Ghost Letters (7 page)

“Truth?” said Fred with a laugh. “In a ghost story? Are you kidding? It's nonsense! Don't tell me you're starting to believe in ghosts, Prescott.”

Gil suddenly got interested, leaning forward in his chair and listening carefully.

“No, of course not, but I've been thinking of writing a poem about the unknown postman,” said Prescott. “Firemen and soldiers get all the glory, but letter carriers are unsung heroes. They deserve to be memorialized too.”

“That's true,” Fred agreed.

“So, I wanted some details,” Prescott said, looking sidelong at his grandson. “Even if it's a folktale, the story of the unknown postman must have some basis in fact.”

Fred took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then turned to Gil. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Gil shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Neither do I, but a lot of people seem to accept the supernatural …” Fred had a slow way of talking that made Gil squirm with impatience. “They say the unknown postman walks around Carville, carrying dead letters. You know, the kind that can't be
delivered. Either the numbers and street names don't match or there's no return address. It could be someone's moved without leaving forwarding instructions …”

When he paused, Gil was about to mention the strange figure he and Nargis had seen two days ago, but he decided not to interrupt the postmaster's story.

Prescott prompted Fred. “Go on. Who was he?”

“He doesn't have a name,” the postmaster continued. “Some say he walked a rural delivery route between the farms that lay on the outskirts of Hornswoggle Bay. But we don't have any records and I wasn't here back then …” When he paused, it seemed as if he'd forgotten what he was talking about, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

“Do you know how he died?” Gil asked.

“Not for sure. There's so much rumor mixed with facts,” said Fred, now playing with the paper clips on his desk. “It's just a tall tale—make-believe—part of the postal lore of these parts.”

“We'd like to hear it anyway,” Prescott said.

“Well …” Fred took a deep breath. “Supposedly, he was killed when the old post office burned down in 1951. He got burned up with all of the letters. Went up in smoke, along with all of the Christmas cards and other mail. The fire happened on December twentieth. Everything was destroyed, right down to the foundations. Not a trace of the postman either, though people said they saw him inside, flailing his arms and trying to put out the flames. Even the firemen claimed he died in the
blaze, though they couldn't find any of his remains when they sifted through the ashes.

“There were all sorts of rumors about letters that got lost—checks for thousands of dollars burned up in the fire, Christmas packages with expensive gifts. A lot of false insurance claims were filed. Someone demanded compensation for a diamond ring they'd sent in the mail, but there wasn't any sign of it, or any receipt. Again, I wasn't around to witness any of this; it's all hearsay. All of the records and files got destroyed as well, so there's no way to prove who the postman was. Some people believe he set the fire himself because he was upset with the postmaster. They say he pretended to fight the fire, then ran away. Others claimed he died trying to save the mail. Whether he's the villain or the hero of this story, it's hard to say.”

“But somebody must have known who he was,” Gil said, putting his elbows on the postmaster's desk.

Fred shook his head. “From what I've heard, he had no family or friends. Over the years, people have suggested we put up a plaque for him, you know, like the unknown soldier.”

“You've never seen him?” Prescott asked.

“No, of course not!” Fred shuffled some of the papers on his desk. “I told you, I don't believe in ghosts. But four days after the fire in 1951, it snowed. A white Christmas. The burned-down remains of the post office were covered in white, like a shroud. People said the next morning, all along the mail route the unknown postman used to walk, there were sooty footprints, the shape of a man's shoe in the snow, outlined with
a dusting of ash. That's how the story started. Some people still believe he walks his route, trying to deliver the letters and cards destroyed in the fire. Some say they've seen him passing through the older neighborhoods of Carville at dusk. And whenever we have a white Christmas, there are reports of ashy footprints in the snow.”

TEA PLANTER'S SON KIDNAPPED

By Our Crime Correspondent

A
JEEBGARH
, 8/11/1896. A brazen kidnapping occurred yesterday, when Lawrence Sleeman, the son of Mr. Roderick Sleeman, was taken captive along the footpath that runs from Upper Finch tea estate to Ambital. Reports indicate that the kidnappers are army deserters from the British military encampment on the borders of Ajeebgarh.

