"You can't start timing until I leave, or I'll count the time you took to get the brush."
"Hmph!" Cecile said.
Lisette had to assume that signified agreement. She closed the kitchen door behind her quietly so as not to rouse Aunt Josephine. As she closed the porch door, a gray and white paw reached out through the wooden steps, just barely missing her leg with outstretched claws.
"See if you get fed today," Lisette told the cat, then dashed across the lawn and up the hill.
"Gerard! Gerard!" she cried. It had started raining once again. Did ghosts come out in the rain? It seemed a ridiculous question, but what did she know of ghosts?
"Lisette," Gerard said as clearly as though there had never been a problem with hearing him. He stepped out from among the trees and put his hands out as though to take hers; but then he remembered in time. Looking at her quizzically, he said, "Thou art wet."
"It is raining," she pointed out.
But perhaps it wasn't as obvious as she had thought, for he looked around, then said, "Oh."
In the gloomy light he wasn't nearly as transparent as he'd seemed that first day. But she could see well enough to tell that the rain went right through him. Then again, that was normal. As normal as things were around him.
"Gerard," she said, "I have to talk to you, and I only have a few minutes." Were minutes too advanced a concept for someone from the fourteenth century? His expression was tense and wary, but that may have been due to the way she was acting, which she knew was less than calm and reasonable. Where should she begin? Did he know that he was a ghost? Should she tell him, or would that somehow change things irrevocably—cause him to disappear or, worse yet, start haunting in earnest? She couldn't believe that. She remembered his tendency to make the sign of the cross when startled or worried, and how Aunt Josephine had described him as looking sweet and lost, and how he'd been around Maurice for nearly a quarter century without ever doing anything to make Maurice frightened of him. He'd tried to keep her from falling down the hill—or rather, as he'd seen it, to keep the hill from swallowing her up. That wasn't someone to be afraid of.
"Yes?" he prompted, waiting for her questions.
"How..." she asked, "do you see me? I mean—"
"Thou—you are a ghost," he told her.
Well, at least she knew the word didn't have any magical effects.
He looked away, hugging himself as if for warmth. "At least," his voice had dropped to almost a whisper, "that is what I thought at first." His brown eyes met hers again. "But you aren't, art thou? You," he corrected himself impatiently.
She shook her head.
"I have seen ghosts before," he told her, "and at the start you were just as they were. But the more often I see thee, the more substance you have. And now..."
"Yes?" she asked, halfway between whisper and exhalation.
"My world is fading. And it is not only you that I can see, but..." he paused and gestured helplessly. "Ghost trees? Ghost squirrels?" He asked it as though she knew more than he did. "And though I know it is not raining, I can see the rain, not just because thy face and clothing are wet, but ... as a shadow. Is there such a thing as ghost rain? The fading is worst when you are here with me, but even when you are not..."
"You're aware of the passing of time?" Lisette asked. Somehow, she'd thought of him as existing only when she was looking at him. With a start, she realized he'd just told her that he'd thought the same about her.
"Yes," he said slowly. "But sometimes time seems to be standing still, and other times it bounds forth in great leaps, as a deer that breaks cover and flees."
"A day," she told him, "between each of my visits."
He was surprised, she could tell, even if he didn't say anything. Instead he asked, "Do th—Do you feel ... the same sort of fading?"
Lisette shook her head.
"Well," Gerard said softly. "And do you remember dying?"
Lisette's breath caught in her throat.
Apparently that was answer enough. "Well," he said again, once more averting his gaze. He started to make the sign of the cross but stopped halfway through. After a moment's hesitation, he completed the gesture. "I knew," he whispered. "Deep down in my heart I knew. I tried to convince myself it was just a dream. But it was too vivid. This —" he made a broad gesture that Lisette took to include everything, his current existence rather than just her, "this is more dreamlike. Time passing so strangely. No other people, just the ghosts."
"Gerard, I'm so sorry."
"Even being here," he said. "This is where I grew up. But I could not remember coming back. There is a gap, but I cannot tell where it began."
"Gerard."
He must have been able to tell from her voice that there was something wrong, for he got that wary look again, as though he knew there was more bad news coming.
"Gerard, you're not entirely grown up."
He looked at his hands, turning them palms then backs upwards. Lisette couldn't tell if he learned anything from them. Then he touched the lower part of his face. Beard, she thought. He was feeling for beard, or at least stubble. She knew her father's skin, even right after he shaved, didn't feel as smooth as a thirteen-year-old boy's would. Gerard touched his hair, which was longer than a boy from 1940 would wear it, though Lisette didn't know what it indicated to Gerard. Last, he moved his hand from the top of his head out toward her, comparing their heights. "How old am I?" he asked, sounding very exasperated.
"Thirteen."
He winced and bit off a groan.
"But you have been other ages," she told him. "My cousin, Cecile, who's ten, she thinks you're ten. And when my aunt saw you, she thought you were her age, which was twenty."
"Thy twenty-year-old aunt has a ten-year-old daughter?"
