A Timely Concerto (3 page)

More letters rev
ealed additional information in snippets from Margaret’s pen. Howard’s land deal must have gone through because Margaret referred to “the fruit farm” and the harvest in subsequent letters. Details about the building of Seven Oaks were part of the letters, sandwiched between the descriptions of a new silk gown with matching hat and messages from another cousin. Some of the letters were written after Seven Oaks was built and others before. The letters were not in chronological order so random dates yielded clues that Lillian strung together. For whatever reason, the letters stopped in late February 1905. Although she searched for another packet of letters, Lillian turned up nothing more.

Dust caked, bare feet filthy, and warmed by the late afternoon sun that heated the attic, Lillian packed the letters, and books back into the trunk. Dozens of questions begged for answers and she wanted to know more. First, though, she wanted a cool bath and fresh clothing so she dashed down the narrow stair to the bedroom. In the bathtub, she made a mental list of places where she might find more information about Howard Speakman, his fruit farm, and the house. If there was a local library, she could start there but there might be a county historical society or even a genealogy group.

Later, with a balmy breeze tickling through her damp hair, Lillian jotted her ideas in a notebook. With her bottom sunk into a wicker chair, she sipped iced tea and let her imagination spiral. Margaret’s letters indicated that the house dated to 1904, the year of the World’s Fair or Exposition in St. Louis. Although she taught middle school history, a subject that did not delve into the World’s Fair and very little into the early 20
th
century, the fair had fascinated her in her early teens and she was something of a geek expert about the event. Images of mustached men promenading down the Pike with a Gibson girl on their arms came to mind.

How romantic it would have been, Lillian daydreamed, to visit the sights and sounds of the entire world in St. Louis, to ride to the top of the Observation Wheel to look out across the seething mass of humanity illuminated by electric lights or to visit Ancient Rome or Mysterious Asia.
1904 dated back to a time when John Phillips Sousa’s rousing marches were fresh and new, not old standbys or patriotic favorites. Ragtime was the new kid on the music block and Lillian wondered if any of Scott Joplin’s rag tunes played to the crowds at the Fair.

As she had earlier, Lillian caught faint strains of music, happy music. Although it seemed to echo from within the house, she got up, wicker chair creaking, and cocked her head toward the street. Distant sounds filtered through the shade of the tall oak trees but nothing soun
ded like ragtime music. A baby’s’ fretful crying, the theme music to
Gilligan’s Island
and the rhythmic thump of rap music floated from the neighborhood but nothing like those few notes.

“If I’m imagini
ng music, it’s time for a break,” Lillian said, and then grinned. “And even worse, I’m talking to myself.”

On moving in, Lillian had realized that the house was accessible from either the front or rear, which faced on another quiet street. A frame garage sat to the side of
Seven Oaks and she guessed it might have been the original carriage house. In search of diversion, she exited the kitchen and let the heavy wood framed screen door bang behind her.

After trying several of the keys on a heavy ring found hanging in the kitchen, she found the one that turned the lock. Lillian stepped into the wide, almost empty space where at least two cars could park with ease and inhaled. Although the closed space was musty, a lingering smell of old automotive oil and gasoline was present. Beneath it, although she chalked it up to a flight of fancy, she thought she inhaled a faint aroma of hay and horses, an earthy smell.
In one corner, a flight of narrow stairs climbed to the second floor to a series of empty rooms. Once they might have been servant’s quarters or even apartments but few clues remained and she was not in any mood to sift through more closets or boxes.

As she crossed the back
lawn, she heard the music again but this time it was more than just a few random notes. As before, it was a ragtime piece, something that sounded to her untrained ear like Scott Joplin. Whatever the source of the sound, it was close. The music grew louder as she walked through the screen porch and slipped inside the kitchen.

“It’s not a radio
,” Lillian muttered. “Someone’s here.”

Some neighbor must h
ave wandered over and made music to welcome her to town. Maybe it was some small town tradition, some weird welcome custom but that seemed like a stretch. At home, in Kansas City or any of the suburbs where she had lived, Lillian would have been afraid but she was not now, just curious.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the big kitchen but no one answered.

