And I'm trying to work up a course on Truth in Interpersonal Relationships. You see, the Ranch is a retreat center, so people come throughout the year for the various courses we teach which last a weekend, or a couple weeks, or a month for the longest. It's about 150 acres, with buildings for the classes and executive offices, then several small cottages for retreatants, and beyond that gardens to raise our organic vegetables. We're trying to make it as self-sufficient as possible. There's a three-bladed tall windmill that stores energy in a room full of batteries, for electricity, and solar panels for the water heater. The most recent building, a women's residence hall, was built with straw bale walls, great insulation." She looked eagerly to Peter for his appreciation. Something Margie had not given her. Or anyone else for that matter.

"Someone must be courageous to trust those innovations."

"You're skeptical," Lydia said, feeling a bit let down. His interest was just to be polite.

"Well, I'm just thinking of the expense of using new ideas, before they get practical, you know, before they get to the point of mass production, which cuts the cost." Peter adjusted his coat sleeves. He had a point, of course, Lydia thought. And at least he was still engaged in the subject, that was something.

"I see. Well, the labor is done by volunteers who take room and board for their salary." Lydia said. "It's a privilege to be in on something that helps the earth survive. Instead of all these chemicals you have around here. For instance, we use things like lady bugs to eat the aphids, and goats to chomp on the weeds. Or just plain hand picking insects off the plants at times. Many willing hands makes the work go fast." Lydia smiled at Peter, and nodded toward the back yard. "Like little girls to plant flowers."

"Well, that was a good trick," Peter laughed. "As good as cards, I'd say."

"So," Lydia said. "Can you teach me some card tricks? Or, better yet, show the girls some card tricks?"

"But Lydia, you've gotten them interested in ghosts, and they're expecting them to appear the night of their treasure hunt," Margie said, using her most needling tone.

"Now where did you get that notion?" Lydia asked in exasperation. "Jake is the one that is fostering their ghost expectations. I wouldn't be surprised if he dresses up in a sheet and tries to spook them somewhere out on the school grounds. In that grove of trees, maybe. Or outside the gym in the bushes or something. I wouldn't put it past him to set up some mirrors to reflect lights and shadows making them appear like apparitions." She was gesturing excitedly, inwardly berating herself for the embarrassing display.

"Oh, come on," Margie exclaimed.

"You can't be serious," Peter laughed.

"He's putting those two boys up to something," Lydia said. "He's got them placing clues in odd places. Just ask Pearl."

"She's in on it, too?" Margie asked.

"I didn't mean that," Lydia said, ready now to change the subject before her irritation got any bigger. She got up to get the dessert. When the topic gets too hot, go for food, she thought. "Hey, we've got some black walnut ice cream and carrot cake. How about it?"

"Sure," Peter said, fondling his red tie that lay in his lap. He had previously shed his coat at Margie's suggestion. Margie jumped up to clear off the dishes and take the bowls of ice cream to the table. Lydia followed with the cake.

"Do you know anything about the upcoming meeting of the school board, Peter? Is that box company going to be presenting a proposition?" Margie asked. It had been bothering her. What would it mean for their house, if a box company and all its noise and clutter came next door? She much preferred the idea of a museum.

"I'm not representing anyone, remember. But I have heard that they propose to use the large common space on the first floor of the school house to set up their machines for making boxes. The class rooms would be used to store cardboard or whatever and finished boxes." He took up his spoon but waited for Margie to start eating her ice cream first.

"Won't there be a lot of dust in such a production?" Margie asked. "I mean, cardboard being cut, that kind of thing." She took a bite of ice cream and cake.

"It's just one plan. Others might come along." Peter plunged into the dessert and nodded in satisfaction.

"I can think of some betters ways to use that space." Lydia said. "How about a place where people could bring their antiques and other stuff to be sold over the internet, like an eBay type of thing? Or rent the rooms out for Elderhostel programs, using some of the rooms for classrooms and some for sleeping quarters. Or rent it out to retreat groups. There would be great space for yoga exercises where each person has a mat spread out on the floor." These are ideas she had brainstormed to herself in her meditations.

"Now how many people would come to Iowa to take yoga lessons, Lydia?" Margie laughed. "That's a city thing." She let out a guttural sound that made Lydia cringe.

"Oh, I don't know. I think someone with imagination could find lots of uses for the New Hope school building if it can't continue as a school. It really is a shame there are so few children that busing them to Delora is cheaper." Lydia thought of Mr. Stephenson's criticism of those sending their kids to boarding school. The "rich Quakers." She really doubted they were rich, not with the other figures she had heard regarding the expensive machinery and farmers constantly borrowing money to get their new crops in, then paying off their debts when the crops were harvested.

"Yes," Peter agreed. "But, as I say, I'm not in on this particular project. But there is something I've been wanting to ask you two." He held an empty spoon in the air and directed it to Margie, then Lydia.

"OK," they both said in unison.

"This printing shop. How's it going?" Peter's brown eyes deepened and his smile expressed concern. Lydia could see why Margie was attracted.

"It's going," Margie said. "Sherrie has gone now and we're planning an open house soon. We've got Persia's poetry book finished and she's agreed to read from it and sign books that day. We'll have some door prizes and refreshments and hopefully the farmers and their families will take off some time to come in and give us a little support. Plus people from Delora and other towns around. Of course we've sent invitations to all our customers."

"Am I invited?" Peter asked.

"Of course," Margie laughed.

"So when's the date?"

"I want to wait until after the community meeting. I want to hear what people say about the school. And this house. Aaand, I'm not sure what they think about my living here. Are they going to accept me as a business woman?"

"Margie, Sherrie was accepted. She didn't actually grow up here as I understand it. Her parents were here a couple years or so, just long enough for her to graduate from high school, then they left. Why, I don't know. But she's accepted." Lydia knew exactly what Margie was thinking. Would the community accept someone who reminded them of the most painful thing they had ever experienced? That didn't seem to go away? But she didn't know how to countermand it.

"Right. She didn't have any ghosts in the closet." Margie sent Lydia a scathing look.

"You know something?" Peter interjected. "You'll do just fine. This community is actually pretty accepting. People get divorces, they remarry, stay here, keep going to church. It's all part of the family." He put a gentle hand on Margie's shoulder. "You'll see."

"You speak as if you know," Lydia said. "But you don't live here, you live in Delora."

"I've done a lot of legal work with people here," he explained. "I've written up their divorce papers, made out their wills, represented them in court when they get speeding tickets, sat in on house closings, done foreclosures. Etc., etc. I'm not a highly paid attorney with complicated cases, but I do get into personal squabbles once in a while." Peter laughed again, his stomach jiggling, his hand smoothing his tie. Lydia began to recognize his defense modes.

"All right, I accept that," Lydia said. "And I bet you make out contracts, too. Like Margie's printing business. And I guess you know our trust details inside and out. And did you help Margie with her alimony squabble? Her ex's miserly attitude?" Lydia smiled, noticing the red blush rising on Margie's cheeks.

"Lydia, for goodness sake. What business is it of yours?"

Margie began.

"You're my sister, my only family. Hey, I'm glad for you, Margie. I'm just a little amused that you fall for another lawyer," she said in a teasing way. She watched Peter look away, perhaps to distance himself.

"Peter has been a good ally. And he's nothing like my ex. Peter is...steady, and, and, comfortable." Margie had started to say Peter was not ambitious, meaning not looking for a judgeship, but that sounded too much like a criticism. She looked at Peter and smiled. Peter did indeed look calm and comfortable, as if he were not easily provoked. "He went through those teenage years with three daughters and survived."

"That should make for a good consultant," Lydia laughed. "Much better than my inexperience."

"Well, we never know what life will give us," Peter said. "Sometimes it's totally unfathomable, and we just do the best we can to keep going. I guess you know what I mean." He stirred his ice cream into a mush, and carefully lifted his full spoon to his mouth.

Lydia nodded. Margie went silent and solemn.

"So, how well did you know our parents?" Lydia asked, figuring it was time to find out some things. She dug into her ice cream and let a bite slowly melt in her mouth.

"I never met them. Your grandparents came to me for help with their estate after what happened. They were pretty devastated, you know, having a hard time thinking through what they should do." He remembered back. This was one of his first cases. Never before had he had to act as a kind of counselor. He remembered how nervous he was, realizing how dependent they were on his advice, how they trusted him to do what was best. "They left it up to me to do what I could."

Margie caught his look, his eyes going off to some place in the room that was distant from them. "Well, whatever you did came out just fine."

In the silence that followed the first crickets started making their calls and the robins started their repertoire of evening songs. The sun and moon were attempting to change positions and their glow spread over the land.

"So, what do you think about Margie's Dianne?" Lydia asked, breaking the spell that seemed to be settling in.

"Pretty typical, I'd say."

"You going to urge her to come out here this summer?"

"No, I'm not going to get into that one." He laughed.

Peter turned toward her with those brown eyes and she had to remember they weren't for her. He had pushed his bowl away and sipped on the coffee Margie had brought.

"It'd be different," Lydia said. Not quite like the Ranch, but not a bit like L.A. "She could take my place."

"Oh, right. Like she'd become vegetarian?" said Margie with a snort. "And shut off the TV, not listen to her favorite bands, or go to movies? She's already called it dullsville. Dianne cannot possibly become you, Lydia." Margie shook her head. "No, Dianne would find the quiet and isolation quite difficult."

"She could adjust if you kept her busy," Peter said. He looked around, trying to see what a teenager would find of interest. "No TV? No video games? Ahh, but you do have computers." He chuckled. "And New Hope doesn't have a movie house."

"Or a mall," Margie added. "Dianne would find it so deficient." She sighed. "I don't even know what kind of work she could find to do." She splayed her arms in a gesture of hopelessness.

"Would she be interested in looking up court records for an attorney, you think? Checking out land deeds for a title company?" Peter threw it out, his forehead wrinkled as if he were considering a particular idea that had just come to him.

"Peter, you think?" Margie looked at him with wide eager eyes. Her whole body became more alert.

"Can she drive? Have a license?" He stroked his tie again.

"Yes, unfortunately. Her dad even bought her a car."

"Then she's all set," Peter laughed. "That is, if she might be interested. And if this certain attorney is open to it." He pursed his lips, sat back and put his hands in his pockets.

"Oh Peter. Can I ask her? Is it all right?"

"It's something we could explore," he said. "It is a serious job, not just made up. She'd have to really be interested." He gave Margie a thoughtful look. She nodded, understanding that he might be sticking his neck out on this one.

"Well, that opens some doors to the future," Lydia remarked. "Now if we can close some doors around here on the past, we might have accomplished something." They looked at her not quite comprehending, but it didn't matter.

Lydia watched the fireflies in the back yard, remembering how they tried to catch them when they were kids. Put them in bottles. All that insect energy trying to light up the world. She hoped that Margie and Dianne could be together and work out their interpersonal relationship in a loving way. She felt grateful for Peter. Perhaps he was the exact new element that was needed for bring balance, peace and harmony into the situation. Perhaps he could free her from dealing with Margie, so she could put all her energy and attention on finding out what was necessary for her mother to be satisfied and move on. She wondered what part Dale on the Other Side could play in all this? When would she get to talk to Mike and find out what ghosts were haunting him? Was he inadvertently keeping Dale earth bound? Sometimes people did that when they were feeling so guilty about what they saw as their part in a death.

Chapter 17

It was Friday evening, time for the important meeting in the gym. Cars started coming into the school driveway shortly after Lydia and Margie finished the supper dishes and listened to the news. The talk on TV was of war. It seemed there was never a time without war. This one, going on in the Balkans, was getting messier and messier, with NATO now launching air strikes to cripple Milosovic's military, with young Serbians fleeing to Hungary and Croatia to escape the draft and refugees going to wherever they could. One report said that the Kosovo Liberation Army was being financed by the sale of heroin, and trained in terrorist camps run by a Saudi millionaire named Osama bin Laden who was being hunted for the bombing of U.S. embassies in Africa last year. She shuddered at the complexity of war. What did these people want? Independence was mentioned. But why kill everyone who happened to be in the way of your independence? She didn't understand 'ethnic cleansing.' How could one group of people really believe another group of people had no right to live? Something was terribly wrong. God made everybody, every single soul, and loved every one. He must be very sad to see what humans do to each other. It made her sad.

Dale Harris had seen her parents as enemies, at least for a moment long enough to kill them. Do people have to be high on drugs to kill? Was this Milosovic on drugs? This bin Laden? Dale had been high on cocaine. And the military teaches young men, and women now, to be killers? Killers of men instead of fishers of men. How will it ever be stopped? Almost like an answer a sharp pain in her left rib cage made her catch her breath until it passed. This was not the first time this pain had come, but it always went away within a few seconds. Still, it made her wonder. Was it her heart breaking, her thoughts breaking her heart? Thoughts are energy, after all, she reminded herself. So she'd better shut off her mind from war and violence and bring it to her present world, of simple people with simple problems. She wondered if her mother had had such pains.

Lydia walked to the living room windows to pull the curtains, but stood a moment watching people going into the gym. Most problems, it seemed to her, boiled down to fear. Fear of extinction; fear of death. Fear of others who appear to threaten your own life. Tyrants and terrorists must be full of fear. Otherwise they would be able to live and let live. They must have had little love to offset the fear. Even so, even love can be feared. Look what happened to Jesus. She pulled the curtain and went upstairs to dress.

