If Onions Could Spring Leeks (15 page)

“Too late, and there's no other option, Betts. Come on.” Jake pulled my hand the other direction.

Isabelle, stay still for a moment.

“Jerome?” I said as I stopped hard enough to pull Jake toward me again.

“Is he here?” Jake said.

“I don't see him or smell him, but I heard him. I heard his voice. He told me to stay still for a moment.”

Another rotten rafter fell into the water.

“You're imagining things,” Jake said. “We've got to go, Betts.”

Stay still!

“Jake, seriously, don't move. I know it sounds crazy, but I know we'll be okay if we just stay still,” I said. I didn't know, but I was one hundred percent sure I heard Jerome's voice.

Jake looked at me—in the flash of an instant I saw fear, confusion, and disbelief cross his face, and then I saw acceptance.

“You'd better be right,” he said. He turned toward the disappearing basement. “Jerome! Get it in gear, buddy. Get us out of here.”

For the longest few seconds of my life, the only thing that happened was more destruction. The ceiling fell, one piece at a time, the walls crumbled, several pieces at a time. It wasn't long before Jake and I were crouched next to each other on the remaining step, the space for us becoming smaller and smaller.

“We have only a few more seconds,” Jake said. “Let's swim.”

On each side of us, more cracks sounded and the stair frame started to give way.

“We're going in, Betts. Hold my hand and we'll get out of here,” Jake said breathlessly.

But then the opening across the bacteria-filled-and-small-fish-riddled lake became totally blocked. The wall from the above level collapsed, closing the space.

“Oh no,” I said.

“Just hold tight,” Jake said as he pulled my hand close to his chest. “We'll be okay if Jerome said we'd be okay.”

I remembered that Jerome hadn't visited me in person on this trip, that the ghosts actually seemed to be possessing each other as well as live people. The voice I'd heard that had sounded so much like Jerome's might have been someone else pretending to be Jerome.

“Oh, Jake,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

“Hold tight.”

It was only about an instant before the entire building came down that invisible hands reached from above and grabbed both me and Jake and pulled us up. The storm of
flying debris was even stronger on the higher level. I couldn't see much of anything or anyone.

What felt like an eternity later, we were deposited on the ground in front of the building, or where the building had been a few minutes earlier.

“You okay?” Jake said to me as he grabbed my arms. We were both on our knees.

He was windblown but he didn't look injured. I figured I looked the same.

“I'm fine, Jake. You?”

“Fine,” Jake said, but I could tell he wasn't so sure.

“Betts,” another voice said.

I looked up. It was so bright and sunny that the ghost was barely distinguishable.

“Robert?” I said. I turned to Jake and stood, feeling okay but a little noodle-limbed. “Robert's here. Hang on a second.”

Jake nodded and sat back again on his heels, seemingly relieved to have a moment to recover.

“Robert, what's going on?” I said.

“I'm not sure. I was sent here by some cowboy. He couldn't get here, but he knew I could so he told me to come and get you two out of there.”

“How'd you grab us? There's too much light out here for you to be solid.” I caught a slight whiff of his old cologne-like scent, making me sure I wasn't imagining him.

He shrugged. “Cowboy told me I could. I guess I just believed him.”

“Was that the Broken Rope station?”

“I do believe so.”

“How'd it get here?”

“I don't know.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Why couldn't Jerome get here?”

“I don't know.”

“Robert, this is going to seem terribly ungrateful, but you're here. I have to ask, did you kill Grace?”

“No!” He said the word adamantly, but then he looked back at the space where the building had been. The building wasn't there anymore. The tracks remained, but in their overgrown state. “I did not kill her, but she died here, or at the Broken Rope station, I think. That's what I'm remembering. That's why I could get here, to this building, I guess. But I did not kill her. I couldn't have.”

“I don't understand. Why was the building even here? We're not in Broken Rope.”

Jake stood up and walked toward where the structure had been. In its place, there was only a deep hole in the ground and the school of tiny fish swimming around.

“Why, Robert? Why here?”

“I don't know.”

Jake looked at me. “The whole thing was an apparition?”