"That was ten years ago. And our neighbor, Maurice, who's—I don't know, seventy or eighty—he saw you when he was a boy, and you always looked whatever age he was."
"I am as old as whoever looks at me?"
He was beginning to sound sarcastic and annoyed.
"It's not my doing," she snapped.
He made the same gesture—hand to heart then extended to her—that he'd used when she couldn't hear him, apparently an apology.
"I'm sorry," she told him. It couldn't be easy, learning all in one day that you were dead and that you had to grow up all over again.
"This neighbor," Gerard said, "saw me when he was a boy?"
She nodded.
"But not after he passed his twenty-seventh year?"
Maurice hadn't been that specific, but, "No," she whispered.
"I don't understand: I continually reach twenty-seven then die all over again?"
"I don't know," she started, but then she said, "No. Aunt Josephine saw you ten years ago and you were twenty. You wouldn't have had time..." She didn't want to finish that thought out loud. "Gerard, can you leave this hill? Can you come down to the house?"
"What would happen if different people of different ages all saw me at once?"
That was something she hadn't thought of. "I don't know. Maybe you should avoid people. It's just that I have to go back or Cecile will tell my aunt where I've been, and she'll tell me I can't come back—I know she will. Can you see the house now?"
"I can see a vague outline. I can tell where it is."
"Come back with me." She extended her hand, but his touch was still just an icy breath of air.
He followed her, though when they reached the edge of the hill he still walked on earth that had eroded away centuries since. But the farther down they walked, the fainter he became, and she guessed from the way he looked at her that she was fading away for him, too.
"I'll be back tomorrow," she said.
And with the next step, he was gone.
13.
Wednesday, September 4, 1940
The next day Aunt Josephine announced that she would take Cecile marketing with her. Cecile, who saw it as a morning without chores, was pleased. Lisette, who s
aw it as a morning without Cecile, was also pleased.
Until Cecile came downstairs wearing Lisette's white sweater.
"That's mine," Lisette protested. She added, "You didn't even ask," though she knew she would have said no in any case.
"Cecile," Aunt Josephine said. But she was putting on lipstick and didn't seem honestly concerned. Aunt Josephine could apply lipstick without using a mirror, which Lisette thought was about as sophisticated as someone could get.
"It doesn't fit you anymore," Cecile said. "The sleeves are too short for your arms."
"It's mine. And it's the only one I have," Lisette said.
"Put it back, Cecile." Now Aunt Josephine took out a mirror to adjust her hat. "You have plenty of your own."
Cecile leaned in close to Lisette. "By Christmas you won't even be able to button it, and then Maman will make you give it to me. By spring nothing will fit anymore, and I'll be wearing all your clothes, and you'll have to wear Papa's old suits."
"Cecile, don't tease your cousin," Aunt Josephine said. "Put on one of your own sweaters and get moving. I'm waiting."
Lisette watched Cecile flounce up the stairs. Teasing was telling someone you'd forgotten to get her a birthday present when she knew very well that you hadn't forgotten. Teasing was holding up rabbit ears behind someone's head while the photographer was preparing to take the class picture. Lisette knew that in all likelihood she'd never have to wear Uncle Raymond's suits, but Cecile was right about one thing: Lisette was outgrowing her clothes. Her mother had already let down the hems of her dresses as far as they'd go. There was hardly anything to be had in the stores. And, as the oldest of the girl cousins, she wouldn't be getting hand-me-downs from any of her relatives. If the war went on much longer, she'd have to make due with the charity clothes gathered and distributed by the churches.
After Cecile and Aunt Josephine finally left, Lisette put Louis Jerome in charge of his sister, who was in one of her crying moods again, then she made the beds while Etienne rinsed the diapers, and the twins cleaned up the breakfast dishes. By the time she came back downstairs, Etienne had flooded the bathroom. She mopped up the water, sending him to the kitchen to supervise the dishwashing, because from what she'd seen while passing through the kitchen, the girls' idea of clean dishes didn't match hers.
After boiling the diapers, she went out in the backyard to hang the laundry and saw the cat, sitting by the back door, meowing piteously. Spying Lisette watching, it rolled over onto its back, exposing its snowy white belly. Lisette had to laugh at the friendly invitation. Obviously they'd gotten off to a bad start when she'd tried to pet it while it was eating. The poor starving thing had been afraid she was going to take its food away.
She opened the door and crouched down by the cat, who was still offering its belly. Lisette put her hand out, and the cat closed all four sets of claws on it. Lisette cried out in pain and jumped to her feet. She would have kicked the little beast except that it quickly moved out of range and began cleaning itself.
"You just keep away from me," Lisette warned, going back in to wash off her scratched arm. The first set of wounds hadn't even healed yet.
She was out in the backyard again, hanging the diapers on the line, when she heard someone singing—loudly and not very well—and then there was the honking of Maurice's horn and the sound of wooden wheels on the driveway.