"Lots of interest, looks like," Lydia commented as she passed Margie's open bedroom door. "It will be interesting to see what that box factory guy presents and see who's for and who's against the idea. And what the Park Committee has to say."

Margie mumbled something as she pulled a tee-shirt over her head and smoothed it down over the top of her blue denim skirt. She looked at herself in the dresser mirror and judged it okay. Nothing fancy was needed for tonight.

Lydia hadn't heard her answer but was too busy thumbing through the hangers in her closet to ask it again. She pulled out a shirtwaist dress she had found in a trunk of her mother's clothes and smiled at the idea crossing her mind. She went back to Margie and held up the dress as she leaned against the door frame. "You think I could wear this dress of Mom's? It fits perfectly."

The shock on Margie's face was electric. "Why would you want to do that?"

"To tease Jake, maybe. You think it'd make me look even more like Mother? Like she'd really come back to haunt him?" Lydia saw the disapproval and said "Bad idea, huh." She put the dress back.

"It's sick," Margie said and turned her back.

"Yeah, you're probably right." Lydia chose some tan summer slacks and a sleeveless tan blouse.

"You think anyone is for keeping the school open?" she asked this time when she came into Margie's room. "The girls and their friends are in for a long ride if they're to be bussed to Delora."

"Maybe the parents will consider home schooling," Margie suggested. She was putting on lipstick, wondering if Peter would make it there tonight. He had some work to do, he'd said. And there was no real reason for him to attend.

They left by the back door, and slipped through the gate that separated the two properties. Margie complemented Lydia again on the back yard.

"Thanks. There is one little problem. If that big pile of vines and weeds at the back of our property doesn't compost we might have to burn it. I'll have to research the regulations for fires." She might even have to ask Jake for some help with it.

Oh, well. One had to do what one had to do.

At the gym door Lydia took a deep breath. They hadn't visited the place since Jake had given them his sad story about his father. They hadn't been downstairs either. Where in the corner near the stairs leading up to the back door, by the boys' locker room, noises were sometimes heard. Perhaps. She looked over at Margie. She simply nodded her head as if to say 'ready.'

Chairs had been set up in rows, the long tables pushed aside. At the kitchen end, a speaker's table had been placed with a microphone. The room was nearly full and they chose seats at the back and near one end of a row.

Mike Harris, stocky, medium height, in open-collared blue shirt and light colored chinos stood at the front of the room with the skinny and taller Stanley Seward in plaid shirt and jeans. A third person, a woman, was with them. Perhaps a school board member? Mr. Stevenson sat in the front row, along with Pearl and some other teachers. Two men in suits carrying important looking briefcases made their way to the front where Mike showed them two seats in the front row.

People continued to come in, some delivering their children to the music room next door where an adult must have been delegated to supervise. Lydia judged that to be a sign of the importance of this meeting to the people in the community. She saw Mr. and Mrs. Lambert come in and sit toward the front which was filling up fast. Charlette Harris and Shirley Seward were there. She wondered if Jennifer and Tanya were in the music room. And maybe she'd get to see Amber and Meagan's parents. Would Persia be here? She'd love to meet Persia's husband, see what a French garage mechanic would be like in this little town. Ah, there was the minister and his wife. She wondered how they felt about the school, the Park idea, the manufacturing idea.

Mike Harris gavelled the meeting to order, giving three sharp whacks to settle the audience. "Thanks to all of you for coming tonight." His voice was soft and languid, and the words came between short breaths, as if the day had already been too long and arduous. The microphone was a saving grace. "We'll try to keep presentations brief so there can be discussion afterward. Shall we have the reading of last meeting's minutes?"

Stanley Seward then proposed that the minutes be set aside so they could get into the business at hand. The board said "aye" and Stanley introduced the agenda. "Tonight we have two representatives from Boxes Inc. from whom we will hear a proposition. Secondly, we have a representative from the Park Committee to give a proposition. Thirdly, we have a report from Superintendent Stephenson regarding the status of the district school system. Fourthly, we will open the floor for discussion. We ask that you limit your questions and comments to no more than five minutes. That's a long time, folks," he chuckled knowingly. He appeared calm and competent.

The two box factory men set up their charts and proceeded to describe how they would rent the school house for administrative offices and the bus barn for the factory itself. They would be in need of six workers for the factory part, with a possibility of three with computer experience. They talked about materials shipped in and finished boxes shipped out, the use of trucks, the road, and stuff that made Lydia sleepy and somewhat suspicious. Of what she wasn't certain, only that it seemed a drastic use of a good school building that sounded like it would still have empty rooms and an entire third floor unused. She would certainly have questions about noise.

She perked up when Jake Jackson got up to present the Park Committee's proposition. Essentially, he suggested that the maintenance of the school grounds was becoming more expensive than the school district could afford with the buildings getting old and in need of many repairs. He had a list which he read off, which included plumbing problems, an inefficient furnace that needed to be replaced, some electrical needs. He suggested that the box company would find the barn impractical for their needs and wondered if they could really be serious in their proposal. He referred to the round gym as something that needed to be razed because there were too many physical problems with it. "In place of the gym we could have ball fields, picnic areas, perhaps a swimming pool that would be clean and healthy for the children who are now swimming in the reeds and moss-filled Pine Lake, endangering their health in that pollution. Then if we buy the Kinnen house that, too, is in a state of deterioration, we could add it to the Park area and have a beautiful area in which we could take pride." Lydia noticed the papers in Jake's hand shaking, and he read haltingly. He was obviously uncomfortable with speeches. His last suggestion was that the barn and school building be sold, letting the new buyer deal with the problems of those buildings. "Industry is geared toward imaginative ideas. Let them have their say." Then he sat down.

A wave of restless whispering went through the audience, but they had to sit through one more speech, from Superintendent Stephenson. His report dealt with the brutal truth that the school simply was not taking in enough money to keep going. The school population was down to such a small number that the cost of busing was the practical solution. Lydia had to admire his control, remembering his disdain earlier for parents sending their children to private high schools. "The teachers and students in the Delora schools have an excellent reputation. It will give our children more opportunities in the areas of science projects, arts, music and even the basic studies," he said. "We have not heard tonight all the possibilities for these school buildings. Let's do use our imaginations as Jake suggested and come up with a new path for what has been a great institution for 85 years."

As the floor was opened for comments, a line quickly formed at the microphone. This should be interesting, Lydia thought. The first to speak was Mr. Lambert.

"I must say, I'm surprised by Jake's comments. I'm on the Park Committee and his remarks are nothing I would say. First of all, to comment on the Kinnen house is totally out of order. That is private property with nothing to do with the school grounds which we are concerned about. May I have your agreement that Jake's concern with the Kinnen house is not up for discussion tonight?" He stood at the microphone, waiting while the three school board members leaned toward each other in a whispered conversation. Mike then stated that it was so agreed.

"We are not here to discuss anything but school property," he confirmed. "Did you have something else to say, Mr. Lambert?"

"Yes I did. As to the gym. I also totally disagree with Jake's idea of tearing it down. It can be a useful community building and though it may need some repair or upgrading, it certainly is basically a solid, well-constructed building and in no way should it be torn down. The same goes for the school house itself. As for selling off some of the school property which might include the bus barn, I can see some feasibility here. But we need a lot more discussion. Thank you." With that Mr. Lambert yielded the microphone and returned to his seat.

Margie whispered over to Lydia, "Good for him." Lydia agreed.

As others made their comments and asked their questions, it seemed obvious that there was a definite interest in preserving the gym and schoolhouse. One of the suggestions was to form a non-profit Preservation Corporation with local membership and dues to pay for their upkeep. One man expressed interest in turning the school building into a museum and said he would personally put his money and energy into such a project. He also said that with the Kinnen sisters in the audience it might be a good time to hear from them what they have in mind for their house. "We've heard rumors that they themselves want it torn down. And we've heard rumors that they want to make it an historical house and turn it into a museum. Perhaps, if we have a public park and community building, it might add to the museum quality of the area. People like to see their past, and that house certainly has been a part of the history of this community. With furnishings of the 1910 or so era it could be a resource for this community, an attraction for visitors."

His comments seemed to get restless reactions in the audience, with people turning this way and that to locate Lydia and Margie. But Mike pounded his gavel and reminded them it was agreed the Kinnen house was off the docket. "Perhaps at a later meeting," he suggested. Lydia noticed that as he sat down he almost missed his chair, as if he were suddenly shaky and unwell.

The rest of the comments went quickly and didn't add much new but it was evident a lot of people were nodding their heads when the non-profit was mentioned. And, interestingly, not one person spoke for keeping the school open. Lydia guessed there had already been enough discussion on that to make the inevitable accepted.

The meeting had gone on for over an hour and though there seemed to be no consensus or decisions made, the feeling seemed to be that at least something was started. A date for another meeting was announced, but the school board was also given a majority vote to go ahead with exploring companies to rent the facilities.

Afterward, people got up and parents gathered their children. Lydia and Margie went forward to meet Mike Harris, the only one of the group there That Night that they had not met face to face. It took them right into the area where their parents had been killed, where the left-over vibrations of that drama a psychic could probably pick up, but Lydia did not claim those gifts. She only wanted to visualize in her own way what might have happened. She wanted Mike or Stanley or any of them bold enough, to show them exactly where their bodies had lain when they died.

Margie had already cornered Mike and was introducing herself. Lydia stepped over and also shook his hand. It was cold and tense. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. His lips were dry and parched. Stanley stood by him, watching protectively, like a big brother.

"I'd like to see where it happened," Margie said, her voice soft but eager. She addressed the two of them. "It was near here wasn't it?" Lydia held her surprise. She had no idea Margie wanted to see...that place.

Stanley looked at them, evaluating. "It's that important?" He held Mike's upper arm, as if supporting him. Mike looked pale and weak, searched for a chair, sat down and bent forward. Stanley rested his hand gently on Mike's shoulder.

And now Jake was there, as well as Charlette and Shirley. Jennifer and Tanya stood a little behind their mothers, quietly attentive. Jake began to protest. "You don't want to see that," he said. "It's done and over with."

"No, I do want to see," said Lydia. She glared at Jake, forced herself in front of him, nearer to Mike and Stanley.

Stanley left Mike and started over to the stairs, then turned and addressed the others. "Stay here why don't you. I'll show them. It won't take long." Then he motioned for Lydia and Margie to come. They looked up the stairs to the red 'exit' sign over the outside door.

"This isn't easy to do, you know, to relive that night when things went all wrong," he said. He started up the stairs and stopped at the top, in front of the closed outside doors. They waited behind him. "Dale just wanted to see the basketball court where he had played with a team that went to the state championships the year he was a senior. He remembered all the cheering, people on their feet as he ran down the court and made basket after basket. But it was all quiet that night. And dark, except for Jake's flashlight." Stanley pressed open the doors to the court a crack, but not fully. "Then, Dale led us downstairs." He went down. They followed. They were back to where Mike was still sitting with the others waiting. "We sat around a table. Someone brought candles from the kitchen. And Dale started talking to us about the army, and about enemies, and how they trained. He showed us how to roll a cigarette and passed one around. And he just got more and more animated." Stanley stopped and ran his hand through his hair. "It was all so quick, so unexpected. Someone started coming down the stairs and it was, we didn't know who, scary, being caught like that. Someone blew out the candles, and we like, scattered. Except Dale said it was the enemy and he was ready to take out the enemy. Mike claimed he said it was Mr. Kinnen, but we hardly heard that. And we were all dumb enough to believe Dale, I guess. I've thought about it and thought about it and all I can think is that Dale was maybe hallucinating. And we were just kids looking up to Mike's big brother. But I'm not trying to make excuses." Stanley stood at the bottom of the stairs, gesturing. "It just happened so fast. Dale started hitting and hitting, punching, like he had learned boxing or something. He was so convinced it was the enemy. He didn't have a gun or a knife on him. It was just his hands." Stanley had his back to the women, his arms on the railings for support. Maybe he couldn't face them, Lydia thought. "We tried to stop him. Mike and JJ and I, and we couldn't. He was Hercules." Stanley pointed to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. "It was about there, I expect." Lydia realized he meant their father and that Stanley couldn't say his name.

Stanley started back up the stairs. At the top he stopped. "They told us your mother came in, but I didn't see her. I wanted to get the girls out of there. And JJ ran home, I guess."

#

The light was dim, gratefully. Lydia didn't think she could have taken it bright. She felt cold. Shivering cold. Then wondered if indeed it were her mother, her mother's spirit, listening, taking it all in. "We're so sorry," Stanley said, so softly she barely heard him. "Dale told us he'd be all right. I guess that's what we really believed. But it didn't turn out that way."

Mike was still sitting in the chair when they came back down the stairs, breathing in gasps. Charlette was beside him now talking softly, guiding him in deeper, slower breaths. Margie glared at him, wanting to shout and cry out "You left them there to die!" feeling cheated that he was already in pain.

"Sometimes," Mike said, his voice high and tense, "it's like he's on my back. It's like carrying a cross, but..." He couldn't finish. He was not worthy of a cross. There was no legitimate reason to ask forgiveness. He had run. They had all run. It was an action that could not be taken back. Something that would be forever, forever, there. He was Sisyphus forever rolling the rock up the hill.

