Authors: Gail Gallant
“They said it was an accident.” He shakes his head. “No one believed them.”
T
he carpenters arrive early Saturday morning, waking me up with their electric saws and drills and hammers, one working on the back-door wheelchair ramp and another in the dining room, now Jack’s new main-floor bedroom. He’s coming home in a couple of weeks, hopefully in time for Christmas. He’s making such good progress, his doctor says. By then, we want to have the bedroom all set up, the walls painted and the furniture in place.
Over the last few days, I’ve managed twice to slip into the archives office to go through old county records and newspaper clippings. I’ve been looking for something, anything, about the McGrath family on 12th Line in the
1940
s. And I finally found it. But I’ve been holding off calling Morris until the weekend, hoping Kip is back in town. The more time goes by, the more I find myself wanting to hear his voice. I just want to get back on friendly terms.
Last night I saw a movie in town with Morgan and a few others. Brittany asked me where Kip was, acting all curious. I think she’s already figured out we aren’t really hooked up and she’s pleased
about that. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’ve decided that the only reason I find Kip so distracting is that his take on things is kind of different. He’s not predictable, that’s for sure. And I admit he’s seriously handsome. But that’s it. I’m not saying he’s not a nice person or anything. I just can’t figure out what’s going on in his head. And how can you trust someone like that?
I take the phone up to my bedroom to get some distance from the sound of construction work, not to mention Ethan’s ears. I take a deep breath to calm myself, in case Kip answers, then dial Morris’s number. But it’s Morris who picks up. I tell him about the old guy in my brother’s hospital room, then I tell him that I’ve been checking the county records and going through some old newspaper files.
“I found a death notice of a soldier named William McGrath III, September
22
,
1945
. Then I found out more about the death in the newspaper archives. He was a decorated war hero who’d spent time in a German concentration camp as a prisoner of war. He died the night of his homecoming party … on 12th Line. Get this: the article says he shot himself with his own revolver in ‘a misadventure.’ ”
“Wow, that’s terrible. Sounds like maybe there’s more to it.”
“Exactly, ’cause the old man in Jack’s room said they called it an accident but no one believed them. That’s exactly what he said.”
“So the question is whether we can find anyone else in the county who knows the story, who’s still alive. Family descendants, maybe.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. That’s what I’m going to try to find out.”
“Maybe Kip will give you a hand. He got back last night.”
That sets off a little wave of panic, but I try to sound perfectly casual. “Oh, well, that would be great.” It would be a disaster if Morris suspected anything awkward between us. “I’ve been thinking of checking out where this McGrath guy is supposed to be buried.
Just want to see the gravestone. It’s the little old cemetery on 18th Sideroad. Not that far from 12th Line.”
I like the idea of having something to occupy myself. As soon as I hang up from Morris, I change my clothes quickly and freshen up. I tell Joyce, who’s in the kitchen watching the back porch construction, that I’m going for another bike ride. I want to hurry off before Ethan can beg me to let him come too. I don’t want him hanging around, asking questions.
The sideroad intersects 12th Line a few roads north of us, up toward the highway. When I reach it, I turn east. The land around here is a bit hilly, which means it’s a lot of work on a bike, but every once in a while there’s a beautiful distant view of either the valley in the southeast or the bay to the northeast. All through the county there are crossroads with signs that identify where villages used to be, a hundred or more years ago. They usually had their own little churches, with cemeteries attached. These days, a lot of those churches have been converted into second homes for city folks. Others are gone and all that’s left are the cemeteries with their rusty wrought-iron gates. Sometimes even the graveyard is gone, and nothing is left but a sad collection of the most ancient markers, all bunched close together, like a gravestone garden.
At the crest of a hill I can see down the road a long way. I spot the little cemetery I’m looking for. The church that once stood there is only a stone foundation now. I coast down the hill and leave my bike at the gate, then do a quick scan of the graveyard. There’s no one around, which is a relief. Taking a notepad and a pen from my coat pocket, I set out into the rows of gravestones to find the name McGrath.
