Ghost Letters (12 page)

Afterward, she joined Gil as he walked across to the cemetery, along with Prescott and Lenore. At the gate of the cemetery was a memorial to all of the soldiers from Hornswoggle Bay who had died in the Civil War. Someone had put a red, white and blue wreath in front of it.

First they went to visit Lenore's grandfather's grave. He had fought in World War I and was wounded in Italy. His tomb lay on one of the upper terraces, and Lenore placed a bunch of flowers against the stone. There was already a miniature flag planted in the ground. After that they visited the graves of Prescott's uncles, who had been soldiers in World War II and Korea. They were buried a short ways down the hill in a family plot. There was also a cousin of Prescott's who had died in Vietnam. All three had flags next to their headstones. Seeing the name
Finch
carved in granite gave Gil a strange feeling, even though he hadn't known any of these relatives. Looking across the cemetery, he could see hundreds of other flags fluttering in the breeze. It seemed as if almost every second grave marked the final resting place of a soldier or sailor.

“Come on,” said Lenore, after they'd finished paying their respects. “I'll show you something.”

Picking their way between the graves, they followed Lenore across to a large chestnut tree. Here the stones were older, many of them thin slabs of slate with the lettering worn and weathered like the inscriptions in the basement of the Yankee Mahal. Near the roots of the chestnut lay a simple granite marker.

S
EPTEMBER
3, 1812—A
PRIL
20, 1912

For a minute or two nobody said anything. Lenore leaned down and brushed a couple of dead leaves off the stone.

“Isn't she the woman who was supposed to marry Ezekiel Finch?” Gil asked.

Prescott nodded. “That's her.”

“She lived to be nearly a hundred,” said Nargis softly.

“Camellia Stubbs was a schoolmistress,” said Lenore. “She never married. A spinster all her life. For years, almost everybody in this town was a student of hers. Camellia was well loved but very strict. She insisted that all of her students practice perfect penmanship. If anyone's handwriting was messy, she would snatch the paper off their desks and crumple it up. Even now, they say her hand crawls out of her casket and goes from house to house, searching through papers and letters. When she doesn't like the penmanship on a page, the fingers crumple up the sheet of paper and throw it in the wastebasket—just as the schoolmistress used to do with her students' writing.”

• • •

After visiting the cemetery, they all drove back to the Yankee Mahal, where Lenore put water on for tea.

“There are dozens of ways to make tea,” she said, “but when I was living in England, years ago, I was taught the proper method … First you warm the pot like this …” She opened the lid of a white porcelain teapot and poured in a cupful of
boiling water, swishing it around for a moment, then emptying it in the sink. Nargis and Gil watched as she took a packet of tea leaves and added four generous pinches.

“One for each of us, and one for the pot,” she said. Prescott was sitting at the kitchen table with Kipling at his feet.

“Am I not included?” he asked.

Lenore gave him an impatient smile. “No,” she said. “You can stick to your iced tea.”

The kettle on the stove was still boiling, sending out a plume of steam.

“Bubble bubble, toil and trouble, cauldron boil and …,” Prescott teased her. “There's witchcraft in making tea.”

“The secret is really in the water,” Lenore continued, ignoring Prescott. “You have to make sure it's fresh—no chlorine or minerals to spoil the taste.”

She poured the boiling water into the pot, put on the lid and covered it with a quilted tea cozy.

“Why don't you use tea bags?” Gil asked.

Lenore gave him a disapproving look. “It's not the same as loose tea,” she said. “Doesn't have the same flavor.”

Gil picked up the packet and read the blue label, which had a picture of a tea picker on it.

FLOWERY ORANGE PEKOE
Superlative Whole Leaf Tea
U
PPER
F
INCH
E
STATE
Ajeebgarh
India

“Hey, is this from …?” He turned to look at his grandfather, who nodded.

“Yes it is,” said Prescott. “That tea is grown in the same gardens that Ezekiel Finch once owned.”

Gil ran his fingers through the dark, brittle leaves, then sniffed at the packet, which had a rich aroma.