Lydia felt her legs collapsing and she sat down hard on the steps. She heard Mike but could not respond. Slipping off the step and onto her knees, she bent forward and pressed her forehead onto the cold cement where her father may have taken his last breath. There was too much pain here. There had to be some break in the chain of pain. Some action. Some way to help people move on. Her mother, Mike, Stanley, the sisters, Jake, too. Dale. Some ceremony perhaps.

"Mike, we saw you at the cemetery," she said. "You placed flowers on your mother's and brother's graves. Can you bring one here? Can we all bring something here, to cleanse, to start lifting that cross, together?"

Margie was sitting on the bottom step when Lydia made the proposal. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Lydia came and put her arm around her. Stanley sat down with them. "Why not?" he said.

Charlette and Shirley nodded. Tanya and Jennifer, sitting behind Mike and watching bug-eyed didn't move. Mike stood, grabbed Jake and said "Sure." For a few moments the room buzzed with an indescribable energy.

Chapter 18

The next morning the wall phone in the kitchen rang and rang while both Lydia and Margie were busy in other rooms. Margie reached it first, just as Lydia turned off the vacuum cleaner in the living room. She watched Margie nod into the phone, begin to frown and look alarmed.

The voice of Charlette Harris came into Margie's ear, rising at the end of her introduction as if asking a question, or as if she were uneasy with what she was about to say. "I'm calling from the Delora hospital. Mike was admitted last night, but we wanted you to know it wasn't a heart attack." She gave an apologetic little laugh. "Sometimes it looks like one, these panic attacks, when he can't catch his breath and doubles over. He always feels so embarrassed, as if that's not real pain. But it is, I tell him." Charlette sighed as if she had failed to persuade him. She sounded embarrassed too. "So we take him to the emergency room because you never really know."

Margie sputtered something about not understanding. "When we left last night, wasn't he okay?"

"Not really, but we went home anyway. It was later, about midnight. He just wasn't getting any better."

"I'm so sorry," Margie said. She looked over at Lydia watching her. She gave her a shrug, meaning she was puzzled. Meaning she would tell her as soon as possible what she was hearing.

"He's going home later this morning, and asked me to see if you both could come over this afternoon, after he's home. He really needs to talk to you."

"Well sure," Margie told her. Lydia tried to interpret her mouthings but decided she'd have to wait and be told after the fact. "We can do that. We really were concerned about him last night. I hope we weren't..." She paused, fiddled with the telephone cord. Lydia felt something unpleasant being arranged. "But he's all right now?" Margie asked.

"Oh, yes," Charlette said, as if resigned to the repeated episodes. "There are just things we need to talk about. Like Jennifer, the girls, and things, things Stanley couldn't say."

"Well, sure," Margie said again. "But you better give us directions." Charlette did, and then Margie hung up. She stood there by the phone and stared at it awhile.

"What was that all about?" Lydia asked. She had sat down on the lounge and started looking at The Des Moines Register while she waited, but let the paper fall away when Margie's call seemed to get serious. They had started subscribing as a way to keep in touch with the world, and the newsboy now threw the paper on their lawn early each morning.

"Charlette wanted to assure us that last night Mike had an anxiety attack. Not a heart attack. She said he was embarrassed. She was too by the tone of her voice." Margie spoke in a slow, thoughtful manner as if trying to figure out the importance of such a difference. She came over and sat on the edge of the rocking chair next to the cold fireplace and across from Lydia. "They want us to come over this afternoon after Mike gets home. And talk about Jennifer, the girls, and things." She didn't add the part about things Stanley couldn't say. For some reason, it frightened her. It was easier not to repeat it. "So, here are the directions to their place." She held up the bit of paper where she had scratched her notes.

"Today?" Lydia had plans to read over some of their mother's papers she had brought in from the shed. "Did the girls see too much last night? Are they traumatized?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe they want to call off the treasure hunt."

Margie shrugged. "She didn't say."

"Maybe they worry about Mike. Maybe they worry he might die."

"I don't know," Margie said again, unable to make her mind work, feeling dull, full of dread.

Lydia sighed. "I suppose we have to go." What more did Mike have to say? More of the truth? More of life's complications?

"Maybe we ought to take something," Margie suggested.

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Flowers? Any cookies left?"

"They've got flowers. She's probably made cookies. Let's just take our-selves." Lydia did have something, though, that she wanted Mike to have, sometime. She stood up to resume her vacuuming. "There is something from Mother's papers, though," she said before starting the motor.

Margie looked skeptical. Lydia was always looking for explanations. Sometimes she dug too deep. It just brought more trouble. Lydia stood there a moment, frowning, indecisive, then turned toward her desk, there on the short wall by the front door where her computer sat. She retrieved a paper from one of its drawers and handed it to Margie.

"It's an essay, or letter, that Dale wrote for mother's composition class. It's dated 1966, when he must have been starting his senior year of high school. It may have been a practice letter for his draft board, though I don't know that."

"Hmmm," Margie intoned. On the one hand she didn't want to know any more than she already did. On the other, maybe it was her sisterly duty to read it. She took it gingerly. It was on lined paper which had been torn out of a notebook and was written in blue ink.

"My name is Dale Harris and I am 17 years old. In a few months I will have to register for the draft because this country is at war, having invaded Vietnam to fight a so-called communist take-over. I have been told all my life that killing people is wrong. Living on a farm we have to have a gun because foxes and raccoons sometimes get into the chicken yard and kill off those chickens that we depend on for eggs and meat. We also have to kill animals to eat. But we don't do it for sport, only out of necessity. But going to war to kill human beings is against the principles of my church and therefore when it comes time to register I will have to register as a conscientious objector.

This doesn't mean that I am unpatriotic. This United States is the best country in the world. But it allows people to have their own religious views, as well as other views, and that's what makes it great. I want this country to keep its democracy, but I don't think the communists in Vietnam are after us. It is just a big misunderstanding.

If my government wants me to serve it, that's fine. I can serve it in other ways than taking up a weapon in the army. I wouldn't mind working in a hospital and taking care of sick people. If the government wants to give me that assignment instead of fighting I could accept that. I hope this gives you an idea where I stand. Thank you."

Margie put it down. "So this is what draft counselors do?" She felt tired. Their mother was getting kids to think like she wanted them to think. Was that morally right?

"I think they tried to prepare those who would have to register with the draft board soon," Lydia said. "That's when they would register as conscientious objectors, as I understand it. Perhaps this letter is practice." Lydia had not read enough to fully understand the process from registration to induction into service, but knew that conscientious objectors had to start proving their convictions early in the process, or else their sincerity would be questioned.

"But this has nothing to do with Jennifer and the girls, or Mike's problems. Maybe you ought to just put that away." Margie just saw it as trouble.

"But it might help Mike know more about his brother. I'll take it along just in case." She saw Margie's disapproving glance. "I won't pull it out unless it seems appropriate. OK?" She folded the essay and looked for an envelope. She found one in the wastebasket that looked okay to use. Then she put it in her purse.

"Jennifer and Tanya shouldn't have been there last night," Margie said. "I didn't like them seeing me cry." She felt like pouting.

"Yeah. Well, can't be helped. But they're old enough to understand a few things. They need to know the truth, don't you think? That real people were hurt?" Then Lydia remembered that she had suggested to Jennifer, or maybe it was Tanya, that perhaps their older brothers had issues with each other. Maybe Jennifer had spouted off about that to her parents. Lydia hoped they weren't going to be in for an interrogation. She didn't look forward to that at all.

#

The ride into the country was in some ways an enjoyable change of scenery. The crops in the fields were just beginning to show their green rows that seemed to go on forever over hills and more hills without fences to interrupt the flow. Indeed, it was like Pearl had said, a work of art. Beautiful. Easy to overlook the hard work, long night and day hours of planting that had gone into this art. Lydia remembered something from the Katha Upanishad she'd learned at the Ranch. "A mortal ripens like corn and like corn is born again."

Margie drove. Lydia read off the directions. These back roads now had names and the mailboxes numbers, so it seemed an extension of some invisible city. But it was certainly a practical move for locating a place when a 911 call sent emergency vehicles to the scene of trouble. It was in Lydia's mind one more indication that the world was indeed smaller, more integrated, more dependent on every small particle and space being known to someone, some agency. She could almost understand how some might resent the government tracking down every spit and spittle so there was no place to hide.

The house they found, set back from the road was shaded by large elm and pine. The large lawn was neatly mowed and edged near the house with flowers in bloom. Barns and other buildings stood back of the house and beyond them fields and fields. In fact every place they had passed was surrounded with fields, and pasture, the homestead buildings like an oasis. Margie parked the car near the back door. Like most farm houses the front door was seldom used. So they entered a back porch and kitchen and were led into the living room where Mike rested on the lounge. He sat up and welcomed them. Charlette offered iced tea and went to the kitchen to fix it. Jennifer was no where to be seen.

"Thanks for coming," Mike said. "I meant to introduce myself long before last night, but seems we were always too busy. I apologize. These things, these attacks just come on me sometimes." He gave them a wan smile, then looked down at the floor as he explained that psychiatrists told him he was too intense and should relax. He made a half-hearted laugh and studied his hands. Lydia noticed how they trembled. "A farmer relax? I tell them they're crazy."

Was now the time to give him his brother's message, Lydia wondered. Don't take life so seriously. It's all okay. She couldn't, not here, in front of Margie.

Charlette came in bearing four iced tea glasses on a tray, and set them on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the lounge. She handed one each to Lydia and Margie who sat in easy chairs nearby. Then she plopped down next to Mike.

"I was tired last night and I'm not easy with running a meeting." He cleared his throat and raised his head for a brief glance at the sisters before shifting his eyes to stare past them into some unknown space. "Or controversy. It just tightens me up. And then seeing you both there, in that very room, and I knew you wanted an explanation. I guess Stanley got it started." His breath came in shorter and shorter gasps. Charlette put a hand on his knee.

"Lean back, honey," she said softly. "It's all right."

Margie stared. Something like needles and pins inched their way up her spine and spread into her arms, legs, hair. "We really don't need to know everything," she muttered, but it wasn't actually true. She wanted to know everything she could possibly stand.

"We do need to know everything," Lydia said, directly and forcefully contradicting Margie. "But I do see how hard this community has taken the, the, death of our parents. Pearl has told us many things. About your mother, and how you, Charlette, helped Mike deal with it all. And how Shirley helped Stanley. I have to admit we've had some really angry feelings about why you guys just left and all. Just ran. But Stanley sort of explained. You were all scared."

"They ran to get help," Mike said, his voice trembling. "I told them to go get someone. Go get Ed's dad. Or JJ's dad. And the girls, they didn't even know your mother was there. Right, Charlette?" She nodded. "It was just me and Dale that knew. But then Dale just insisted they'd be okay. And he shoved me on to our car. And Stanley had to get the girls home. And I had to get Dale home so he could catch the bus early the next morning in Des Moines so he could get back to base. And Des Moines was an hour's drive. So we did that. Mom and Dad in front, Dale and me in back. It was a real quiet trip. Dale maybe slept. He knew his whole brigade was deploying to Vietnam in a couple days. And we all knew we might not see him again." His voice was rushed and frantic, rising in pitch as he spoke. When Mike stopped he took a long drink of the tea. He wasn't done, though.

"The trip home was even quieter. Mom was sad. Dad was stoic. And I? I knew there was something at home I didn't want to even think about. I knew at that point that I was the only one who knew the truth. But I didn't know that the truth would be worse than I thought." He began rocking forward and back, his voice strained. He tried to speak and couldn't. Charlette put her hand on his hand.

Charlette took up the story. "Shirley and I learned from the phone calls. When I heard our parents say Brenda and Ed Kinnen had been found dead I couldn't believe it. It just wasn't real." She shuddered, her shoulders making quick jerks. "And you know what? Our parents were afraid to ask us questions. They would look at us and go silent. They didn't want to know what we knew. Can you understand that?" Charlette leaned into Mike and they were like two naughty scared children, hoping their naughtiness could somehow be undone.

"For a long time we could just stay quiet," Mike said. "We could just let the adults talk and think what they wanted to think. It was like they were simply waiting for us to speak up. Waiting. Waiting. Each day was a nightmare. When are they going to ask? Is today the day? My stomach churned. I couldn't eat."

"They came up with things like it might have been the Training School boys," Charlette said. "Or those red necks spouting off about peaceniks. And it was all from overhearing phone conversations and what Mom and Dad said to each other. Shirley and I didn't dare call Mike or Stanley. We had no idea what JJ was doing. We heard rumors of the sheriff interviewing him, and his father of course. The newspapers mentioned that your parents had received hate mail, but no one could track it down." Charlette gave the sisters a quick look, then ducked her head again. The room was quiet, as if the very air was poised and waiting, listening. Lydia heard the refrigerator turn off. She heard a clock ticking in some far-off room. A warm breeze from the open door brought in the odor of livestock pens, cattle perhaps, pigs.

"I was glad I didn't know everything," Charlette continued. "I even began hoping they would find one of those American Legion guys to blame." She had detached herself from Mike long enough to reach for her iced tea and take a few sips.