Lillian traced the sound through the downstairs rooms until she knew the music came from what she called the second parlor, the room with a piano. Someone was playing the old upright, someone whose fingers danced across the keys with skill. Music rose in bright crescendo with the power of live music, never recorded or played back. At such close range, she recognized the tune as
The Entertainer
. Although she knew it, only from
The Sting,
Lillian had no doubt that it was the old Scott Joplin tune.

For the first time since entering the house, the door to the second parlor was not open. Outrage at such intrusive chutzpah overrode her curiosity and she pushed open the door with such force that it banged the wall. Despite the sound, the man seated at the piano did not stop playing but continue to move his fingers across the keys. He did not turn around, either, or act aware of her presence until she said,

“What are you doing in my house?”

The words came out shrill but it was anger, not fear that raised the level of her voice. She had not yet seen his face but he heard her because he stopped playing and silence rose like swift floodwaters in the room.

Before he turned, she realized that something was very odd about her uninvited guest. His clothing was outdated; a heavy wool suit, dark brown, with high waisted trousers beneath a coat cut in an old-fashioned style. I do believe that is what they call a sack suit, Lillian thought, but where did he get it and why is he dressed up like 1900?

“Forgive me, dear lady.” His voice was strong, deep, with a hint of sweetness, and brown like aged root beer. “Let me introduce myself since there is no one here to make proper introductions. I am Howard Speakman and this is my house. I built it.”

Being speechless was a rare experience for Lillian but for the third time in her life, she stared and could not find anything to say. As she grasped to find the right words, she studied him. His light brown hair was short, parted in the middle in a way she had not seen since Buster Brown and for a long moment, she thought that she had come face to face with her mother’s ghost. Reality kicked in, however, and she laughed.

“Is this a joke? It isn’t funny at all. Did you think you could scare me in that moth eaten old suit from an antique store?”

“I assure you, it’s no joke. I am Howard Speakman and this is my house. I planned it, I had it built, and I lived it until I died. That was in March, 1905.”

1905 was the year the letters stopped, Lillian realized and the name he gave was the one written in the books upstairs. As a non-believer, her notion of what a ghost might look like was vague but she rationalized that a decent ghost would be transparent if not all white or maybe glowing. Howard – if that was his name – was none of those things; he looked as solid as she was, his skin tones had color, and she would swear she could smell his cologne or soap. His eyes were the rich blue of a Willow Ware platter and he looked back at her with what seemed to be intelligence and life. Besides, if he was flesh and not spirit, he was attractive in a rugged, Western hero sort of way. Too many thoughts whirled through her brain like a sudden windstorm and she sat down on a brocade-covered chair.

“You can’t be a ghost.” Her voice sounded weak and squeaky. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I assure you that I am indeed a ghost.” His lips curled into a wry grin as he spoke as if even he found the idea ludicrous. “Or, if not a ghost per se, then at least I’m quite dead.”

“That’s nonsense.”

Howard shook his head.” I wish it was and that I could just walk out through the door. I can’t do that and as much as I love Seven Oaks, more than a hundred years wandering through the rooms and frightening the occasional child ceased to be fun some time ago. I was a farmer and I miss the outdoors. I would almost sell my soul to feel sunshine beating down on my back or to work the dirt with my hands again.”

He made the impossible seem within reach with his calm words and steady gaze. His diction and the words he used were as out of date as his suit. If he was an actor, then he was skilled at his craft but somehow, no matter how unlikely it was, he came across as genuine.

“I don’t understand how that could be possible,” Lillian said, choking on the words that opened her mental door a crack to paranormal possibilities. “Look, I don’t know what to say or think but I’m Lillian Dorsey, Charles David’s granddaughter. He left me Seven Oaks.”

“I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Dorsey.” Howard stood and bowed from the waist with grace. “Are you Sylvia’s child or Monica’s?”

“Please call me Lillian. Sylvia is my mother.” This was not possible; she was not making polite conversation with a ghost, the ghost of her mother’s stories. “She told me about the ghost, warned me about you. Whatever you did, you scared her.”

He settled back onto the piano stool. Legs crossed, he sighed. “I never intended to scare your mother or anyone else. I could not get my own mother to believe I was here and when she would catch a glimpse of me, she would weep. That was very difficult for me.”