“Ajeebgarh tea is a lot like Darjeeling, which grows forty miles to the east. Some people claim it's the best tea in the world,” said Prescott.

“I've tried all kinds of tea, from Ceylon, China, Assam and Kenya,” Lenore added. “But Ajeebgarh tea has a special taste and color. You have to be patient and let the tea steep for a full five minutes. Timing is crucial. If you drink it too quickly, you don't get the full zest. Let it sit too long and it grows bitter.”

Gil and Nargis helped take cups and saucers down from the cupboard. Lenore had brought a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, which lay on the counter.

“You can offer your grandfather one of these,” she said, winking at Gil. “And help yourselves too.”

Each of them ate a cookie while they waited for the tea. Prescott broke his in half and slipped part of it to the dog, who immediately got up to beg for more.

Lenore glanced at her watch, then removed the tea cozy and opened the pot, sniffing the fragrance with an appreciative nod.

“Now, most people strain their tea,” said Lenore. “But we're going to let the leaves settle in your cup.”

After their cups had been filled, Lenore added a spoon of sugar to each and handed them around. Holding the cups and
saucers, Gil and Nargis looked at each other self-consciously, as if they were expected to sip politely.

When they finished their tea, Lenore closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the aftertaste. Then she leaned over each cup, studying the dregs at the bottom. The shriveled black leaves had opened up in the boiling water and now lay unfurled. After the ritual of making and serving the tea, it felt as if something important was going to happen. Even Prescott had fallen silent, watching Lenore.

“What do you see?” Nargis asked.

“Something of the past,” said Lenore, her voice softer and deeper than before. “Something of the present. And something of the future.”

The three white cups sat before her like newly hatched eggs. Lenore turned to Gil with a curious expression.

“Do you remember what I told you the other day,” she asked, “when I read your palm?”

Gil nodded.

“It's true,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I can see it in the leaves. Everything is written here just as it was on your hand and in the stars. What did I say?”

Gil looked across at his grandfather nervously. “You said I was going to be a messenger of peace.”

“And …?” Lenore urged him on.

“One day I'd save someone's life.” Gil didn't dare look at Nargis.

“What about love?” said Lenore.

Gil felt himself blushing. He shook his head.

“Come on,” Lenore prompted. “Didn't I say, ‘You hold the key of love in your heart'?”

“I guess,” Gil admitted.

“It's all true,” Lenore said. “Tea leaves never lie.”

Nargis wanted to laugh but controlled herself for Gil's sake. After a moment she got up the courage to speak.

“What about the past?” she asked. “You said you could read the past and present in the tea leaves too.”

“Of course.” Lenore nodded. “But today it's all one and the same. Whatever happens in the present or the future will affect the past.”

Gil stared down at Kipling, who was curled up at his feet. He knew that everyone else had their eyes on him, and he wondered how he could possibly do what Lenore had predicted—be a messenger of peace, save a life, or hold the key of love in his heart. It sounded like one of those cheesy messages in a birthday card. Even if he could … did he really want to do any of those things?

From the roof of his house, Sikander can see the railway tracks leading to Ajeebgarh Station. Once a week, every Thursday evening, he listens for the whistle of the
Himalayan Mail
that travels all the way across India, from Bombay. The train carries passengers and freight, but its most important cargo are the letters delivered from around the world. Whenever Sikander sees the silvery line of parallel tracks, running through the outskirts of the town and leading into the fields and forests beyond, he can almost hear the far-off rumble of the wheels and the breathless panting of the steam engine.