"Then the word came that Dale had written a letter. And then, that he'd been killed." Mike wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Lydia notice dark stains spreading under his arms. As the two talked, they seemed to relax, as if the confession was releasing puss from an open, seeping wound.

This onslaught of information they had waited thirty years to hear was hard to bear. Lydia realized how silent truth could be, once paralyzed with fear. She looked at Margie clutching her glass of iced tea, the condensation dampening the napkin she held under it. She tried to read her but couldn't.

"Sometimes," Mike said, breaking the lengthening silence, "sometimes, I feel they're still around. Dale, Mom. My Mom was so upset, so angry. She refused to believe Dale had done anything wrong. It was a stranger. Someone she didn't know. She held that belief to the day she died. Dale was so perfect, sooo right. How could I ever tell her...?" He let it go at that.

"Emotions are strange things," Lydia said, speaking to no one in particular, but feeling she had to start saying something. "Powerful. Hard to control. And we can talk ourselves into believing things that aren't true," Lydia commented. She wanted to pick up on his feeling Dale around, but wasn't sure about Margie, sitting there so quiet. "I worked on a hospital mental ward once," she said. "It was for a psychology class in college. I remember people had a hard time talking about feelings. I mean, they could admit to being nervous and edgy or anxious or worried, but try to pin them down about why and they went blank. Someone else did this to them, or some event happened to them. They were unable to see their own actions that brought on bad feelings. It takes a lot of courage to say the things you've just said, Mr. Harris, Mike. I hope you realize I, we, really appreciate this." Lydia looked over at Margie, who was looking at her hands griping the iced tea so hard she wondered if the glass would break.

"I've also felt like they're still around," Lydia ventured. She wished she and Mike were alone. At least that Margie weren't here. But she was, and she'd just have to bear with it. "I mean my mother mostly. Dale, though, recently. They're both trying to figure out the why of what happened." Lydia felt her face flush. She hoped Margie wouldn't be too cross when they got back home. But she wanted Mike to know he wasn't alone in these awkward feelings.

"Jennifer knows, too," Charlette volunteered. She and Mike were holding hands, still sitting very close. Lydia didn't know who was leaning on whom. "She calls you the ghost lady," Charlette said, braving a smile. "Though last night I believe she realized there was more to ghosts than she realized. She's always been curious about her Uncle Dale. She and Tanya have had their theories. And their older brothers have put ideas into their heads. I'm so sorry. We haven't done a very good job about telling them the whole story. One can be haunted without seeing wisps of light or hear unexplained noises." She gave Lydia a shy studied glance. "Lately she's been talking about angels." Charlette's voice was soft.

"Oh, we did get into an interesting discussion the other day," Lydia admitted with a grin. "I hadn't really expected to talk about death and the hereafter. But maybe it'll help her know that the things that came to fore last night were clarifications, and that tears are not always bad." She smiled, feeling a certain permission was being granted to relax and let things flow. But sometime she'd have to clarify that angel bit. Dying and going to heaven didn't automatically make one an angel.

"Charlette and I have had many tears. I'm sure Jennifer has seen them." Mike rubbed Charlette's hand with his fingers like a little child might do. She didn't seem to mind.

"Well, I predict that what we've been sensing from my mother and from Dale will go away as soon as we, on this side, reconcile our feelings and answer our own questions about That Night in a way that we can let it all go." This came through as if it came from somewhere else, Lydia thought but did not say.

"I only wish my mother could have been reconciled," Mike groaned.

"But she wasn't," Charlette said. "And we just have to accept that."

"She'll get another chance," Lydia said. Now, she felt, was the time. "Dale gave me a message for you, Mike." She watched his face, Charlette's face. They looked intrigued. "He said not to take life so seriously. That he's okay. And that he's learning about anger. It seems they have therapy in the astral plane." She took a chance and gave them a big smile. Her arms tingled. Somebody was listening.

"You...communicated?" Charlette nearly screamed. "You are a ghost lady." She covered her mouth and laughed quietly.

"It seemed like that," Lydia said. Then she explained about the computer, her fingers keying words. "But I do believe we all have chances to redo...things. Just like in Groundhog Day, the movie, we get to come back and try life again, redo our lessons, step over the puddles until we get it right. And why shouldn't we be learning things on the Other Side?" She shrugged and sneaked a look at Margie, who was gazing off into the other room, tolerating because she had to. Margie was polite and would endure.

"Then, Dale can make up for what he did?" Charlette asked, a sense of relief in her expression.

"As I mentioned to the girls, we all have an energy aura. You can feel it when the hair on your arms stands on end. Or when you pass the refrigerator and get shocked," she smiled. "Scientists deal with electromagnetic waves and particles or whatever in their very basic theories. They deal with things that we don't see and it's not just on faith. I know that a lot of religious people don't know how to deal with mysticism, which is what they might call what we're talking about. On the other hand many religions talk about angels as if they were very real. Well, energy is real. And to me, that explains ghosts, and visions and angels. There's so much we don't know of the physics of this world, let alone what might be the physics of another world. I just keep an open mind." Lydia took a long drink of iced tea, finding herself in need of some refreshing nourishment.

"I'm so glad you let us talk to you. Sometimes it seems some people try to create fear where it doesn't need to be."

"You mean Jake Jackson," Lydia said. He's got his own problems. I'm sure his father's illness hasn't been easy for him. Alzheimer's is such a destructive disease. And if his father was scared That Night I guess Jake might be scared, too."

"Some have suggested we should still be charged with aiding and abetting a murder. Some said that's what you wanted." Mike looked at the sisters.

"We've never had that intention." Margie said. Lydia felt relieved that she chose to start participating in this conversation.

"So, you're not going to do anything the night of the treasure hunt to scare the kids, or suggest they might see ghosts?" Charlette asked with an amused smile.

Lydia laughed. "Not likely. But we will be happy to help with the refreshments afterward and whatever other activities there might be in the gym."

Mike looked more relaxed. "I believe you. Now to get Jake to stop talking his ghost stories."

"Yeah." Lydia was thoughtful. "Maybe he needs some kind of assurance that he's not going to be punished anymore than he's punishing himself," she said. "Or maybe he's just trying to get some attention. Maybe he likes the fact that his stories scare kids, who seem to like to be scared if they can get through it and talk, or brag about it later."

"So what can we do?" Charlette asked.

"Does he have any duties the night of the treasure hunt? I understand the two boys are consulting him about where to place their clues." Lydia remembered her thinking Jake would likely dress up in a sheet and act out something in the grove of trees that night. And the children were already anticipating using flashlights on the grounds that night. Maybe it would be wise to ask him. "Does Pearl have any influence over him?"

"Probably," Charlette said. "Why?"

"Well, maybe she could get a truer picture of what he intends to do that night on the grounds where the clues are. I'm thinking that if he's made to feel important in some way other than telling ghost stories or creating illusions, maybe he'd be less resentful."

"You think Jake's resentful?"

"Don't you? Hasn't he been sort of on the outside of the main group? I mean, he's not a farmer. He's a caretaker of something he doesn't own. He's a hired helper, dependent on the school board or whoever hires him."

"But he's been hired year after year," Mike said. "That surely means we think he does a good job and is important."

"But he's still on the outside, isn't he?"

"I'd never thought of it that way," Mike admitted.

"Does he go to your church?"

"Does he, Charlette?" Mike looked to her for the answer.

"Well, they've never had children in Sunday School. But it seems I've seen him and Penny once in awhile at services."

"What about the potlucks and committees and such that your members participate in besides just coming to the 11:00 service?

"Well, everyone's welcome," Charlette began. "I guess it might be we haven't reached out to them much."

"I always felt Jake just didn't like us too well," Mike said. "He kind of avoids us."

"But he's been around your children for years. I mean the community's children. He's on the school grounds where they play, and there must be interaction. And he's there to pick up after basketball games and programs in the gym, and in the classroom building gathering up wastebaskets and cleaning. He must be very intimate with that school, when you think about it."

Mike gathered his hands in his lap and looked at Lydia straight on for the first time. "You're making us seem indifferent and unappreciative, and that's simply not true."

"But when have we ever given him a reward for what he's done, Mike?" Charlette asked. "Lydia may be right. Maybe we've taken Jake for granted. Like That Night, remember? Just because Jake could get keys from his dad, Dale got him to open the gym for him. And look what trouble Jake got into for doing that. Maybe he's never forgiven us."

"What's to forgive?" Mike insisted.

"Well, if Jake hadn't gotten those keys, Dale wouldn't have gotten in the gym. And he wouldn't have gotten all crazy when Mr. and Mrs. Kinnen appeared. Maybe Jake's still blaming himself, or Dale, or us, for getting him involved." Charlette seemed to sink back and melt into the cushions, letting go her usual strong appearance. It had been years of being strong for Mike who seemed to need her calmness to fend off his mother's anger and paranoia, years of doing what needed to be done, inside and out, inside cooking, doing housework, taking care of kids, outside in the fields or barnyard or garden or lawn. Always work. She'd never had time to think of Jake Jackson and how he might feel resentment. Suddenly she felt very very tired and closed her eyes. She felt Mike take her hand once more, this time not as a child needs a mother, but as a man concerned about his wife.

"Honey," he said, "maybe what this woman is saying is that we just need to let Jake in on our lives. You know, I don't think we've ever had him and Penny out here to the house. You think they'd want to come?"

Margie interjected with a suggestion. "Maybe it's the church that needs to reach out to Jake and Penny. You know? Isn't your church a central part of this community? When Jake says he wants our house torn down, and all the buildings of the school, he's just wanting to get rid of his memories. I see what Lydia is saying, in a way." She had been holding her empty glass that was wet from condensation and looked for a place to set it down. So, why not just include him in the gym activities after the treasure hunt, like ask Penny to help with the refreshments. And give a "treasure" to Jake as part of the program for helping the boys plant the clues, for example.

"Well, I suppose," Charlette said, opening her eyes and sitting forward, "we could do that. You think that's what it would take?"

"It would be a beginning."

"It never occurred to me that Jake was jealous of us. Or resentful of us. Why would anyone want what we've been through?" Her laugh was bitter.

"When you're looking in from the outside, you don't see all the shadows in the corners. You don't see the dust under the bed, the mess in the refrigerator. I'm speaking metaphorically, now," said Lydia.

"I guess when you look in from the outside you also see what had blinded those within, too," Mike added. He slid forward and proceeded to stand up. "What are you?" he asked Lydia. "A psychiatrist?" He had a smile and his hands appeared calm.

Charlette stood up beside him, and then the sisters, too.

"No, just trying to see the truth in interpersonal relationships," Lydia said jokingly. "For my next course that I may teach at the Yoga Ranch."

"Well, whatever. I guess we've given you some good material." Mike offered his hand, first to Lydia then Margie. "I appreciate your coming out. And hey, Charlette and I will think about what's been said." He put his arm around her and she cuddled close.

It was just in time, for there was the school bus and Jennifer was let off. She started toward the door.

Chapter 19

It was Saturday, the second week in May, and the day that would decide whether Margie would be able to stay in New Hope and run the New Hope Printery successfully. Her stomach churned and her mouth felt like cotton. The Grand Opening had been advertised for two weeks in the Delora Times and flyers had been posted in all ten of New Hope's businesses. Personal invitations had gone out to all of Sherrie's customers and the Friends Church had been good enough to include a notice in their Sunday morning bulletin. Margie and Lydia had stayed up late several nights baking dozens of cookies. Coffee, tea and lemonade were ready. Expecting no one to make a special trip just to pick up a coupon or free pen, the refreshments were to last all day in the hope that as people were on other errands, they'd stop in. Persia was scheduled to sign her poetry book from 1:00 to 3:00 and surely her friends would come for that.

They opened at 10:00 and it was nearly an hour before anyone stepped through the open door. The sun had made it warm and bright. The perfume of lilacs was heavy in the air. A small breeze passed through trees rustling their new green leaves every once in a while.

It was Pearl. She had on blue slacks and a white tee-shirt and carried a cloth bag emblazoned with WOI-TV. From it she pulled out a piece of paper on which was drawn a crudely drawn map. "Our boys have worked out the treasure hunt," she said proudly. "And guess who was their real mentor?" Her eyes were sparkling.

Lydia shook her head. Margie said she'd have to tell them.

"No other than our morbid Jake Jackson."

Lydia smiled over at Margie, who returned a grin.

"Sooo," said Margie, giving Pearl a quizzical look.

Pearl shook her finger at the two of them. "And you know who put the bug in my ear, don't you, to suggest the boys go to him for advice?"

"Who?" Margie said.

"Don't be coy," Pearl said. "You've been talking to those girls, haven't you?" She fanned the piece of paper in front of her, in tantalizing fashion.

The sisters looked at each other. "We had a nice conversation with Mike and Charlette the other day," Margie acknowledged. "But the girls?" She shook her head.

"Well, it was brilliant in any case," Pearl said. "When the boys consulted with me they said Jake helped them pick out some really good spots. They were so excited, implying the other children were going to go crazy trying to find those clues."

"And that's a good thing?" Margie asked.

"It gets Jake involved in a creative way. It gets him away from obsessing about the gym. It makes him feel important. And so that's all a good thing." Pearl gave them a patient teacherly smile.

"So you know where they'll be hidden?" Margie queried.