“I don't know,” I said. “You saw it. You aren't supposed to see the ghost stuff.”

“I more than saw it. I felt it.”

“Robert said he didn't kill Grace, and that he doesn't know why the Broken Rope station was here, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Huh. It's all so . . .”

“Scary?” I said.

“Interesting.”

“Oh.”

“Hurry up and finish with Robert. I want to get to Frankland,” Jake said.

“Still? I mean . . .”

“We're going, and we're going to figure out how Justice Adams played a part in Robert and Grace's history. The sooner, the better.” Jake turned and walked to his Bug. He moved directly through Robert.

“Wanna come with us?” I said to the ghost.

“No, I have to go for now. I'm a little tired of all this, Betts. I'd like to go back to where I was, even if Grace isn't there. I'm not supposed to be bothered by anything anymore. This bothers me.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

Robert shook his head. “Well, the cowboy will be happy that you're okay.”

“It wasn't real. Could we have truly been hurt?”

Robert shrugged. “Don't know, but it wasn't worth the risk.”

“Thanks, Robert. And thank Jerome, too.”

“Of course,” he said before he disappeared.

We drove out of the clearing that had seemed like the perfect setting for a train station, one that might not ever have really been there.

“Thank Robert and Jerome for me next time you see them,” Jake said, repeating my gratitude. “If we'd swam through the water, we might have been crushed by the crumbling wall. If it was real, they saved us, Betts.”

I wondered. “Well, someone
did.”

The current Frankland train station was similar to the ghostly version I'd visited. Present day, it was still simple but welcoming, still pretty and somewhat primitive. But that was just from the outside.

Inside were walls packed with posters, pictures, and placards—some things framed, some not, most everything somewhat tilted and off-center. There were no benches, but two card tables, each with four chairs, took up the waiting area. There were decks of cards and backgammon boards on each table, but no one was currently sitting around them.

“Help you?” a crackled voice said from the direction of the ticket counter, but it was located behind a floor-to-ceiling wooden beam, so we couldn't see the person attached to the voice.

“That's Mariah,” Jake said before he stepped purposefully forward.

I followed behind and tried not to show my surprise when we came upon the only other person in the building.

“Jake, my love,” she said as she stood from the rocking chair and stretched her arms out toward him.

I was surprised because Mariah was either in costume or she was like the building—almost authentic, in the ways of an old Missouri backwoods woman. She was short, definitely old, hunched over, and wrinkled like an apple-head doll whose apple had been left to dry for far too long. She smoked a pipe, or at least held one in her mouth; I didn't smell any smoke. She wore a long skirt with an apron and a bonnet, which only covered most of her wiry gray hair. She might have been a hundred years old. At least.

“Mariah, it's lovely to see you.” Jake pulled her into a genuine and sweet hug. “I have missed you.”

“Well, you don't have to miss me. Come visit me anytime; I'm here until I die. I know, I know, you've got your shows. How're they going this summer?”

“Very well.”

“So many crowds there in Broken Rope. Too much of a big city for my tastes.”

“I understand and I will come visit more often.” He didn't make such promises unless he intended to keep them. “This is my friend Isabelle Winston. Betts. And this is Mariah,” Jake said as he stepped to the side so that Mariah and I could shake hands. Jake didn't move too far away, though, probably just in case her small body wouldn't for whatever reason stay upright.

“Oh, Betts. Winston? Wait, are you related to Missouri?” she said.

“She's my grandmother,” I said.

“Sweet young lady,” she said.

Gram was almost eighty, but I said, “Thanks, I think so, too.”

“What are the two of you doing here in Frankland? Something I can do for you?” Mariah said.

“We're here to talk about Justice, if you're up for it,” Jake said.

“If I'm up for it? It's all I do anymore. It's all I really remember how to do.” She laughed, her scratchy throat making a distinct but kind of adorable frog croak.

“Thanks, Mariah. We can sit while we chat.” Jake guided her as she sat back down in the rocking chair. She placed her pipe on a skinny table to her side, next to a worn paperback, the title of which I couldn't see.