Mr. Sleeman and the police have appealed to the public for any information leading to the recovery of his son. No ransom note has been received from the kidnappers and their whereabouts are unknown. A reward of rupees 1,000 has been offered by
H. H. Maharajah Lajawab Singh II for any clues leading to the arrest of these criminals.

Sikander tears the front-page article out of the newspaper and puts it inside the blue bottle, along with a note to Gil telling him about the kidnapping.

After throwing it in the river, he returns home to find a police inspector, from the Royal Constabulary of Ajeebgarh, waiting to question him. This is the third time he's been interrogated. The inspector is suspicious at first, assuming that Sikander may have been associated with the kidnappers. But when he hears a description of the three men who took Lawrence hostage, the policeman nods and strokes his whiskers with a grave look on his face.

“They called themselves the three Tommies,” says Sikander, “and they talk as if they have toffees stuck in their teeth.”

“Aaah,” says the police inspector. “Deserters from the army. The Duke of Dumbarton's own Third Foot. Wanted men. Ruthless brigands who were facing a court-martial.”

“They said they would be writing a ransom note to Mr. Sleeman,” Sikander continues.

The policeman raises his bushy eyebrows. “We'll send out a search party to look for them, but who knows where they've gone. They didn't give any indication, did they?”

Sikander shakes his head helplessly.

“You will find Lawrence, won't you, sir?” he asks, trying to hold back his tears. “They're not going to hurt him, are they?”

“We hope not,” says the policeman. “But these are desperate men. They've killed before. They'll kill again.”

Over the next week, Sikander goes to the police station every day and asks about Lawrence, but there is no news. Search parties have scoured the hills above Ajeebgarh, but all they find are the ashes of a campfire and the bones of six trout. No other sign of the army deserters or their hostage can be found.

Though he collects lampblack each morning, and mixes ink after school, Sikander cannot forget the loss of his friend. He feels guilty for having abandoned Lawrence, even if the Tommies gave him no choice. Sometimes he becomes so upset his tears fall into the ink and dilute the mixture. The letter writer grumbles at him.

“Not the right shade of black,” he says. “What's wrong? Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

Sikander snuffles into his sleeve and adds more soot and resin until the ink is the correct color and consistency—as dark as his mood.

An old woman has come to dictate a letter to her son. Her message is full of family gossip and rambles on for several pages. Sikander feels frustrated listening to the woman, thinking there are so many more important things that could be written. When it's finished, the letter is folded into an envelope and sealed. Sikander is told to carry it to the post office and make sure it is mailed to Calcutta. This time, he doesn't leap to his feet but walks slowly, dejectedly through the crowded lane, head held low.

“What's wrong with you?” asks the postal clerk when Sikander hands him the letter. “Such a long face!”

“My friend has been kidnapped,” he explains. “I'm afraid he'll be killed.”

From his stool behind the counter, the clerk peers down at Sikander sympathetically before he weighs the letter.

“There haven't been any letters for Mr. Sleeman at the tea estate, have there?” Sikander asks. “We're waiting for a ransom note.”

The clerk shakes his head, then checks the envelope. “First class to Calcutta … Three ounces … Two annas.”

Sikander hands over the coins and listens to the thump, thump as the clerk cancels the stamp. It sounds like a judge's hammer, punctuating a fatal verdict.

When Sikander returns to the letter writer's shop, he finds that Ghulam Rusool has gone out for his afternoon walk. Picking up the pen and choosing a blank sheet of paper, Sikander dips the nib in a bottle of ink. Maybe if he writes to Lawrence, something might happen, though he knows there is no address to which his message can be sent.