"Of course. I do have the responsibility of supervising, you know." Pearl set her bag on a chair and held the map out for the girls to look at, then snatched it away and slipped it into the bag. "You offering coffee?" Pearl moved over to the pot and cups.

"Oh, please, yes," said Margie, leaving Lydia staring at Pearl's bag as if trying to figure out how to retrieve the map. "I hope the coffee's not too stiff, from sitting so long. I guess I should have waited awhile."

"It's fine," declared Pearl, sipping it from the paper cup.

Just then a customer came in dressed in greasy overalls, sweaty cap and dirty hands. He needed to copy a few pages he said and Margie helped him put them into the copier the right way. He paid his few cents, exchanged pleasantries with Pearl, grabbed a cookie, then left.

"That was Leo," Pearl explained. "He works in the garage down the street with Persia's husband."

Next came Superintendent Stevenson and his wife Bertha. Pearl greeted them enthusiastically and launched into the children's treasure hunt that she hoped would not disturb them when the children got close to their house there by the pine grove.

"Oh, we've had children there before," Bertha laughed. "But Jake's already warned us." She seemed to Lydia like a person comfortable with children even though they had never had any themselves, she had heard. And then Pearl asked an interesting question.

"How's the progress regarding a tenant? I heard the box making people decided against using the school." Pearl followed them to the refreshment table.

"Yes," he said. "Just as well, don't you think?" He gave her a quick smile as he picked up a cup and allowed Lydia to fill it. When she handed it to him, she felt his larger presence. Not that he was really tall, but a head taller at least. But it was more than that. A commanding presence. Even thirty years ago he probably had it. And even though he had been younger than her mother, had she felt it?

Pearl nodded. Mr. Stephenson continued. "I believe there is another company interested. One that has something to do with a small component in a filter system. I understand they propose using the barn for production and a couple of the classrooms for their business offices, where they'd have their phones, fax machines, computers, files, that kind of thing. More compatible in my mind that making boxes." He thanked Lydia for the coffee and picked up a cookie. Margie had already helped Bertha.

"I agree," Lydia said, noting surprise in Mr. Stephenson's face. She was thinking about the other rooms, so asked if they would still be empty. He nodded. "Well then, someone could use them for retreats or special youth camps, or elderhostels, or special needs kids camps, or some such." The thoughts felt good.

"Well, yes. But there's still that guy wants to store some antique items and maybe start a museum." Mr. Stephenson looked at Pearl as if she were the one with the suggestions. But there was no time to feel offended.

"Museum is a good idea," Margie said, thinking how it would fit in with getting the house in condition for a museum.

Just then Hazel and Charles Lambert came in, exchanged greetings and joined in the discussion of a museum. Suddenly the little office space was full and Margie and Lydia listened to the pros and cons of different plans.

When the phone rang Margie went to answer. It was Peter, saying he was running late, but still intended to get there. "How's it going?" he asked.

"Not too bad," Margie answered, "as you can hear from the noise, I suspect."

"Well, save me a cookie, OK?" He sounded cheerful and Margie's heart raced, and the thought of what people were going to think when he showed up flitted through her mind.

#

When Peter drove up in his white Honda, he was just in time to help Margie set up the card table outside near the front door.

It was shortly before 1:00. "Bring out a chair for Persia, too." she instructed Peter. This time he was dressed in casual tan cotton pants and a short-sleeved yellow shirt with no tie.

They had also rounded up other chairs which they set up outside for people who wanted to hear some of her poetry and just chat with her. And of course buy her book.

The Lamberts recognized Peter and introduced themselves. As did Pearl and the Stevensons. Margie watched their faces and thought she detected surprise, but also a welcoming and warm reception.

Persia arrived wearing a white dress trimmed in red and a hat with a large brim. It shaded her face just enough to keep the sun out of her eyes. Robin was with her, and soon the rest of the five girls with their mothers came along. Lydia brought a tray of cookies outside to disperse in the group and Margie filled cups with lemonade, set them on a tray and passed them around. Peter found himself being asked to hand out napkins. A breeze had picked up just enough that he had to hold them tightly to keep them from blowing away.

It was a jovial group now. The buyers of Persia's book came inside to pay, then went out to get her inscription. Persia nervously signed copies, trying to make each note slightly different and personal. Finally, they asked her to read. She stood up and tried to project her voice out and over the crowd, as if speaking to the furthest person, which was her daughter Robin. Polite clapping followed her reading of several poems. Then someone asked her to read a particular one from her book, which she did. Then a question. What made you choose to write about the ocean when we don't have an ocean here? Persia laughed and launched into her view of oceans being whatever is vast, extensive, and mysteriously unending. "I mean, you can't see to the end of some of the corn fields out here," and she waved her hand in some vague direction. "An ocean of corn," she laughed. "Know what I mean?" Pearl clapped and others joined in. After that the group began to break up. The mothers of the girls gathered around Persia, complimenting her, praising her, and she blushed in appreciation.

Pearl noticed Jake and Penny lingering back of the group, in the shade of a tree. She went over to talk to them. They were soon poring over the map she had earlier shown Lydia and Margie. When she saw the girls coming over she said, "Oh, oh," and tucked it away in the cloth WOI-TV bag.

"You girls aren't going to tear up the bushes and trees, are you," Jake said grinning, "when you scour the grounds looking for those clues. Cause I'd hate to have to make you come back for a clean-up day." He was obviously teasing, but his voice carried a mock-menacing quality that made the girls give him a look of concern, which he seemed to enjoy.

Amber, with her blonde hair pulled back with a ribbon, looked small and vulnerable, but she was the one who bravely asked "Are we going to have to look all over the ball diamonds, and in the trees?" She giggled and twisted her arms and legs in a restless motion, nearly falling down.

"Well, now, you just might. You just might be running your little tails off that night." Jake's eyes sparkled. Suddenly he threw up his hands, looked up at them. The girls followed his look. "You'll be looking up high," he said, dramatically. "And you'll be looking down low." He stooped down and pretended to look around.

Meagan watched skeptically. "How're we going to see if it's night?" She was half a head taller than Amber and stood by her with her mouth turned down in a look of stubborn defiance.

"Moonlight," Jake answered. "It's going to be a full moon that night, didn't you know?"

"You'll also have flashlights," Pearl reminded her. She watched the interchange carefully, ready to step in if Jake overdid his role of bedeviler.

"You going to have spooks out there?" Robin asked, as if he were placing them around like clues.

"Well, it isn't Halloween," exclaimed Tanya, a tight troubled look coming over her. She looked over at Jennifer who hung back, and with a slight motion of her head and hand urged her over.

"But a full moon," persisted Robin. "That's when they come around because the moon pulls at them, just like it pulls in the ocean tides."

"What have you been reading?" Pearl asked softly, with a smile, not expecting an answer. She could imagine what Persia had in the house. Astrology books for sure. Maybe some Persian poets and other esoteric writings. She would like to have a peak someday.

"But it's the gym," Jennifer started, then stopped when she saw Lydia and Margie standing there listening.

Pearl noticed that Jake looked a bit uneasy. "Well, I guess it'll be over by then," he said without explanation, and turned toward the office door. "Hey, I haven't tried any of those cookies yet. Better get one when we can," he said to Penny who had been standing back with a fixed smile on her face. He took her hand and they headed toward the cookies.

"It'll be a fun night," Penny said as she gave a little wave.

"It sure will," Pearl agreed. "Your mother has some nice poems, there, Robin." She thought how some of them dealt with fairies in the forest, nature spirits, thinking animals, ocean waves, the beach, objects it had cast up, clouds forming and reforming, all with implications that there is more than meets the eye. "Do you ever write poems?"

Robin blushed, said "Maybe." Then she gave Pearl a don't you dare look and added, "But not for class." She would be horrified if that were ever an assignment.

Pearl laughed. "OK," she said.

#

Margie heard Mr. Lambert ask Jake how his father was and Jake answered that he was about the same. Penny volunteered that he had his 84th birthday last week and they had a little party at the nursing home where he lives. "But he didn't know why they were putting this paper hat on him, and he got angry and fought them off, wouldn't let them put it on." She laughed a little, but Jake frowned at her and she stopped.

"And how's your mother?" Mr. Lambert asked.

"All right. She's slowing down."

"She moved over near to the nursing home?" Mr. Lambert asked.

"Yeah. It's a short walk over." Jake sipped coffee and chewed on a cookie, looking away as if uncomfortable with the questions.

"Jake's sister came for a few days. His father didn't know her. It makes us all sad." Penny smiled at the Lamberts. Not many people inquired about the elder Jacksons. "Alzheimer's is no fun."

"Does your mother get out? We miss her at church," said Mrs. Lambert. "She was so active on the Fellowship Committee. But we have younger ones taking over now." Her voice was a little melancholy, or regretful.

Margie stepped over with more cookies and Jake helped himself. "I'm so glad you came, Penny. I really appreciate that Jake set us up with food, had the furnace going and the house in order back in March when we first came. But for some reason, we've never met."

Penny laughed. "I work, that's why. I have a job at the nursing home where Jake's dad lives. So I'm gone early and often get home late. Sometimes I help Mom out. She's so crippled with arthritis, she can't get around very well. Uses a cane and all that. She doesn't drive anymore." Penny sighed. "We have to take her if she wants to go anywhere."

"I'm sorry," Margie said.

"I see you've cleaned up the back yard," Jake said.

"Oh, yeah. Lydia did that."

"Well, when you need that big pile of trash dealt with, let me know. We can burn it, with the proper permit." Jake seemed enthusiastic with this idea.

Lydia nodded. Sure, she was going to do just that, but why was he so enthusiastic? It occurred to her that he might just like to burn the old shed with all the papers she was discovering about that time in which he was involved so long ago.

"Jake's good with a chainsaw, too," Bertha volunteered. The Stevensons had drifted over as this conversation continued. "He's done a lot with that stand of pine trees on the northwest section of the school grounds. The children like to play there, and he's cut off the low branches so they don't get their hair tangled up in them."

"I remember that windbreak," Lydia chimed in. "It used to be off limits, didn't it?" She remembered seeing older children out under those trees doing something suspicious, something not quite right. At least that was the feeling she remembered.

"From time to time," Bertha confirmed. "It was a tempting place to hide out when children didn't want teachers to know what they were up to."

"A place for sneaking a smoke?" Lydia volunteered. Bertha nodded. Or flirting and playing around, Lydia thought.

"But your house is very close to one end of the windbreak," Margie observed. "Isn't it?" She had not yet walked over that way, past the school bus barn, on the other side of the school house and the play equipment, swings, slides, etc.

"Yes," Mr. Stevenson said. "But with Jake keeping it trimmed up, we haven't had much trouble. Thankfully, we just haven't had the drug problem some schools have. But if they go to Delora, that might change." He finished his cup of lemonade, having switched from coffee. "You know, Bertha, we've got that appointment. Good luck, girls, with your new venture." He nodded to Lydia and Margie, then stepped back from the little group. He stuffed his napkin into the lemonade cup and looked around for a place to put it.

"Oh, here," Margie said, reaching out for it and taking it from him. "Thanks for coming."

Jake and Penny decided to leave as well, and soon Lydia, Margie and Peter were the only ones left. Together they began picking up stray sticky cups and napkins.

"Thanks for coming, Peter," Margie said.

"No problem." He smiled broadly and picked off a stray bit of paper out of her hair. "I'd say you're going to be a great success in New Hope."

"You think?" Margie looked flushed, yet happy. Lydia saw that this had been a good day.

Chapter 20

That night, as Lydia waited for her computer to warm up she contemplated the exchange she had overheard between Jake and the girls. Something had changed. Jake's attitude for one thing. His teasing was playful, not as menacing as it had been. Maybe getting him involved with the boys and their clues, making him a part of the party rather than just the caretaker of the grounds, had improved his mood.

Another change was Robin's concern about spooks on the school grounds, which seemed the usual child's desire to be delightfully frightened, in contrast to Jennifer's concern about the gym. Lydia wished she had never mentioned the Mesquakie Indians that time when the girls were peering over the fence as she pulled down vines covering the shed. She'd been feeling intruded upon that day. They were so eager to find some dead children. It had made her angry, she had to admit, to think they were making her mother a ghost, even though she herself was doing just that. But it was her private illusion. They had no right to it. So she'd just wanted to suggest some other ghost possibilities. Childish, wasn't it? Of course there wouldn't be any Indian ghosts. She hoped.

The computer screen showed her programs and she tapped the email icon, waited to connect to her provider, waited again for the emails to download. She pondered on. Jennifer had started to say something about the gym. Hadn't Mike and Charlette made it clear that what her uncle Dale had done was not her worry? Or had she taken on Mike's guilt for her own? Those words from the Old Testament...about the guilt of the fathers being visited upon their children and their children's children, flooded into her mind. But what did that mean? That something was disturbing Jennifer, but how could it be put to rest? Maybe Jennifer had some unanswered questions about her own mother, about why she had left her, abandoned her. Maybe she feared her own mother was dead. But hadn't Charlette said Jennifer talked of angels now? Maybe Jennifer really did believe she, Lydia, had the power to make ghosts appear and disappear, or, in other words, to bring the lost back home. Maybe Jennifer was just wanting to talk to her mother, wherever she was. Lydia felt that prickly sensation again, on her head, her arms, that so often accompanied a bit of truth.