Dear God, she wanted to believe him. He sounded so sincere, his emotions did not seem feigned, but what he said could not be possible. With her brain on overload, she covered her face with both hands.

“Please don’t tell me any more now.” Her voice wavered and she wanted to cry, just flat out bawl. “I need time to think about this. I don’t understand it, not any of it and I don’t believe it’s possible but you’re here.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Howard?”

“Yes, Lillian.” His voice made her name sound like something sweet, a caramel or a chocolate covered cherry.

“Please come back sometime and we’ll talk after I try to process all this, okay?”

Howard nodded. “I’ll be here but I’ll stay out of your way until you’re ready.”

Ghost that he might be, he rose from the stool and walked across the carpet in leather oxfords without sound. Although sunshine streamed through the windows behind him, he cast no shadow on the opposite wall. As he passed, she felt his hand touch her shoulder in reassurance. That hand felt both warm and solid but when she reached upward to grasp it, she met empty air and Howard was gone.

If anyone else – her sister Lavinia, another teacher, a neighbor or friend – suggested to Lillian that they had not just seen a ghost but talked with one she would have known that they were delusional. Maybe not insane, perhaps just mistaken but she would not, could not have believed someone else. I am not crazy, Lillian affirmed, I saw someone, I talked to him, and he touched me. However, he could not be a ghost, could he? Of course not!

She knew better but she wanted to believe. Seeing equaled believing or so the old adage said. For three days after her conversation with Howard, she avoided the second parlor and steeled her mind shut against shadows and sounds. Strange, though, she heard nothing that she could not identify and glimpsed no strange silhouettes. Seven Oaks was quiet, so silent that her footsteps echoed when she climbed the stairs.

Three days of inner struggle, three days of disbelief warring against what she had experienced. Lillian tried to think about anything but Howard Speakman, ghosts, or Seven Oaks. On the fourth morning, however, she woke up determined that she would either disprove the ghost’s existence or find solid evidence so that she could believe.

Her first stop on the search for truth was the library. It was a compact building but in a rear room, she lucked into a talkative volunteer and a treasure trove of local history. Since the local genealogical society shared the library premises, she could search both in a single visit. By the time she closed the last volume, Lillian had pages of notes and a sheaf of photocopies. Beyond any doubt, she could prove that Howard Speakman had existed, that he had indeed built Seven Oaks, and that he died in 1905 but she could not prove his ghost haunted the house. Nor could she verify that the man in the second parlor could be Howard in any form, physical or spirit. All the uncertainty and concentrated reading contributed to the headache that played a bass drum through her skull.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Mary, the volunteer asked as Lillian gathered up her notebook and purse.

“Yes, some of it,” Lillian hesitated, and then plunged into dangerous territory. If small town connections worked, let them work for her. “I just moved into my grandfather’s house, Seven Oaks on Spring Street and I’m interested in the history of the house. Do you have anything else I might have missed on the man who built it, Howard Speakman?”

She had combed volume after volume and expected nothing more but Mary nodded. “Oh, yes, we have a local file on Mr. Speakman. He was responsible for bringing strawberries to this part of the country and around the turn of the last century, strawberries were a major crop here. He had a big fruit farm – strawberries, peaches, and apples, I think. Let me get the file for you, hon.”

The brown manila folder bulged with assorted clippings, obituaries, and photocopies. One of the first was an article written by a local writer that detailed Howard Speakman’s role in introducing strawberries to the fertile Ozark hills. Another explained how he had created a new variety of berry that became the hardiest, most popular hybrid for decades. Creased photocopies featured grainy photographs of something called The Strawberry Festival and pretty girls crowned as Strawberry Queen.

Each bit of information fueled her curiosity and as psychotic as it seemed, Lillian felt a strange attraction toward the piano playing visitor. Although she could not yet admit that he might be the ghost he claimed, she found Howard Speakman intriguing. Some things fit what he had said about being a farmer, about longing to touch the soil again or feel the sunlight warming his skin.

As she had countless times over the past three days, Lillian replayed how he looked, how the sun that slanted through the second parlor windows brightened his brown hair with golden highlights, and how his large hands played the piano with such graceful ease. He was solid, she thought, her mouth tightening with frustration, solid and not at all ethereal.