Dear Lawrence,

Don't be afraid. The police are searching for you. I'm sure they will rescue you very soon. Please don't think I was a coward to run away. I didn't want to leave you but I had no choice. Now I wish I'd stayed with you or
let them kidnap me instead. We're waiting for the ransom note but nothing has reached your father yet. I'm sure he'll pay the money as soon as he can and make the Tommies set you free.

I am your friend,

Sikander

As soon as he finishes writing the note, Sikander has an idea. He hurries home and climbs to the roof of his house. Taking one of the pigeons from the coop, he rolls the note around its leg and ties it with a piece of string. Then he tosses the bird into the air and watches it fly away, high into the air, circling once, then disappearing into the clouds.

There were a lot of things Gil didn't know about his grandfather, until he moved into the Yankee Mahal. One of them was that Prescott had a girlfriend. Her name was Lenore Sullivan and she lived in Houghton-on-Waspanoag, just across the bay from Carville. It was a much more exclusive town, with a yacht club and palatial homes. Lenore's house was smaller than most, set off by itself on a spit of land near the mouth of the Waspanoag River. There was a broad beach in front with clam flats at low tide and sand dunes fringed with poverty grass.

The day after Gil and Nargis discovered the skeletal hand, Lenore invited Prescott and his grandson over to dinner. Gil felt self-conscious meeting her at first, but his grandfather reassured him.

“Don't worry,” he said. “Lenore is one of the most easygoing people you'll ever meet. She has to be if she's put up with me for fifteen years. Of course, she's also borderline cuckoo.”

“What do you mean?” Gil asked as they drove along the coastal road.

“You'll see,” said Prescott.

When they crossed a stone bridge over the Waspanoag River and arrived at the gate to Lenore's house, there was a sign posted out front with purple and green lettering.

PSYCHIC YOGA
THERAPEUTIC MASSAGE
FORTUNE-TELLING
WANT TO KNOW YOUR FUTURE
OR YOUR PAST?
JUST ASK LENORE!

Gil and his grandfather exchanged a glance as they drove up to the house, in front of which stood an old station wagon covered in more rust than paint. Gil didn't know what to expect, but as soon as he met Lenore, he liked her. She was only a couple of years younger than Prescott, and her white hair was cut shorter than Gil's. Her glasses seemed to always be slipping down her nose, and she had a natural smile, with lots of tanned wrinkles on her face. Lenore led them through the house to a glassed-in porch facing the ocean. From here they had a view of the beach and could see the Carville lighthouse in the distance.

“I know your grandfather is going to have iced tea, but I'm sure you'd like something else to drink,” she said.

Gil shrugged politely.

“Root beer or ginger ale?”

“Ginger ale, please,” said Gil.

Lenore smiled again. “I've got a grandson named Martin who lives in New Mexico. He's about your age. Every time I see him, he's grown another inch.”

As they sat down, Gil caught sight of a huge Persian cat stepping through the door that opened onto the porch. The furry animal looked like an angora sweater come to life. Lenore snapped her fingers.

“His name is Xerxes,” she said as the cat sauntered over to where they sat, tail raised like an ostrich plume. “He's the main reason your grandfather and I can't live together.”

Gil looked across at Prescott, who frowned.

“He's got a dog. I've got a cat,” Lenore continued. “We tried to introduce them once. Nearly killed each other!”

“Cats and postmen,” said Prescott. “The two things Kip can't stand.”

Lenore stroked Xerxes' head as he nuzzled her leg.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Gil?” she asked.

The question took him by surprise, and he swallowed his ginger ale quickly before it came out his nose. Then he shook his head.

“Too bad,” said Lenore. “We'll have to find someone for you.”

“Now, don't get started,” Prescott warned. “Leave the poor guy alone. He's got a friend named Nargis.”

“Nargis?” said Lenore.

“She's not my girlfriend,” said Gil, trying to stop blushing.

Xerxes ambled across and let him scratch behind one ear. The cat's fur felt like brushed silk.

A short while later, just as the sun was setting over the bay, Lenore served dinner—baked cod with green beans, scalloped potatoes and sweet corn. For dessert they had apple pie and ice cream.