Another change, Lydia realized, was that she hadn't had a dream of her mother for some time. So, what was happening in the Other world? Were there some changes there, too? Had her mother made another contact with Dale? Had she been able to forgive? Had they reconciled? Was her mother finding peace? She really hoped so. But, she chuckled, if everything was peaceful over there, this whole treasure hunt night might be so mild and uneventful, the gym cleansed of ghostly activities, noises and such that the children would have nothing to get excited about.

Lydia scanned her emails and noticed one from the Ranch. It was asking about progress on her course. Actually, her notebook on Truth in Interpersonal Relationships was filling. She had started an outline. "Communication" was the first item. Her thinking was that to relate one had to communicate, and she had begun a list of steps that might be taken to better communicate with others. She left the emails and pulled up her Outline. She had listed the following items: listening, interpreting body language, noticing one's own points of tension, being aware of one's likes and dislikes, about ourselves, about others. What irritates us about those we know and love? How do these likes and dislikes influence our communications?

Lydia took a moment to apply this to her own communication with people in New Hope. She thought she did okay with listening, but she acknowledged tension points when Jake sneaked up on them in the gym, and when the girls stared at her from over the fence. She definitely didn't like being spied upon. However, she noted, as she listened to their stories, or about their stories from others, from Pearl and Sherrie, for example, the more understandable people became, the more accepting she was of them. That didn't necessarily make them more likeable. She questioned whether she could ever like Jake, but she could tolerate him probably.

Her second outline topic was Expectations in Relationships, i.e. one's expectations of oneself and one's expectations of others. She had jotted down what she would expect of herself: politeness, respectfulness, responsiveness, appreciativeness. Of others she would expect: acceptance of the way she looked and talked, that they speak the same language, literally or metaphorically, and that they be able to hear and understand her. She would like others to be agreeable, not necessarily agreeing with her, but not argumentative. Lydia examined a moment how this might apply in relating to Margie. Margie could be very cool when she disagreed with her. She didn't argue, she just left the scene. And that left a kind of wall between them. Lydia wasn't sure how to break it down. Or maybe it was better to just tolerate it. Agree to disagree.

Lydia visualized a kind of check list, somewhat like a grocery list, items one could check off in a one to ten point system. Like "I was patient" say six percent of the time. Or "I listened well" perhaps five percent successfully.

I was

patient _______

listened _______

respectful _____

responsive _____

appreciative____

Would that begin to show oneself how well your communication skills were? How truthful could one be in this self-evaluation? Wouldn't it change from day to day, depending on other things happening in one's life? She could see she would have to think about this some more.

And then, attitudes are important in interpersonal relationships. How to evaluate that? Some people are very private, not wanting others to know them. Others talk a lot about themselves but do they really reveal their deepest feelings? Lydia suspected a lot of people don't want their deep dark secrets to be exposed, don't want the truth to come out. And what if "the truth" kept changing? What if "the truth" couldn't be known? What if "the truth" would destroy rather than bring freedom?

Lydia let out a deep, long, breath. Truth in Interpersonal Relationships was getting more complicated by the minute. One thing she knew, truth had to start with oneself, from the world one saw from one's own eyes, own body. Know thyself, said the ancient philosophers and the contemporary psychologists. Then, if you want to know others, put aside your world and enter the world of someone else. Perhaps that is what some psychics come close to doing. And those who are Masters, who know the workings of spiritual laws as well as physical laws, like Jesus, like Krishna, like the Buddha, surely do it easily. But for someone less perceptive, like herself, walking in someone else's shoes could be scary. You might lose yourself, lose your own identity. You'd need to be certain who you were. Still, it was tantalizing to consider whether one could let your basic personality stay in place, like a tree with roots in the ground, and simply extend your consciousness into that of someone else. Just temporarily, to understand them. Thus you could take their walk and be aware of their thoughts, feel what it's like to be in their body. If they were tall and heavy, you could see what's it's like to look over other people's heads. If they were limited physically, you could feel what a handicap would be like. But then, what if you saw them getting into a dangerous situation? What could you do? Go along for the ride? Feel their pain? Or jump out quick and get back to the real you. Lydia was getting dizzy with these thoughts, these imagined possibilities, but now couldn't stop them. Did parents experience that helplessness when they saw their children do outrageous things? Or teachers when their students didn't heed their advice? Like her mother might have felt when Dale went off to the army and learned how to kill? Lydia felt those chills again, like she was closing in on some truth. A truth that in relating to others, there must be a balance between expecting some behavior that you think is right, but not being disappointed if that doesn't happen.

Wouldn't that be the same as unconditional love? that love that is given without expecting anything in return? Jesus gave unconditional love. He gave people instructions on how to live, and what did they do? Turned their backs on him. Got angry with him. Crucified him.

Psychologists like Maslow and Jung said unconditional love is the requisite for a truly harmonious and peaceful world. So should this enter into her course? And what if she could just put aside herself for awhile, and enter the personality of Jake, say, or Mike, or Stanley, or any of the others and see through their eyes. Would she then know how they all felt That Night?

Now the words 'letting go,' 'stop clinging,' and 'detachment' came to her mind, as if prompted by some unseen being. At the Ranch these concepts were certainly encouraged when going into meditation and something she practiced at night when she sat on her bed in the dark, with closed eyes letting go of the day, the world, and relaxing into a state of peace. Was someone from the Ranch picking up on her thoughts? Or some force in the universe advising her? Lydia looked up from the computer, gazed around the room, saw only the darkness outside the open window, the still solid furniture, the cold corner fireplace, and Sid snoozing away on the rocking chair. Her world, perfectly calm and quiet. She turned back to the computer.

Okay, so in relationships one also needed to let go of the other person. Parents had to let go of their children so they could grow up. But what about children whose parents died, or left before they were grown? Like herself and Margie. Like Jennifer. Again, the similarity popped out, their similar loss.

But maybe children needed to let go of their parents, too. Maybe she needed to let go of her mother? Stop clinging to memories of her? Detach herself from the probing questions of why her mother was murdered? Lydia sighed; this was getting too personal.

I give you permission to look from my eyes.

Oh, right. Who are you?

The other half of your conversation. To have a conversation you must have two.

Oh, yeah, well. So, you're really butting in here, Mother. I wondered where you'd been lately.

_Well, my daughter, it seems you're managing to cross over a bit with your trying to understand, with your getting into the mind and space of those_ _who_ , _well, you know who I mean. Unconditional love and forgiveness. That's rehabilitation you know. A re-learning. But you don't know what it's like not to be able to speak! To argue, to persuade, to teach!_ _There's so much to learn that takes a physical body with those senses you've got._ _Well, I've been presented an option. I can go back. But I'll have to start over with_ _a new body_ , _with a baby body, being dependent on new parents, having to learn how to talk and walk and all that. And I'll be in a new situation and not remember a thing of the last life, but I'll keep some of the same characteristics and interests of before._ _I have some choice, they say. I'll be able to choose my parents, and they're helping me decide what goals I want to work toward in the new lifetime. So I'm making plans, making decisions._

_I'm looking for parents who like books and learning and good schools and who want daughters to be assertive and smart and, and sensible. Maybe I'll have a brother this time. Maybe I won't get married. Maybe I'll teach in college, open up young minds to whatever is beautiful in the earth world._ _There'll be art, and sports, and the outdoors, and microscopes to see little things, and far away things, and teachers for music and math and chemistry—so many things, so many possibilities. So, I'm looking for parents who are wanting a baby. I'm looking to get back._

#

Lydia could hardly believe what she was reading, what her fingers were typing. Like dictation. Could she blame it on a dream? Can one write down one's dream as it is happening? Lydia stared at the screen, then printed it out before it somehow got lost. She stood up and stretched, went to the windows and pulled the curtains. Not that anyone was watching. Still. Sid woke up and yawned, then meowed as if asking her what was up. "Well, Sid, we have another secret here. Don't you dare tell anyone my mother just wrote me a letter." She laughed. She didn't even know how she would explain this to the Ranch. Maybe she just wouldn't, not until some moment that appeared safe. Truth must sometimes be hidden. And wasn't that a problem in interpersonal relations! One she would have to figure out how to handle. But not right now. Sid stretched as if bored, or totally understanding.

Lydia sat down again, left the manuscript and returned to the email from the Ranch. "Write more frequently, please. Tell us more specifically what you are doing. Send us some of your outline notes as soon as you can. Warm weather has come and people are out in the gardens, digging, planting, transplanting, etc. Let us know how long you intend to stay in New Hope. You are needed here."

OK. Lydia rubbed her eyes, strained from intense looking and concentration. She wondered where Margie was, then remembered she and Peter had gone out somewhere. The open house had been exhilarating, but exhausting. Peter had asked them both out for supper at a new restaurant he knew about, but she had turned them down. She needed time alone. Ah, yes. Now she needed time to consider what she had just learned.

Chapter 21

The evening of the treasure hunt turned balmy and humid. Lydia found it hard to choose the appropriate outfit. She wanted something comfortable and cool, but a bit dressy. No shorts and top, even though the children would be in play clothes. She finally decided on the wrinkle-proof, made-in-India skirt from Penney's. A short-sleeved dark blue knit blouse matched one of the colors in the skirt. Sandals and bare legs would keep her cool, she figured.

Margie, downstairs already, yelled up urging her to hurry, but Lydia was in no mood to hurry. Anyway, it was Peter whom Margie really wanted for company, not her. She was probably just restless, as he hadn't appeared yet to walk over with them—or at least to walk Margie over.

For days, weeks, the girls had begged Lydia to teach them magic tricks which she had never gotten around to learning. She just couldn't get excited about figuring out how to hide cards in a deck or scarves in her sleeve or even how to pull a nickel out from behind someone's ear. Fortunately it hadn't taken much to persuade Peter to give them a demonstration the night of the party. The girls looks of disappointment with her in this lax interest in the subject made her feel awful. They didn't know this Peter, they whined. You're supposed to know how to make things disappear, and appear, they reminded her. Yeah, right. Well, she hoped not too many things would appear on the moonlit grounds tonight that weren't supposed to be there. That was her real concern.

Whether from the high excitement in the children about the treasure hunt, or the fact that this was the thirtieth anniversary of her parents' murders, there was an unusual energy in the air that made her feel responsible for keeping it in control. How, she had no idea, but somehow concentrating her mind on the children's progress in the treasure hunt seemed necessary. And that meant staying alone and away from the refreshment committee working in the basement of the gym, the very place where the murders occurred. The committee was made up of the mothers mostly, and Pearl, and Margie. And Peter would hang out with them no doubt.

School was basically out. On the following Monday the children would go back and pick up their report cards. Then summer would be upon them and the children would no longer be coming on their busses or walking past the house. It would present a strange quietness. Maybe that just emphasized the expectations for this night. Even though the ghostly emphasis had been diverted toward magic tricks, there was still an expectation of something going to happen.

"Hey, Lydia, are you coming?" Margie yelled at her from downstairs. "Peter's here."

"In a little bit. You and Peter go on," she encouraged. It was 7:00 and cars began to pull into the parking lot next door to unload children and adults. Their voices carried on the stillness through the open window.

"See you then," Margie called back. "Don't forget to grab those cookies when you come. Peter and I will go on."

"OK, Margie. I'll be over soon." Lydia sighed. What was pulling on her attention? She went to the bedroom where her parents once slept and looked out the window toward the gym and school house. The lowering sun spread its ruby-red rays over the landscape giving enough light for the children's two teams to get their instructions from Pearl and Jake without the help of flashlights. The two boys who had planted the clues gave out the paper instructions to the team leaders.

Pearl shouted out some instructions. "All right now, let's pay attention. This is your party and you're here to enjoy yourselves. _However_ , as we all know sometimes we get carried away when we're having a good time. So, I'm reminding you now of one rule— _leave things as you found them. Don't destroy anything_ _._ You won't need to trample down bushes or dig holes or tear bark off trees. Jake here and Morgan and Cliff will be around to help if you get really stuck. So, I'm going to let you go and see you back in the gym!" She had to yell the last few words as the children started running toward the clue to their first hidden item.

"North!" "North!" "Which way's north?" "This way!" "That's not the fifth tree!" "It is, too." "You're looking too low." "Quit pushing!" "Let me see!" "Over here!" "Got it?" "Moron, you stepped on my toe." "Big deal." "Here it is." "Don't let them see." A team huddled together around the one with the clue to the next treasure, reading. They separated and started running again.

Lydia sighed. She went downstairs where Sid meowed plaintively to be let out. "Oh, yeah, you want to get in on the excitement, right?" She chuckled to herself. A black cat is surely what they need. But she knew he would stay out of their way. So she let him out and followed him to the gate, where he slipped on through. Then she remembered she'd forgotten to pick up the cookies so she went back to the kitchen. She stood there for a moment, feeling something tingle her skin. She shivered. Quickly, she picked up the tub of cookies and started out again. As she walked the short distance to the gym the children's voices were quite distinct as if she were right with them, though surely they were out of earshot. They had gotten to the incinerator, a square cement structure, about six feet by six feet, with walls tall children could see over but never seemed to bother with, until now, when one of the clues had something to say about fire and brimstone. Now the children examined the cracks and crevices with great interest and Jake stood back watching, ready to warn any dare-devil wall climber to be careful. Hate to pull you out of the ashes, Lydia heard him say, noting a bemused chuckle in his voice.