For a while, I’m so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t pay attention to the sound of the odd car driving by. So when I hear a car
door slam shut, I jump. It’s like being jerked awake out of a hypnotic trance. Kip, dressed all in black, his dark golden hair striking as usual, is coming through the gate, walking toward me through the cemetery.
At first I’m frozen. He looks so handsome and the setting is so romantic, it’s like watching a scene in an old movie. I feel mesmerized. But then he breaks out in a laugh and I snap out of it and smile.
“What?” I ask, a little defensively. He’s wearing a black wool coat that reminds me of the sixties. Cool.
“So this is what you small-town girls do for fun. Have you found what you were looking for?” he asks, holding out his arms and wrapping them around my shoulders in a split-second hug.
Being that close, even for a moment, makes me veer awkwardly and almost lose my balance. He did it so casually, like nothing was wrong. I feel a surge of happiness. Thank goodness. Maybe we can put what happened last weekend behind us.
“Take a look at this,” I say, eager to show off my findings. I lead him over to one of the largest monuments.
McGrath
is chiselled in large lettering along the top on each side. Below that is a series of names and dates.
“Here’s the original family,” I say, pointing to the first name. “
William McGrath
1852
–
1912
. He’s the patriarch. Then there’s the matriarch,
Margaret McGrath
1855
–
1924
, and finally”—I crouch down and run my gloved fingers along another name—“a baby,
William McGrath
1890
–
1891
.”
Kip lingers over the names, then stands up and walks around the monument. He stops and bends down behind it.
“And this must be a daughter, Judith,” he says. “She died in
1918
, at the age of twenty-six.” He walks over to a smaller gravestone with two names chiselled into it, one above the other.
“Sebastian McGrath
1895
–
1948
,”
he reads out loud.
“He’s the son who inherited the farm,” I say. “He married Mary Simons, who was born in
1896
and died two years after him, in
1950
. They’re the ones who lived at the farm through the Second World War, and it’s their son, William, named after Sebastian’s dead brother, who died in
1945
. His grave is over here.”
Kip looks impressed, and that gives me a ridiculous amount of pleasure.
We walk over to a third gravestone, taller and more elaborately decorated, which reads
Sgt. William McGrath III
1922
–
1945
.
“That’s our war hero,” I say.
We stand silently before the gravestone. It’s beautiful. The inscription reads,
Forever our hero
.
Forever in our hearts
.
Rest in peace
,
’Til we meet again
.
“I don’t know if your dad told you what I found out, about how this guy survived being a prisoner of war, only to die when he was back home barely a week. On the night of his homecoming party. The records say he shot himself in the head, by accident, but this old guy in the bed next to my brother in the hospital knew the family. He told me no one believed it was really an accident.”
“Yeah. Dad told me.” Kip nods thoughtfully, still looking at the stone.
I flip back through my notebook. “So one last thing to mention is over there—” I point and we walk over to a small square stone, set flat in the ground. “It’s a grave marker for another baby,
Frances McGrath,
1918
. So according to the birth records for the family, that leaves two other daughters, Anne and Dorothy, and I haven’t been
able to find them here. But if they got married they would have changed their names, and they might be buried with their husbands somewhere else.”
“They could still be alive, though, right? How old would they be?”
I check my notes. “Let’s see. Anne would be ninety-one and Dorothy would be eighty-eight. So yeah, it’s possible. Who knows?”
We stroll out of the cemetery, and Kip stops in front of my bike and glances over at the car.
“Want a lift home? I think I can get this into the trunk if you’d like. I hate to drive off and leave you to struggle up that hill.”
“Well, if you think it can fit, I wouldn’t refuse.”
He opens the hatch at the back and then takes hold of the bike. I hurry to grab on, claiming the back half. We carry the bike to the car and slide it in but can’t quite get the hatch to close.
“It’s okay,” he says. “We’re not going far. I’ll blast the heater.”
We get into the car and he starts the engine. At first the cold air makes me shiver. He looks across at me, and then smiles and looks away. Now I notice the dark circles under his eyes.