Jake and I took seats on barrels with tops covered in old, worn leather, the torn edges riveted into the side of the barrels. A shiny gold spittoon sat next to the rocking chair, but I didn't see any sign of chew anywhere. The floor was made up of wood planks that probably hadn't seen better days, but were put there in their ragged shape on purpose. I understood. I was from Broken Rope; I knew all about atmosphere.

“What do you want to know, Jake? You know lots about Justice already.”

“I know Justice created jobs for many people, right?”

“Because of him, folks who might have gone hungry or without a roof over their heads were able to eat and have shelter. Yes, he helped a bunch of people,” Mariah said.

“Other than his amazingness—and I agree, he was amazing, Mariah.” He paused and his face became serious. “Do you have any idea if he had any bad traits?”

“Like what, dear?”

Jake shrugged. “I don't know. I've come across some little information that puts him in a less-than-favorable light, Mariah. I hesitate to share the details because I want to make sure the information is one hundred percent accurate before I breathe a word about it to anyone, especially you. Even Betts doesn't know. She's just here because I wanted company on the trip.” Jake paused again but continued quickly. “Did Justice maybe have a quick fuse, impatience that couldn't be controlled well?”

I saw how Jake was trying to maneuver around the thing we really wanted to know. Had Justice killed Grace? It wasn't something that could be easily asked.

Mariah stopped rocking and sat forward in the chair resting her elbows on her knees. “Love, what is it that you want to know? There's no need to warm me up or beat around the bush. I will answer whatever you want me to answer to the best of my ability, which is simply my limited knowledge of my ancestor, but I know more about him than anyone. Tell me what you want to know. He's long gone. You're a friend, Jake.”

Jake looked at Mariah a moment. “I don't want to hurt your feelings, Mariah, but the questions I have are about something bad, something dark. Are you really okay with that?”

“Of course I'm okay with that, Jake. I'm old enough to know that no one can be good all the time. We all have some darkness inside us.”

“All right, then.” Jake looked at me. He still didn't want to say anything that might offend his friend, but I nodded supportively.

“Mariah, I've found some old information about a woman named Grace. She was a black woman who was originally from Mississippi and was, allegedly, killed on her way to Broken
Rope, or perhaps in or just past Broken Rope—no one knows for sure. Does the name Grace mean anything to you? In the way of being associated with Justice, I mean.” Jake swallowed and looked at Mariah both apologetically and expectantly.

Mariah's mouth came together in a wrinkled pucker. She looked at Jake, blinked, looked at me, and then back at Jake. “Maybe.”

Jake nodded and waited. I think I held my breath.

“As we've already discussed, love, Justice was a good man. He helped a lot of people. But he was still, from his very core to the skin over his bones, a man who loved women. He was married twice, and from the stories I've heard he never behaved monogamously. He loved women—all woman, all skin colors.”

“I see,” Jake said when she paused.

Mariah rubbed her chin. When she pulled her fingers away from her face they made a fan movement until they reached her lap again. It was something I might expect a hypnotist to use to focus a subject's attention on a specific spot.

“Well, there was a Grace I heard about,” Mariah said. “A lovely woman. A beauty that Justice couldn't ignore, I heard. It's a story we don't tell much because it sounds made up and it ends badly.”

“All right. Go on,” Jake said.

“They say that he met her here, at our station. Right here. She was on her way somewhere and her beauty put him under a spell. Well, it was as good a reason as any for him to up and leave. Justice took the next train behind her, hoping to find her.”

“Do you know if he did?” I said.

Mariah looked around the otherwise empty station.
“Here's my secret, Jake, my family's secret. It can't be told to anyone outside this room.”

“Of course,” Jake said. I nodded when they both looked at me.

“He never came home.”

“What? No, that's not correct, Mariah. Justice was killed by a runaway horse here in Frankland. He fell off.”

“The family had to have a better excuse than that he left them to follow a beautiful woman of color that he claimed he couldn't stop thinking about even though he'd just met her. A woman of color named Grace.” Mariah sat back in the chair and sighed heavily. “They had to come up with a story when they received word that he was never coming back only a few short days after he left.”