When the clue note was found another round of pushing and shoving occurred until the team leader took charge. "Put the note back, now." Then he thrust his hand in the air and commanded his little group to charge forward. The second group scouted around the swings and slides area for their clue with as much noise and confusion as the other.

By the time the children got to the school barn, the darkness inside made the children use their flashlights for the first time. Lydia stopped her slow walk to the gym and listened to the muffled voices. On the other side of the barn a double row of pine trees that served as a windbreak, seemed to be waiting with a kind of baited breath. If trees had breath. Lydia let herself imagine herself a tree, expecting its space to be invaded, its privacy interrupted. A tension ran through her arms and legs, rooted to the ground and below the ground, but extending up high, high where her limbs were supple and bendable. It was here that the whispering occurred. The murmuring. _Beware. Be patient. Be strong._ Perhaps it was the birds in their nests, too. The little ones barely out of their eggs. Birds calling to each other. Trees waiting, drawing protective rays about them like a cloak.

Past the grove just a short way was Superintendent Stevenson's house. Lydia noted, in her new intuitive vision, that the curtains were pulled but lights burned behind them. The evening light was almost gone now. The moon was about to take over. Lydia remembered what was said about Jake and his chainsaw clearing the lower limbs of the trees. Probably a good thing. Pine needles made a soft layer of the ground underneath. The children had moved out of the barn and some of them scraped their shoes in half circles in the duff, looking for the treasure that was supposed to be hidden there.

Someone found the plastic egg that was hidden. Lydia heard groans and shouts of "Don't break it!" "Cool!" "Twist it open!" "What's the note say?" "Where to next?" Lydia felt the pine trees shiver and pull their energy tightly around them, remaining as still as possible.

Soon the din of the children went on toward the open area of the ball fields and the trees relaxed, sighed, and breathed normally again. Lydia walked around to the back of the gym where she could follow at a distance the progress of the children and their flashlights. She sat on the cold cement steps at the door, still holding the cookie tub. The door had been propped open and she heard the adults inside working in the kitchen downstairs. This was the door, she thought, that her parents came through That Night when they came to investigate whatever it was they heard or thought they saw. Lights, perhaps. Or smells, of marijuana. The door that led them to their deaths.

The moon was now full overhead, as if watching the proceedings below. What a timeless symbol, Lydia thought. If it could talk, how many tales it could tell. What it could tell her of That Night, and many other nights that had occurred in this place that was once prairie, where Indians first roamed and the grasses grew tall and the trees spread their wide branches. Where deer and rabbit, wild turkeys and squirrels, raccoons, coyote, mice and groundhogs and other creatures lived and hunted and died before ever the plow began to change the landscape.

Lydia closed her eyes and let herself feel the cooling night air, smell the slight perfume of lilacs, hear the late call of a robin off in the distance. And somewhere, the scent of woodsmoke. She inwardly saw a small campfire, figures around it. They seemed to be cooking something in a kettle over the fire, and the aroma of meat sizzling on the end of a skewer came to her. Then something disrupted the peaceful scene. A shout from a distance, the sound of horses neighing. Figures left the fire, ran toward the horses, jumped on them, and galloped off. The scene changed and Lydia saw horse and riders in all directions racing toward each other, shouting, clamoring, then charging with bows and arrows and she watched horrified as the scene became a battle of Indian against Indian, riders thrown from their horses, pierced with arrows, where they groaned on the ground dying.

The scene shifted, and she saw a man behind a plow, the horse pulling it with head bent forward, strong flanks furrowing, the plow leaving dark curled earth behind it. Grandmother Earth was being torn up, pierced below its sacred top six inches, desecrated. The Great Spirit frowned. Suddenly a lightning bolt came down out of the sky, struck the steel blade of the plow and the man and horse fell to the ground. Lydia saw this as if standing in the grass taller than herself, looking through its sharp blades, as a child might, not wanting to be seen.

She bolted upright, her eyes flew open. There was a shout from the open space of the school grounds, back of the ball diamond. An argument had erupted. Two boys were shoving each other. Then came the sound of cracking fists. Her heart raced, and she was about to run out to help when she heard Jake's voice "Hey, what's going on here?" and the two boys claiming the other of cheating, of pushing. "He started it!" "He didn't have to hit!" Jake took the boys by the arms, one in each hand and told them to get up, they were getting behind the others. "Look," he told them, "you've got to work together." And he pointed them toward where flashlights were following some shiny articles on the ground, like a trail of crumbs leading to, well, wherever.

"Follow the stars," someone shouted. "There aren't any," replied another, and suddenly, it seemed a cloud came over the moon and darkened the sky. Now Lydia heard complaining voices of "I'm freezing." "It's gonna rain." "I'm scared." "It's spooky."

But further on, she recognized some of the girls voices. "It's true, isn't it?" Robin asked. "On full moon nights dead people start to roam and sometimes they come around and try to grab you and take over your body."

"Shut up, Robin," Tanya said. "You're being totally dopey."

"This way," shouted Jennifer, who seemed quite cool and collected. "The stars are on the ground. Fallen stars." She had her flashlight on the metal markers that led toward a stand of bushes on the northwest edge of the school grounds. Those bushes surrounded a fenced off area where the school sewage was purified. Noxious gasses sometimes accumulated there, just bad enough to appeal to some children, but not too bad to drive them away. They didn't realize its danger. Occasionally children found a way through the fence and walked the pipes laid out on the bottom, a dozen or so feet from the top. It seemed like a daring thing to do since adults thought it was something they shouldn't do.

Lydia watched the flashlights gather around that area. The voices seemed to have settled into normal excitement. After a while they moved on, toward the gym, along the field fence that separated the school grounds from the farm land in back of the Kinnen property. There were trees and bushes along that fence and the children moved cautiously.

Suddenly an eerie cry went up, over the fence toward the Kinnen grave stones. A wailing, long and drawn out, like a baby crying, or a forlorn mother puling over her dead child. Then there was another, reaching into a high pitch, and the two voices carried into the night making her skin crawl. The children stopped, clutched each other, no one dared speak. The crying and howling went on for some time, until one of the girls screamed and they all dashed toward a flashlight held by Morgan, down by the gate between the two properties.

Lydia stood there holding her breath when all of a sudden a streak of black slipped past her through the door and disappeared. She uttered a sigh of relief and silently laughed. Sid. What a serendipitous act! She couldn't keep from smiling, glad no one could see her. It was time for her to go inside and get out of their way. Morgan and Cliff seemed to have things under control as the children gathered near them. The treasure hunt was almost over. The last clue she knew to be near where she was standing. It was supposed to lead inside, into the basement where there was a chest with gold candy coins waiting to be discovered. That would get the children into the area where the refreshments were to be given out while they watched Peter show off his magic tricks.

Morgan had put out his light, and the shadows of trees and bushes engulfed the children. Then, a tinkle like a tiny bell caught her attention, followed by the scuffling of children gathering around it. "Shhhhhhh," one of them said and the voices subsided momentarily. "Where's 'at?" a boy whispered. "Dunno," came another. The tinkle came again and the children saw that Morgan had started walking toward the brick wall curving toward the back door.

A memory of that dream on her first night here flashed through Lydia's mind. The rough surface of the brick wall. The wall her mother felt That Night as she approached the back gym door where she met her death. _Ohhhhh, ohhhhh,_ came the sound, and it was not Sid this time _._ It was coming from Lydia's own mouth until she clamped her hand over it when she realized what she had done. She hoped the children hadn't heard her.

The tinkle came again, and she saw that Morgan clutched a string in his hand which no one saw because of the dark shadows. Cliff held the other end. But to the children who didn't see that, the tinkle seemed to be moving, making the children follow the sound. From her position Lydia could tell that the boys manipulated the level of the string to make the little bell move back and forth.

Lydia stepped aside as Morgan drew near, not wanting to interfere. She, in fact, was now on the other side of the steps, still holding the cookie tub. It reminded her of the pied piper, as children began to follow the sound of the bell. Cliff now had to follow, too, holding up his end so that the bell wouldn't drag on the ground. Soon the children began rushing into the gym, then down the stairs and into the bright lights of the dining area. They looked relieved and excited, pushing, hugging, slapping hands, joyously squealing.

Lydia followed, headed for the kitchen with the cookies, hoping she wasn't too late.

"About time," Margie scolded in a hushed voice. "What've you been doing, anyway?"

"Oh, just listening to the kids," Lydia said. "I guess this is their last treasure?"

Pearl stood over at a small table where a golden treasure chest waited. Morgan marched up to her and handed her the string and the bell, which she took and dangled over her, ringing the little thing as loud as it would go. Cliff came puffing up and stood there grinning. He and Morgan gave a high five, exclaiming that they'd gotten them through.

As the children gathered around, Pearl asked if they were all there. She counted out the fifth graders, then the sixth graders, and nodded in satisfaction.

Then Jake came lumbering in. "They're all accounted for," he said. "Good job, boys," he said to Cliff and Morgan. He had in his hands the various clues the children had left, as they were supposed to. He had followed up and gathered them in a sack, leaving no litter on the grounds.

So far so good, Lydia thought. A brief fight. A bit of fear felt. Enough excitement to make them all tired. Her as well. They wouldn't care about the corner where the energies were accumulating under the red exit sign of the outside door, and around the steps coming down to the basement. She turned her back to those energies, used herself as a kind of barrier so they would not spill out into the room. Mother, she implored, behave yourself. You've come to see what answers I've got for you. But I really don't have any. OK, so it was here that innocence was betrayed. Trust was betrayed. It was here that evil took a hand and played out a scene that shouldn't have been allowed. But there are no drugs here tonight. No bitterness buried in the heart, beneath the skin, in the mind. Nothing for Evil to grab onto and pull into action. They've all moved on, Mother. These are children happy with mysteries, but not with ghosts. These are mothers happy with poems, and food offerings, and work in the fields beside husbands preparing the land, planting the land, harvesting, laying it by—creating, preserving, destroying; Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva; Father, Son and Holy Ghost. The cycles go on, Mother. You must go on, let this lifetime go, forgive. That's the way.

### Chapter 22

Lydia noticed Jake watching her, a curious look on his face, almost as if he detected her inner conversation. Almost as if he knew she was communing with...her mother, the ghost. It was strange, in a way, that there was no Dale energy around. Perhaps he had already gone ahead. Maybe he'd found what he needed, over there.

"Lydia," someone called. It was Pearl. "You've not got your ice cream and cookies." Pearl walked toward her, held out a plate and napkin. "You all right?" She put a hand on Lydia's bare arm. "You're trembling," she said as a worried look crossed her face. "And cold." Pearl held her hand to Lydia's forehead. "Perspiring, too."

Lydia forced a smile. "I'm okay, Pearl. I was just out watching the children with their flashlights, and listening to Jake over there setting them straight from time to time." She glanced over at him and gave him a reluctantly warm smile. He gave one back, then turned away when some-one called out to please gather around, the program was about to start.

Chairs had been set up at the other end of the room, where a little portable platform held a small table for Peter to place his equipment. Peter stepped up and introduced himself. To the children he told how his little girl, when she was eight or nine years old, he couldn't remember just when, loved to play like she was Dorothy going to see the Wizard of Oz and how she loved to pretend to be the good witch with the magic wand that could turn things from nothing into red shoes, for example, or a new dress. All the time he was prattling on, he started doing things with his hands. First it was cards that he shuffled and shuffled and spread out in his hand, then asked one of the children in the front row if she'd like to pick one out and hold it for a while. Then he asked if she thought he could tell her which one it was. "Nooo," Meagan said, shaking her head and scrunching up her shoulders as if she wanted to hide.

But of course, she was proved wrong. So he went on with his story about Dorothy and went into other tricks that awed the children. They sat intrigued for some time while the mothers cleaned up the kitchen, talking quietly among themselves.

When the phone rang, they were startled. It wasn't often that someone called the kitchen this late at night. But it turned out to be Mike Harris, just in from the field, wanting to talk to his wife. Charlette took the phone.

"You about done there?" he asked.

"About. What's up. You okay?" She always worried about him, about when the next panic attack would have to be dealt with.

"I'm OK. But we got this phone call, Charlette. I think it was Rebecca. There was a lot of noise in the background, like she was in some public place. Turns out it was a bus depot. She asked if it were all right to come home, make a visit. Actually, it wasn't really a question. It was more a statement. She'll be here in a couple days. On the bus. She asks if we'd care to meet her, pick her up. She sounded so cold, Charlette. Hard, I mean. Indifferent." She heard a crack in his voice.

Charlette turned toward the wall, avoiding the eyes she felt watching her. "You said yes." Her voice caught and she didn't know whether her yes had become a question or a statement. She didn't know whether the feeling coming over her was one of dread or relief. Was happiness or sorrow.

"Of course." He sounded tired. Of course he was tired. He'd been riding that tractor all day. Probably hadn't eaten the supper she had left for him yet.