The
Himalayan Mail
usually arrives at dusk. First there is the whistle as it passes over a bridge across the Magor River, then puffs of smoke against the twilight sky. Finally, the engine comes into view, its headlamp burning as darkness settles. Sikander strains his eyes to see the carriages that follow, their segmented shapes crawling toward Ajeebgarh. As the train comes closer, he can see the glowing cinders blowing out of
the locomotive's smokestack, and the burning embers of coal falling onto the tracks. As the
Himalayan Mail
passes his house, Sikander watches the huge wheels pumping forward, as if straining to reach their destination. The clamor of steel and steam drowns out all other noises as the engine throbs and rattles, thunders and wheezes. Once again the whistle blows. Mixed with the black smoke are white plumes of steam. Sikander wonders what kind of ink he could make out of the soot from this engine. Overnight, the
Himalayan Mail
halts in Ajeebgarh, and leaves the next morning at dawn. Sikander gets up to watch it depart, every Friday morning, as the sky brightens. At six o'clock the whistle sounds more strident, as if the train were impatient to be on its way, carrying sacks of mail, as well as shipments of tea in the goods wagons and travelers in their first-, second- and third-class carriages. Sikander can see the driver leaning out of his cabin, and stokers shoveling coal into the fiery mouth of the engine. Occasionally, the train is late, but the
Himalayan Mail
always arrives and departs along the same straight line of rails, carrying its freight of words.

Though Sikander cannot see him, a passenger is seated alone in a first-class compartment. He wears a coat and scarf, and on the berth beside him lies a dented felt hat. This man glances out the window and sees the rooftops of Ajeebgarh silhouetted against the sunrise. He checks his watch, then pulls the shutter down and locks the door. From under his seat, where the porters stowed his luggage, the man takes out a typewriter case and places it on a folding table next to the
window. Opening the case, he touches the keys softly, as if he were a pianist testing to see if his instrument is tuned.

The first-class passenger then takes a sheet of paper and rolls it into the typewriter, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. He begins to type with one finger, a single letter at a time. The steady clicking of the typewriter echoes the rattle of the wheels. At the end of each line, the passenger slides the lever and the roller moves across, like the train in which he travels, a journey of words shuttling back and forth upon the page.

When the conductor raps on the door to check his ticket, the passenger carefully closes the typewriter case before unfastening the latch. After his ticket has been canceled, he locks the door again. His face is pale, though his hair and moustache are as black as the sleek silk ribbon of the typewriter. Before removing the sheet of paper, he reads over what he has written:

ZGH LTEKTZ
O IQCT DTZ VOZI COSSQFGC. IT QLLXKTL DT
KXLLOQ IQL FG OFZTKTLZ OF QPTTWUQKI ZTQ.
FG FTTR ZG RTESQKT VQK.
KTUQKRL, ITKDTL

With a satisfied nod, the passenger folds the paper into a square, then slips it into an envelope. Hesitating for a moment, he peels the false moustache off his upper lip and tucks it between the folds of the letter, before sealing it up.

At the corner of Forsythia Lane and Oswald Street, Nargis could see the winking red lights on the postman's jeep. It was parked where it always was, between the
DEAD END
sign and the fire hydrant. The postman usually did his rounds at the same time Nargis got home from school. Turning into Forsythia Lane, she could see him stuffing letters into a neighbor's mailbox. Pedaling as fast as she could, Nargis skidded to a stop in her driveway just as Mr. Griswold arrived at the house.

“Hey there!” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Griswold,” said Nargis. “Any letters for me?”

“Let's have a look,” said the postman, searching through his bag. First he took out a bundle of mail wrapped with a rubber band. Then he found a couple of flyers from the supermarket. After that he pulled out a package covered in brown paper and tied up with string.

“Nothing for you,” he said. “But here's a parcel for your mother. Will you sign for it?”

Nargis took the pen he gave her and scrawled her name on the receipt. With her book bag from school and her hands full of mail, it was difficult to unlock the front door. When she got inside, Nargis dumped everything on the dining table. Her mother wouldn't be home from work for another hour at least, and her father usually didn't get back until after dark.

The parcel had been sent from India. Nargis could tell it was from her aunt in Delhi, her mother's younger sister. Though it wasn't very heavy, the package was as bulky as one of the cushions on the sofa. The brown paper had torn at a couple of places and Nargis could see plastic wrapping inside, but not enough to reveal the contents. The twine that held it together made her think something inside was going to pop open as soon as the knots were untied. She couldn't imagine what the parcel contained. Maybe clothes? A sweater? (Her aunt was always knitting.) Something to eat? Nargis sniffed the package but it didn't have much of a smell, only a dusty odor of paper and plastic.