Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

Iris watched her, and Rain soon became aware of the attention. Again, she held up the airplane photo and tried to keep her voice calm. “When was this taken?”

“I’m not sure. During World War Two, of course. You knew your granddad was a bomber pilot.”

“I guess I did. Sort of. I knew he was in the war. Went to Europe. But I don’t know how I knew. I can’t remember him ever telling me or anything.”

“No. Dad never talked about the war. Wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Do you recognize anyone else? Like this guy?” Rain pointed at the Injured Party. “Or anyone?”

Iris scanned each face over Rain’s shoulder. Finally, she shook her head. “He never talked about any of it. Now it’s lost.”

Lost. Rain felt ’Bastian staring at her from the photograph. The Dark Man smiling and confident. Probably disgusted with her. She held the picture to her chest so she wouldn’t have to look at that face. But she wouldn’t let it go. Keeping it would be her penance… like the albatross in that Mariner poem they had studied last year. “Can I have this?” she asked, half-hoping the answer would be no.

But Iris seemed pleased that Rain wanted it. She nodded to her daughter. Rain swallowed hard. Careful what you wish for. “I have to go get school stuff,” she said. “Dad gave me money.”

Iris gave her daughter a bookkeeper’s stare. “We discussed that. Just make sure you get what you need before you spend the balance.”

Rain smiled. She didn’t need much. She had an old binder she could reuse by throwing out last year’s notes. And she had all the math stuff—ruler, compass, protractor. All she’d need were a couple pencils, a couple pens, a highlighter, some paper and a new folder. That would last her through the first month or so. After that, if she needed something else she could always wheedle a bit more cash out of her parents. Education was important to them.

Rain kissed her mom and left. She was outside the Inn before she realized she was still clutching the photo. ’Bastian, the Eight, the Injured Party, all pressing against her chest. Ghosts, memories, guilt. She didn’t want to be alone with them. She beelined for Charlie’s.

An hour later she had her supplies in a plastic bag and nearly fifteen dollars still in her pocket. She showed the picture to Charlie as they sat on a bench between palm trees, twenty yards from the edge of the beach, where two seagulls were fighting over the remains of a corn dog. A warm breeze slid along the shore, but Charlie had to suppress a shiver. His jaw hung open as Rain tried to explain: “See, the first ghost was ’Bastian…”

“Wait, wait, slow down.”

“And these guys. These other eight guys were the ghosts I saw with you at the N.T.Z.”

“Rain.”

She pointed at the Injured Party. “I haven’t seen him yet. Maybe that’s tonight’s special moment.”

“You have not been seeing ghosts.”

“Shut up. I have. It’s not like I’m happy about it. Doesn’t really matter if you believe me, anyway….” She trailed off, thinking.

“What?” he asked, apprehensive.

“What if this last guy isn’t dead? I mean maybe that’s why he wasn’t with the others. What if he’s alive somewhere, living in Nebraska… or London.” The prospect of the Injured Party living in Europe actually brought a smile to her face. “He could tell me something. I wish I knew his name.”

Before his mind had time to censor the thought, Charlie asked, “Have you looked on the back? My mother always writes names on the back.”

Rain rolled her eyes as she absently flipped the framed picture over. “There’s nothing there.”

Charlie rolled his eyes right back at her. “Not the back of the frame. The back of the picture. Take it out.”

Rain mentally kicked herself. She flipped aside the little tab and lifted the felt and cardboard backing away from the photograph. Sure enough, there were three lines of faded pencil scrawl. On top it read, May 8, 1945. Below that, names and initials. Top: Billy Z., Pete G., Me, Harry C., Harry E. And, Bottom: Bear M., Ducky S., Lance P., Joey C., Tommy M. She flipped the picture back and forth, attaching a name to every face. “Me” was her Papa ’Bastian. ’Bastian B. This was his scrawl. And the Injured Party? The man in the wheelchair? Joey C.

Rain frowned. “No last names. Guess he thought he’d remember. It’s gonna be hard to search all of London for a Joey C. Not much help.”

“Can I see him again?”

Rain turned the photo over once more. They both studied good old Joey. Old Joey. “Oh my God,” she said, “you don’t think?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said, but she could tell from the slow way he shook his head that the same thought had crossed his mind. Down on the beach, one of the birds snatched up the last chunk of corn dog and took to the air; the other remained, pecking at the crumbs.

Rain stood up abruptly. “Let’s go ask him. I mean they were best friends. Even if it’s not him, he might know something. We should ask him.”

“Ask him what? Whether he’s being haunted too?”

“We’ll just show him the picture. See what we get.”

“Don’t tell him anything that’s going to get you committed, okay?”

“Whatever. Let’s go.”

She took off with the photo. Charlie stood and picked up her bag of school supplies. He chewed on the inside of his mouth.

“Come on!” she yelled.

And he followed.

They had to wait fifteen minutes for the Sycorax Ferry to return. Rain got in line and spent ten of her father’s dollars on their two tickets, which kept her occupied for a full three of those minutes. But during the last twelve Charlie half-thought she was going to jump in the water and swim for the boat. Finally, it arrived, but the boarding process was so slow and deliberate, Charlie was glad Rain wasn’t armed.

They boarded. Rain ran upstairs to the pilot’s cabin with Charlie on her heels. A big sign said NO ADMITTANCE. A smaller sign said, DO NOT DISTURB THE PILOT. Rain ignored both and grabbed for the door handle. It was locked. She pounded on the glass.

Old Joe Charone, the ferryman, turned with a scowl. Then he saw his best friend’s granddaughter and his face immediately softened. Rain shouted through the glass, “Can we talk to you?”

“I’m workin’, Sweetie.”

“I need to ask you something.”

So inevitably, Joe opened yet another door for Rain Cacique. She and Charlie squeezed into the little cabin. Rain started to talk, but a HORN sounded, cutting her off. Old Joe picked up his radio and said, “Pulling out.”

Rain tried again, “Joe, I want to—”

“Let me get her clear of port, Sweetie, then we can talk.”

Rain did not take a deep breath and wait. She held out the photograph, demanding “Have you seen it before?”

Old Joe glanced at the picture, barely. “Once or twice,” he said, smiling. His focus immediately returned to the harbor, but he jerked his head to the left. Hanging from the bulkhead was another copy of the photo in an identical frame.

Charlie gulped. Rain looked about ready to pop. “Then it is you,” she said. “You’re the Injured—the guy in the wheelchair!”

“The kid in the wheelchair,” Joe corrected. “Yeah, that’s me. Tail Gunner Joey.”

“And Papa?”

“Captain Sebastian Bohique. He was a real war hero, Sweetie. He was my hero.”

“The others?”

“The crew of the Island Belle . Here, show me that again.”

Rain held up the picture. Again, Joe merely glanced at it. But this time when he stared out to sea, his vision searched backward. He knew that photograph by heart. He knew everything about those years by heart. “Across the top that’s Lieutenant Billy Zekaris, our bombardier. And Pete Grier from Mississippi. He was top turret. Then your grandfather. And Big Harry Connors and Little Harry Eiling, our waist gunners. Kneeling down you got Lieutenant William ‘Bear’ Mitchell, our navigator. And Ducky Simpson, ball turret. Sergeant Lance Pedros, radio operator. Me. And Lieutenant Tommy McMinn, copilot.”