“Here’s something I found not long ago.” Mary hovered beside the table. “I thought you might want to see it. It is a picture taken at the 1904 Strawberry Festival. Howard Speakman is crowning the queen, Miss Diva Rudy.”

A faded photograph filled an antique frame, a moment frozen in time of a stage somewhere. In the center, a young woman radiated with life and beauty, her smile bright and her eyes turned upward to look at the man who placed a crown on her hair. He was tall and it was evident that his hands were large. It was Howard, the Howard she saw in the second parlor, the man she had talked with in her home.

Cold shuddered through her and she shivered as if it arctic winds howled into the reference room. With shaking hands, she brought the paper closer to stare at the figure with deeper scrutiny. After a moment, she put it down. There was no doubt, none at all, that the Howard Speakman in the photograph and the presence in Seven Oaks were the same. Her mother had been right; the house was haunted.

“Oh, my God.” She didn’t mean to speak aloud, regretting it as soon as Mary’s head rose from a copy of
Redbook
with a look of inquiry. How could she explain that she cried out because she recognized a long dead resident? Think fast, Lillian, she thought and said, “It’s my great-grandfather. I can’t believe it! He’s one of the men in the picture.”

“Oh, that’s so nice. That’s the kind of thing that makes all the work of tracing family history worthwhile.”

She mumbled a polite response, gathered her gear, and dashed out the door. The library stacks were a blur as she rushed past to reach her car. Inside, she sat on the sun-warmed seat and laid her head on the steering wheel. Her belief system felt compromised; she had always denied the existence of ghosts, scoffed at her mother’s stories, and mocked true believers. Moreover, she had been wrong. Evidence that she had been mistaken was strong and Lillian felt like the foundations of her soul had rocked with the force of a major earthquake.

Like a small child lied to by an adult who said there is no Santa Claus or someone crippled by the discovery that their hero had feet of clay, Lillian’s feelings hurt and so did her soul. Having a solid belief debunked hurt and like an injured animal, she wanted to lash out and then hole up to heal, alone. Too many emotions crowded her psyche and her system was on overload.

Over the past few days, she had wondered more than once if she was delusional, if she saw things that came from her imagination or psyche but the photograph that was so unmistakably Howard confirmed that she was not crazy.

What she did, however, was feel an attraction to a ghost, to a man who had been dead for more than a hundred years and that was terrifying. Her hands fumbled as she searched for her car keys and she felt so chilled that she opened the windows. Every fiber of her body ached to go home, back to Seven Oaks where she felt such an overwhelming sense of comfort and belonging. However, she was afraid, scared that Howard would be there and more afraid that he might not.

Feeling like a coward, a shell shocked civilian who walked beneath the bomb Lillian ran. As she drove the few blocks to Seven Oaks, she made plans to walk into the house, pack a suitcase, and leave. To rationalize her flight, she did need some things from her Overland Park apartment, clothing, and other items. There were small business details to handle, friends to see, and explanations about her absence to make. Maybe if she went home, squelching a tremendous feeling that Seven Oaks
was
home, and then she could assimilate everything. Lillian could think she could process her emotions and decide if she could believe what her eyes, ears, and the evidence confirmed.

At Seven Oaks, dust motes danced in the brilliant morning light that cascaded through the windows in the foyer and her footsteps were the sole sound in the silent house. Lillian tossed two changes of clothing, a few toiletries, and the notebook into a shoulder bag.

Just before she opened the door to leave, she paused. Feeling sheepish and silly, she called out,

“Howard, if you’re here, I’m leaving for a few days, but I’ll be back. I have to go away and think.”

She didn’t expect an answer, hoped that there would not be one but as she spoke, she felt the air around her grow thick with presence. Her spine tingled but she was not sure if it was fear or anticipation. His scent – a clean fragrance that reminded her of the Ivory soap used in childhood baths – reached her before she saw him. This time, the formal suit was gone and he wore heavy gray denim pants, held up by suspenders over a long sleeved shirt, white with thin black stripes. The modern looking Oxford shoes were gone and he wore what looked like Western boots. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, a hat similar to a cowboy hat but without creases but he swept it off and bowed. In the casual garments, he looked younger and less old-fashioned.