“How was your week in Sin City?”
“I did all right. What doesn’t kill you … you know.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, until he turns onto 12th Line. Then he glances sideways at me.
“Look, Amelia, I want to apologize again. What happened last weekend … well, that’s the dumbest thing I think I’ve ever done. And believe me, there’s lots of competition.”
My heart races but I’m trying to stay cool. “It’s okay, really. Let’s just forget it. I admit I was pretty upset at the time, but only because I was afraid. For you, I mean. And just … caught by surprise. I think we should forget it happened.” He doesn’t say anything to that, so I go on. “You know, I went back into the barn by myself on Sunday
and talked to Matthew again. The first thing he did was ask about the little scene the night before. He actually saw it. Saw
us
.”
Kip looks over at me and his brows come together like he’s perplexed, or even worried. He doesn’t say anything.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” I say. He just looks up the road. “I was thinking about it after that night, and the look on your face now made it all come back. Because you would never have kissed me in the barn like that if you thought there were ghosts in there.” It suddenly seems so obvious to me. “So to you, I’m either crazy or a liar.”
He gets this pained look on his face but doesn’t say anything; he just continues to focus on driving.
Finally, as we’re approaching my house, he says, “Amelia. I … I’m sorry. I don’t believe in ghosts, so how can I believe
you
see them? But I don’t think you’re crazy. I really don’t. And I don’t think you’re a liar either.” He shakes his head. “I don’t have any explanation for any of this. I’m not trying to find one, either. I’m interested in helping to solve the mystery of the barn, though, which kind of surprises me. Maybe I’m a chip off the old block after all.”
Once we’re in the driveway, we sit in the car in silence for a minute. I feel so torn. I’m upset with him, and yet that was probably the nicest apology anyone’s ever made to me. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder and his grip fills me with vague hope. But he just gives me a friendly shake and lets go.
“But hey, why worry about what I think?” he says. “It’s not important. Maybe I’ll be a convert before this whole thing gets solved. Either way, I promise not to piss off your dead boyfriend ever again.”
I’m in my bedroom on Friday night, wasting time on the Internet, when the phone rings and Ethan bangs on my door saying it’s for me. Poor Ethan. Looking kind of depressed, he hands me the phone.
Joyce says he’s got this big project due on Monday and he’s barely started it. She says his marks are going downhill. I should really try helping him with his homework next semester.
“Your new boyfriend,” he says with a smirk, and immediately I feel less sorry for him.
I wait until I’m sure Ethan’s out of earshot before saying hello. Kip asks me how I am. I say I’m fine, and I ask him how he is. He says he’s fine. He says he’s done some research on Anne and Dorothy McGrath, and he’s found records of both their marriages. Anne married a guy named William Stinton, and Dorothy married a guy named Philip Ross. He’s also found death notices for their two husbands and for the older sister, Anne, but he hasn’t found anything for a Dorothy Ross.
“So it looks like she might still be alive, unless she left the county,” he says. “But there’s no Dorothy Ross in the phone directory. I’ll keep looking.”
“Ross? I know an old lady named Mrs. Ross. I can’t remember her first name, but I’m sure it wasn’t Dorothy. I’d remember that ’cause of
The Wizard of Oz
. I read
Great Expectations
to her when I was in grade nine. It was a volunteer program, reading to seniors with bad eyesight. Maybe she’s a relative of Dorothy’s? That would be amazing. She’s in her late eighties too, I think. If she’s still alive.”
“Where did she live?”
“In a seniors’ residence south of town on Highway 6. Near Williamsford.”
Kip says he’ll mention it to his dad, see if he knows her. I tell him I’ll try the name on my grandmother, who knows a lot of seniors herself. Then we say goodbye and hang up.
For a long time I sit on my bed with the phone in my hand. His tone was friendly enough, I guess, but a little businesslike. I have to
admit that I feel nostalgic when I think back on that get-together at Brittany’s. I miss how he was that night. How he made me feel.