Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

Yet again, Rain studied the now-familiar faces. ’Bastian’s writing on the back—even seeing the Eight spirits in person—had done less to bring them back to life than Joe Charone’s few nostalgia-laced words. She looked at young Joey C. Wounded but smiling—and now so obviously good Old Joe. And beside him, Tommy McMinn, the tall ghost who had “spoken” to her at the N.T.Z. Finally, her gaze returned to her grandfather. “And ’Bastian was the pilot?”

“Through twenty-five successful missions. Nine of them over Berlin. He kept us alive. We’d have followed him anywhere. In fact, we did.”

“When was this taken? I mean I saw the date on the back, but—”

“V-E Day.” Rain and Charlie exchanged looks and nervous shrugs. It was clear from Joe’s tone that this was something he thought both kids should know. He looked at them sternly. “Victory in Europe Day. Eighth of May, 1945. Day after the Nazis surrendered. There was still fighting in the Pacific. But we had flown our twenty-five runs. We were done. The war was over for us. Just one more mission left.”

“What mission?”

“Something ’Bastian set up. When it mattered, your grandpa was rock solid. Serious. No foolin’ around. But when it didn’t matter, when nothing was at stake, he liked to have a good time. He liked attention too. For him they went together.” Rain and Charlie stared at him blankly, so Joe clarified: “See, a little glory helped oil the gears for his fun.”

He grinned at them. Still nothing. His grin turned sour with annoyance. “With women! You kids are old enough to hear this, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” But Charlie noticed Rain was wearing her “icky-face.”

“’Bastian loved the ladies. He used to say—and I certainly thought—that he’d never get tired of playing the field. Then of course, he met Rose, and everything changed.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Rain said, anxious to put him back on topic.

“True, true. Where was I, Sweetie?”

“The mission. The last mission.”

“Right. ’Bastian had this idea, see? It was unusual for a crew like ours to stay together from start to finish. There were injuries, illnesses, the occasional court martial. Guys went on leave or they had enough combat points to get sent home.”

Joe’s tongue took a quick circuit around his lips. “And there were fatalities, you know?” This time, he didn’t look at the two kids to make sure they understood. He knew they couldn’t. Not really. Not the way he did. Not at their age. Not in the world they lived in now. But that’s a good thing, he reminded himself. That’s why we fought.

He searched his mind for his train of thought. Caught it and boarded. “But here we were—ten of us—still together after twenty-five sorties. I got a little chopped up on that last flight, but we were all alive and eager to head back to the States. ‘Bastian just wanted a little fanfare for the journey.

“So he talked to the brass and convinced them we could still be of use to the war effort. They sent the Belle on a tour of the States to help sell War Bonds. There were ten stops. One for every member of the crew. We’d each get a chance to be the big man in our own hometown, or at least at the closest airfield.”

Rain looked down at the Belle ’s crew in her hand. In her mind, the flashbulb went off and the ten sepia-toned men came to life, shaking hands, patting each other on the back. Everyone’s extra solicitous of the injured tail gunner, until the young man growls, “Leave me alone. I’m fine, see?” Then their captain steps forward, tilts his hat back with casual arrogance and says, “Boys, have I got a surprise for you….”

“Lance and Tommy and Pete, they didn’t like the idea. They just wanted to go home and stay home. But it sounded good to the rest of us heroes, and even the naysayers weren’t gonna say nay to ’Bastian. Heck, I was so excited I talked the docs into letting me go along, head injury or no head injury. ’Course I had pneumonia by the time we got to New York—that’s where I’m from, you know; my dad piloted the Staten Island Ferry for forty-three years.”

“So you missed the rest of the mission,” Rain said.

Old Joe lapsed into silence, allowing his eyes to gaze inward again. Trying to fill the void, Charlie volunteered, “Sorry.”

Joe chuckled ruefully and removed his Sycorax pilot’s cap. He rubbed a pudgy hand over his sweating weathered face and through his thin gray hair. He replaced the cap. Rain watched his tongue sweep his lips over and over. The small humid room smelled of oil, the sea and ’Bastian’s aftershave. The smells pushed in on Joe and Rain and Charlie, tightened around them, close. Joe spoke again, but he still wasn’t ready to proceed. “We’re docking at Sycorax, and I need to concentrate. Go get some air and we can finish talkin’ on the trip back.”

Rain tried to make room for his memories: “Something happened after New York. Something you missed.”

Joe nodded curtly. “I’ll tell you on the way back.” It was clearly the final word. Rain wasn’t good with final words. Her mouth opened in protest.

Joe growled to cut her off, “On the way back!” He looked sick. Dizzy.

Reluctantly, Rain allowed Charlie to pull her out of the cabin. They retreated to the deck, where Charlie seized the moment and handed her back her school supplies. Rain slipped the framed photo of the Island Belle ’s crew into the shopping bag. Neither spoke; they just leaned on the rail as Joe gently glided the hulking ferry into its Sycorax Island berth.

Suddenly, Charlie perked up. “Hey, Miranda!”

Rain looked around but didn’t—

“Charlie?!” Rain followed the voice and spotted their new friend. She was walking along the wide pier with that Ariel following a few feet behind her. The two kept pace with the ferry as it slowly docked. “What are you guys doing here?” Miranda shouted.

Chasing ghosts, thought Rain.

Charlie answered quickly: “Just taking a boat ride. How ’bout you? You working here?”

“I live here.”

Rain and Charlie exchanged another odd look. Rain said quietly, “Nobody lives on Sycorax.” It was largely true. Sycorax was the Ghosts’ only privately held island, the one-hundred-percent property of Sycorax Inc. Lots of people worked on Sycorax—at the processing plants or the factories. Old Joe ferried them over every morning and ferried them home to San Próspero every night. But who would live here? Rain wondered.

The ferryboat stopped with a lurch. Miranda called up to them: “Are you coming ashore?”

“We can’t,” Rain said. Even at this distance, she could sense Miranda’s disappointment. “But we’ll see you tonight at the party, right?”

Miranda smiled and nodded. She hesitated before speaking again and her smile saddened. “Rain, I’m so sorry about your grandfather. I didn’t know if I should come to the funeral. I mean we haven’t known each other very long. I didn’t know if it was appropriate….”

“It’s okay,” Rain said. “There were too many people anyway. I booked early.”

Charlie piped in, “It’s true. She ditched.”

Movement behind her caught Rain’s eye. She turned and saw new passengers boarding. She was immediately restless. She wanted—needed—to get back to Joe. She turned to Miranda. “We have to talk to the pilot. I’ll see you later.” And like a ghost, Rain vanished from the railing.

Not for the first time, Charlie felt the need to apologize for his single-minded friend. “Sorry. She’s like that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You’ll get used to her. It’s mostly worth it. Mostly.”