“Miss Lillian.”

“Howard.” He had remembered to use her first name but prefaced it with Miss to be polite. His change of clothing baffled her. Shouldn’t a ghost wear the same outfit throughout eternity? Before she had time to reconsider, she asked. “Why are you wearing such different clothing?”

He smiled, lips curving into a wide grin that flattered his strong features. “These are the clothes I am most comfortable wearing, my work clothes. I dressed like this much more often than in a suit.”

“You look nice.” Heat flamed her cheeks after she spoke; what a banal thing to say, she thought. Maybe the compliment was too forward for his Victorian – or would that be Edwardian, she wondered - mindset but she didn’t worry about that long because he colored with pleasure.

“Thank you. Are you planning to return or have I frightened you away?”

Dimples on each side of his wide mouth indicated ghosts could tease and she could not stop smiling back at him. “I’m more confused than scared. I have to go home, to where I live and get some things. I also want to visit my mother while I’m there.”

“Where is home?”

Here
was the word that almost popped out but she answered, “Kansas City.”

He nodded. “I am somewhat familiar with Kansas City. Are you going by train?”

Train? If he expected her to travel by train then the culture gap was wider than she thought. “No, I’m going to drive my car.”

His eyes lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. “Do you have an automobile? That’s the ticket! I had hoped to purchase one but when I died I was still driving my Landau carriage with a team of grays.”

Fascinated despite her inner turmoil, Lillian nodded. If she was going, she had to leave now before the conversation snared her and kept her here. That was his goal, she realized, to stall her, to talk with her and for the first she realized how lonely he must have been, caught for more than a century without companionship.

“I need to go, Howard. When I come back, we will talk. I promise but I need time first, to get my head clear and to understand.”

He bowed and bent low over her right hand. Before she knew what he planned to do, he kissed her hand in the old-fashioned French fashion, his lips ticklish against her skin.

“
Au Revoir,
Miss Lillian.”

Rattled by the small caress, she nodded. “See you later, Howard. Watch the house for me while I’m gone, okay?”

His grin faded. “Have no fear. That’s all I have done for more than a century and I will, of course, be here when you return.”

There was not any response she could make to that so she nodded.

“’Bye, Howard.”

Leaving town was not the carefree escape she wanted. Lillian could not shake an emotional pull to Seven Oaks. As much as she wanted, needed to pull her head together, to think about Howard, – make that Howard’s
ghost
, she emphasized – and all the details, she wanted to stay, too. Following the advice of the clerk at the Conoco station at the end of Spring Street, Lillian headed north along a two-lane highway that connected to US 71 just south of Carthage near the network of Interstate 44. Two hours into the trip, she was almost home and with the classic rock of Credence Clearwater Revival keeping rhythm with the hum of the highway beneath the tires she was content.

By the time she passed through Nevada, home of Camp Clark, Lillian was singing along to the old songs, favorites since childhood. John Fogarty’s voice wiped all thoughts of Neosho, Seven Oaks, and Howard from her mind Her buoyant mood deflated, though, as she rolled into Grandview just in time for early rush hour and she turned down the stereo to focus on driving seventy miles an hour through multi-lane traffic.

Although she had lived in the metro KC area since she was a toddler and her mother married Joe, Lillian had to pay attention or miss the Gregory Boulevard exit off I-435, one of the main arteries that led into Raytown, the suburb where her parents lived.

With no advance warning, she wheeled onto Lakeview Drive
en route to Harris Avenue. Wildwood Lake, centerpiece of the subdivision, was just a half block from the house. Lillian parked along the edge of the quiet street and gazed up at the place she had called home for more than half of her life. The frame one-story ranch had always reminded her in a vague way of the Cleaver’s home in the old series,
Leave It to Beaver
and seeing it again brought a surge of emotion. The pervasive sense of coming home that she felt at Seven Oaks was absent, however, and she shook her head, unable to understand the pull that old house had.

A glance at her watch confirmed it was past four; Mom would be home from her part-time job at a Kansas City real estate firm so to give fair warning, she dialed the number on her cell phone and waited.