"Well, we'll be home soon, honey," she said. "Jennifer is being intrigued with Peter's magic show. He's really good. You know?" She heard the lift at the end as if she hardly believed herself, as if she were in a make believe world at the moment. Her daughter coming home? After all this time? After not even knowing whether she was alive? She felt like an electric current had been turned on and was circuiting her body. She felt the hairs on her arms rise amid the goose bumps. She felt tears welling up, her lips quivering. What was she going to tell Jennifer?

After she hung up Charlette stayed at the phone to collect herself. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and knew it was her sister Shirley.

"She's coming home," Charlette whispered, not even looking at her, knowing she didn't have to. She dabbed at tears and blew her nose, but the shaking wouldn't stop.

Shirley caught her breath, her hand inadvertently tightening on Charlette's shoulder, pulling her sister into her so they hugged in mutual consolation. "From where?" Shirley asked.

Charlette pulled back and looked into Shirley's eyes. "I don't even know," she said, suddenly frightened at her negligence in finding out. "Maybe Mike knows." She hoped. She hoped. But maybe it wouldn't matter, if Rebecca was really on her way. If she'd already boarded the bus. "I forgot to ask. I was just so shocked, stunned."

"How is she coming?" Shirley asked.

"Bus."

"So, you'll meet her? Where? When?"

"Mike knows. I guess." She felt uncertain now. Had Mike gotten details? "Maybe she'll call again. When she gets in. Delora, perhaps? Marshalltown? Des Moines? What am I going to tell Jennifer?"

Charlette broke the embrace and started to scan the room. She saw Jennifer and Tanya looking at them from across the room. Peter was putting away his magic items and answering questions from the curious children. Jennifer seemed to be of two minds, wanting to ask questions, but wanting to know what her mother was looking so strange about. The phone call must have been really important. Maybe her dad was sick again? But her mom didn't look anxious and hurrying to leave like she usually was when there was an emergency.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Amber asked Peter. Jennifer turned back to hear his answer.

"Ghosts?" Peter screwed up his face, then grinned. He wasn't about to get into a debate about the rumors he'd been hearing from Margie about things Lydia had told her. But how to give a decent answer. "Do you?" he asked, using the old turn it back to the questioner trick.

"Jennifer sees them," Amber giggled and bobbed her head with its blond pony tail up and down enthusiastically. "But maybe it's just magic tricks." She gave Jennifer a sly, slightly accusatory look. Jennifer glowered at her but stayed silent.

"Something was out there tonight," said one of the boys who had gotten into a fist fight. "Sounded like horses and men shouting."

"Indians, man. Don't you know Indians when you see them?" The boy laughed and made a war whoop sound with his hand to his mouth. "They swhoosed past so fast they knocked us down." The boy said it in a mocking way, playing into the other's imagination, but perhaps also to cover what he thought he may have seen.

"It got cold," said Robin, who moved in closer when she heard the boy's remarks. "And windy. And it did feel like something wanted to get us." She stood a half-head taller than the boy and she smiled at him in a pleasant way as if encouraging him to say more.

"Something hit me and I've got a bruise to prove it," continued the first boy. He pulled up his pant leg and showed them all a large scrape with a little blood oozing out. His pants were grass stained on his knee.

"You fell and hit the ground," the other boy hissed. "And I didn't push you." A sudden recognition came over the boy's face as he realized the implication of what he had just said. On the one hand he didn't want to be accused of fighting; on the other hand he was just verifying that something else caused the boy to fall.

"Well, then, it was the Indians," cried Robin. "I told you. Dead people like a full moon. And there used to be Indians here a long time ago."

"That doesn't make any sense, Robin," Tanya said in a fierce, gravelly voice. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep from giving Robin a shove, while her face reddened and her eyes glistened with tears. Jennifer put her arm around her.

"It makes as much sense as seeing ghosts over there!" Robin pointed to the corner, to that place. "That's where you've said things happen."

"That was before," Tanya said, her voice shaking.

"Before what? Before the Kinnens came back and it wasn't so fun anymore?" Robin raised herself to her highest height and her own mouth turned down as if fighting the tears welling up.

"OK," Jake said, coming over to the gaggle of girls. "That's enough speculation. You've just proved that you have good imaginations and can be told most anything and you'd believe it. I can tell you there weren't any Indians, weren't any ghosts out there, and the change of weather was just a natural thing that happens. A cloud comes over and it gets cooler. That's all." He completely ignored the remark about ghosts in the corner.

It was Pearl who stepped over and tried to put a sane light on what seemed to be happening. "I see you girls have been learning how stories can get exaggerated and how the truth sometimes gets lost." She smiled at them all and stepped between Meagan and Amber, putting an arm around each girl. They were the smallest of the five, and this left her standing facing Robin, trying to keep her pride in tact, and Jennifer and Tanya, leaning on each other. "I think you've come to see in the past few weeks how rumors can get a little out of hand." She laughed. "And I think you've come to know that little girls grow up and become women who each have a story to tell. And boys grow up with their own stories, too. I think you've come to know Lydia and Margie Kinnen as two real people, and maybe you've come to see that your own parents have some hurts and trials that they've had to overcome. And I hope you are learning that teachers can love you even though they only get to see you for a year or two." Pearl brought her hands up and put them together in front of her like she was about to clap. She motioned all the children, the boys and girls, the other adults to come over and join in a song. She and Margie nodded to each other. The women came out of the kitchen. Peter stepped over with other men in the group. Jake and his wife, superintendent Stevenson and his wife.

"For he's a jolly good fellow. For he's a jolly good fellow," came the words as Pearl directed their voices toward Peter, then Jake, then switched the words to "Oh, we're all jolly good fellows, we're all jolly good fellows," and the mood visibly lifted in the room.

Lydia was amazed. First she was astounded at Jake. He who had apparently encouraged ghostly tales for years was now discouraging them? She waited to see whether that would apply to the gym. She found it interesting that some of her very thoughts as she watched the children and their flashlights move about the school grounds, that Indians had come to her mind, too. And there certainly was enough of a disturbance out there at one point for Jake to have to separate the two boys, and she remembered Robin's remarks about ghosts taking over bodies. Well, she was partially right, in spite of what Pearl might think. If there were any disembodied souls around, tramp souls as some described them, it would have been a chance for them, when the children were open to something happening, to do just that. But Lydia wasn't about to let anyone know she had been inwardly watching, feeling protective and asking her friends at the Ranch to help. She wasn't about to let them know she felt it her duty to stay at the back door and keep the energies in line.

Chapter 23

The mood in New Hope had made a definite shift. School was out and energies were concentrated on the business of farming—caring for the fields and the animals. Scores of new pigs had to be tended to on some farms. The big machines had to be cared for, kept running productively. Breakdowns were inevitable and costly, so they had to take priority to any pleasurable activities. There were no extra 'doings' at the school and gym. Nothing extra going on in the church. For Lydia and Margie, this sudden lack of children's laughter and noise, the absence of cars and busses turning into the school drive next door, was as big a let-down as when a high-powered conference was over and one was the last straggler to leave for home.

For Margie, it meant a slow-down in her business. No more letters or flyers to print for the school. She had to find a way to attract new business, maybe some long-distance work, printing the book for an author that didn't expect a large audience, maybe something for friends or family. That would mean advertising, and waiting. With her new interest in Peter, she had determined to stay in New Hope and make it her home. It wasn't far to drive to Delora, not as far as many suburbanites commuted to their work in cities. And Dianne had decided to take up Peter's offer of work at the title company he was associated with. She was coming next week, her father consenting to drive with her, then fly back. He no doubt wanted to check out the room Margie was preparing for Dianne, as well as Peter. Not that she had said anything about him being a boyfriend, but she supposed he suspected that. The room she was preparing was where her parents had slept. It was a large room, with a double bed, large dresser, and space for a desk for Dianne's computer. She would come with her cell phone, so no need to install one. That was one convenience of new technology.

As for Peter, Margie hoped he could stand up to the judge, the federal judge who felt himself so superior and self-important. She had warned Peter. He had smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "It's not that he'll be here long," he laughed. "I'm sure this little town holds no lure for him."

"True. But he may have plenty to say about what he thinks is wrong or backward with the place." Margie could see Brad snorting at Peter's office in the charming little building across the street from the ancient court house. It had been the home of one of Delora's doctors when doctors had an office and waiting room in the front of their house, worked alone and made house calls. It had polished hard-wood floors and a curved hard-wood banister and stairs that led to the second floor.

Now it was offices of several professionals—another attorney, a couple accountants, a private investigator, and one marriage counselor. They shared the kitchen and bathrooms. None of them lived there.

For Lydia, the new quietness reminded her that she needed to get back to The Ranch, even though she had been asked to teach a Sunday School class for the 10-12 year olds, which would include the girls she had learned to care about. She hesitated on stretching the feeling to love. Sure, she wanted to know about them, what interests they were developing, but couldn't that be done by an occasional letter, or email? Maybe it was because of that request she felt the need to get back. She just didn't want to go into the Christian scriptures and discuss angels and the after life which had been hinted at. She just couldn't confine herself to one set of scriptures. The Bhagavad Gita and other Oriental texts were waiting for her to further exploration. Besides, she was no authority on the Bible. No, staying here wasn't in her agenda. She felt fairly comfortable that the ghosts had been laid to rest, unless Jennifer and Tanya's brothers who were coming home for the summer wanted to keep that stirred up. But she didn't think they would. They'd be too busy with work on the farms. Besides, there was a new presence in the Harris household. Jennifer's mother had returned, and she had heard the young woman was pregnant. That would certainly keep the family occupied for a while.

Jennifer's mother, Rebecca, wasn't the only one expecting, Lydia had learned. Meagan's mother, too. Then there was Jake's sister's daughter, who lived now in Delora. His niece had come to live with her grandmother, who was getting feeble and worn out working at the nursing home and seeing her husband, Jake Jackson, Sr., succumb more and more to forgetfulness and irritability. Jake had told her this when he was tending the bonfire at the back of the property, burning the vines and debris she had pulled off the old shed. He had been downright pleasant on that occasion. He even taught her how to build a bin of grass and leaves for making mulch. As if she were going to stick around and garden. Hah. She'd put in some vegetables and flowers. Even kept the lawn mowed front and back. It had been fun for a while. Backbreaking, though. And now, in June, it was getting hot and humid, with mosquitoes in the evenings and flies in the daytime. Not that The Ranch would be that much better. Even so, she was yearning to be back with the people she knew, the people she could really talk to. Things here were moving on.

Lydia felt in her bones that these new pregnancies were the souls coming back that left thirty years ago in turmoil and maybe torment. Her mother. Dale. And the third? She couldn't figure that one out. Didn't seem to be her father. One of her grandparents? Dale's mother Alice? Maybe, maybe. But she did know that her mother was no longer calling to her in dreams. Her why's may have been answered on the other side, or maybe not. Maybe she had to be in a body again, with physical senses, to learn what it was she needed to learn. Maybe Dale, too. No longer did Lydia find him coming through from cyberspace as she sat at the computer with her "muse." She'd had to work to get her course on Truth and Interpersonal Relations in some kind of order. And that was another reason to get back to the Yoga Ranch. She had promised and they were making out the course schedules for the summer retreats.

There was only one thing left to do here. That was the private memorial service to be held in the gym for her parents. Where the five then teen-agers, now middle-agers, could congregate and bring a healing energy to that corner where the most grievous and hard to understand event had occurred to change their lives forever.

Chapter 24

The little service was set to occur the next day, Saturday, at 8:00 in the evening, to accommodate chores that had to be done. It was private, with just Margie and Lydia, Stanley and Shirley, Mike and Charlette, and Jake who showed up with his father in a wheelchair, and his mother. It was an odd little group that gathered in the far corner of the basement room in the gym. There had been a quiet planning, each one offering to bring a simple item of tribute to the two teachers who had fallen there.

Mike was dressed in white open-collared shirt and good trousers, and had in his hand a leaf, long, narrow, dark green. It represented the marijuana that he had smoked only once.

Charlette was in a simple pink dress and white shoes and had in her hand a picture of her parents, who had tried to keep lives from going under when the rough spots threatened.

Stanley was dressed similarly to Mike, casual but neat, and brought a silver dollar, representing the precious metal of friendship and respect.

Shirley wore blue, and brought a blue ribbon representing first place, honoring teachers she had looked up to.

Jake was dressed in a grey suit and brought his parents. Though his father may not have known what was going on, it seemed there were tears in his eyes and off and on a bit of voice, sigh, groan, perhaps recognition of something special, something properly closing. His mother, Mavis, arthritic and subdued, brought a card with the simple words May you rest in peace.

Margie brought a sprig of mint to represent the freshness that we all need in life when things look dark.

Lydia was the one who guided them through a service that was for healing, for remembering we are all on our way, mistakes happening, toward knowing the Truth that will set us free, which is Love, honoring the spirit of love in each of us, the spirit that is eternal, living beyond this life, this body. And though we cannot go back and redo in our present life, we can go on and do better in the next. Life after life.

####

a note about the writer:

Margaret Guthrie received a B.A. in literature from Pacific University, Forest Grove, OR, and a Master of Social Work from the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI. She is the author of _Silent Truth_ , a novel, and three poetry books. She is a member of Trail Ridge Writers, Columbine Poets of Colorado, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, and the Lyons Itinerant Poetry Society. She lives with her husband in Estes Park, CO.