“A letter?” I asked.

“A letter,” Mariah said.

“Who from?”

“They say it was from Justice himself, but that part's a mystery too.”

“You don't still have the letter?” Jake said.

“Wouldn't that be a treasure? No, Jake, the letter, according to the legend, was burned the same night it was received, the same night the story about Justice being thrown from the horse was concocted.”

“That must have been some letter,” I said. “I mean, your ancestors must not have needed much convincing if they acted that quickly.”

“Perhaps the tale has transformed over time, but that is correct. Whatever the letter said, it was a convincing story.”

We were all silent a moment, deep in thought, but I
couldn't help myself. “Who's buried in his casket? He—well, someone—was interred, right?”

“No one. There was a funeral and a big show of him dying, but even the town doctor thought it was important that people think more highly of Justice than him running off with a woman, never to return to his loved ones again.”

“Good grief, Mariah, that's a huge story and one that it might be time to tell,” Jake said.

Mariah shrugged. “We'll see. I'd like for the world to know. Justice leaving his family was not an honorable way to behave, but it was for love, or so we all like to think. The family would be upset if they knew I'd told the truth, but you're a true friend, Jake.”

Love or murder, or both? Jake and I looked at each other. Had Justice made it to Broken Rope, killed Grace when she didn't return his love, and then run away to avoid prosecution? Had they run off together, leaving Robert behind to visit the train station the rest of his life? Why had Grace visited me in a scene that included the Frankland station, and not the Broken Rope station?

With a great effort, Mariah rose from the rocking chair. Jake offered her his arm, which she took as she led us out to the other part of the building, the place that now held card tables but probably had been filled with hard, uncomfortable benches at one time.

“Let's look at some pictures,” Mariah said.

Even before we'd made it all the way to the wall with the pictures, I could see that the man in most of them was the same jowly man that Paul had sketched based upon Gram's description.

“Here, there's Justice when he was a young man, just starting out in the world.” Mariah pointed to a picture of a person standing straight and tall, looking directly at the camera and, if I wasn't mistaken, trying not to smile. No one smiled in pictures back then.

“He was handsome,” I said.

“Yes, for a while. Here he is with his first wife.”

Justice's first wife was as pretty as he was handsome.

“He was still young when he got married the first time,” I said. “He doesn't look much different from the first picture.”

“Here he is with some of his friends,” Mariah said.

Justice stood in the middle of a group of men. All but Justice had soot-covered faces; probably miners. None of the men in the picture seemed happy to be having the photograph taken, and Justice's expression was just as dower as everyone else's. He was older now, not old, but close to middle age, and closer in appearance to the man in the sketch.

“His second wife.” Mariah pointed.

Justice had gained weight, exaggerating the already obvious jowls. His second wife was pretty, too, but just as unhappy as everyone else in the pictures. I'd often wondered when someone first smiled for a photograph. Someone must have said “Say cheese,” causing the subject to laugh and everyone realized that happy expressions made for better memories.

She moved to the next picture that was of Justice only. “They told everyone that this picture was taken the day before he was thrown from the horse, but look closely. You'll see that he was actually a little younger than he was in the picture with his second wife.” Mariah laughed. “They tried to think of everything, even faking the time a picture was taken. I don't understand it.”

I wondered how anyone had believed this picture was taken some time after the one with his second wife. The differences were obvious. People believed what they wanted to, though, and Justice had been a hero to so many. I didn't understand the lies his family had told to protect him and the truth, but I hadn't been there. Things were different then.

“It's all over and done now. Doesn't matter, I suppose to anyone. We don't get many visitors here anymore. Justice's memory is faint but still glorious. That's what the family wants, to keep it glorious, and I'm happy to oblige because he did do a lot of good for a lot of people.”

It mattered, but she was right: Nothing from the past could really be changed.

Jake bit his bottom lip and then pulled his attention away from the wall of pictures. “Mariah, are you familiar with an old train station up the highway about halfway between here and Broken Rope?”

“No, love.” She inspected him. “The only train stations that used to exist on that route are this one and Broken Rope's. There were no others between the two places.”