Louis Jerome had been walking from room to room with Rachel and was now on the porch. Thankfully Rachel had at least exhausted herself and was only whimpering fretfully. Louis Jerome ran through the kitchen door to gather up the other children as Maurice came around the last bit of the curving driveway. "Whoa!" he told the horse. Then, to Lisette, "Hello, little one."
Lisette had asked Aunt Josephine if he was Maurice something or something Maurice, but she had admitted that she wasn't sure, so Lisette just said, "Hello," and estimated they were even since he was probably calling her "little one" because he couldn't remember her name. She'd only hung two diapers, which could conceivably pass as dustcloths, and now she stood in front of the laundry basket that held all the other diapers. "Aunt Josephine isn't here," she said. "She's already left to do the marketing."
"Ah!" said Maurice. "Well, seeing her is only part of why I came." He jumped down from the seat with more energy than Lisette would have expected from such an old person and walked to the back of the cart.
Lisette heard a sound which for one dreadful moment she thought was Rachel crying, but then Maurice reached into the back and lifted out a goat. He set the animal on its feet and it again gave that wobbly cry.
"Didn't like that ride at all, did you?" Maurice said to the goat. To Lisette he said, "This one's a real homebody. Fuss over her a bit and she'll be your friend for life and never wander. You'll get ... oh, maybe fifteen glasses of milk a day from her. Ever milked a goat?"
"No," Lisette admitted warily.
"Give me your hand."
Lisette winced. "You want me to touch her udders?"
"Udder" Maurice corrected. "One udder, four teats, city girl. Of course you have to touch it. You don't get milk just by asking."
The goat's udder was warm and didn't feel as Lisette would have guessed, if she'd ever thought about it, which she hadn't.
"Up here, don't squeeze, just slip down. Up here, slip down." Warm milk squirted out and hit Lisette's foot. "Build a rhythm. Don't be rough, but you do need to have a strong grip."
"So I see." Lisette's hand was beginning to cramp already.
"All you need to do is convince the goat you know what you're doing, and she'll let you do it. Milk her first thing in the morning and last thing at night."
"What's her name?"
Maurice laughed at her. "She's a farm animal, not a pet." But then he relented. "Name her what you want."
Lisette nodded. "And what do we feed her?"
"She'll browse and find enough to eat on her own. If she gets into that field of flowers back there, she'll think she's died and gone to heaven."
"She wouldn't, by chance, eat cats, would she?"
Maurice gave her a startled look.
"Well," said Lisette, trying to sound grateful since Maurice had done the family a very big favor, "thank you very much."
"Not at all." Maurice climbed back up onto the cart. "I thought your aunt might want some company going into town today. She was upset about something yesterday."
Lisette wanted Maurice to leave before he became suspicious about the diapers, but she was also curious. "Then you didn't see what happened?"
Maurice shook his head. "No, I picked her up on the road back. But the fact that she was bicycling in the downpour rather than waiting indoors in town for the weather to let up..." Maurice shrugged. "Something to do with the Germans, I gather."
Lisette gave a noncommittal grunt.
"Me," Maurice said, "I don't get involved in politics. At least the Germans are polite. When a person gets to be my age, politeness counts for something."
"I suppose," Lisette said.
"Well,"—Maurice picked up the horse's reins—"tell your aunt that if she's afraid to go to town alone tomorrow, she can go with me." He started to ease the horse and cart around in a circle to get back to the road.
"She went with Cecile today." Lisette only said it so that Maurice would see that Aunt Josephine was bothered by the attention but not truly worried.
But Maurice cast a quick glance at the porch.
Which meant he'd seen something as he pulled up, and he'd assumed it had been Cecile. Lisette bit her lip in frustration. Stupid, she chided herself. Stupid, stupid.
But Maurice only nodded at her one last time and shook the horse's reins so that it started back down the drive.
When she was sure he was gone, she went back in the house, leaving the laundry where it was.
No sign of anybody.
"Children!" she called.
No answer.
With a sigh she checked the basement door. The flashlight was gone from its c
ompartment, which meant the children were in their secret room and wouldn't come out until she went down there and fetched them. She tried banging on the floor and yelling, "Long live France," but there was no answer. So she got the second flashlight and went downstairs. "Long live France," she repeated.
Cautiously the door opened and Louis Jerome peeked out. "Is he gone?"
"No, he's right here behind me, watching every move you make."
Apparently little children didn't understand sarcasm. Etienne kicked the door shut.
"I was joking," Lisette called.
Nothing.
She sighed. "Long live France," she said yet again.
The door opened a crack.
"What if he comes back?" Louis Jerome's voice asked.
"I think he already knows you're here." Lisette jammed her foot in the door before Etienne could slam it shut again. Anne was starting to whimper. "I think he's known for a long time. He'd have to be deaf, blind, and stupid not to have noticed. That's why he always honks the horn before coming anywhere near us, to warn you away so everybody can pretend he doesn't know. But he brought us a goat so we can have goat milk."
Anne stopped mid-whimper. "Goat?" she said, wriggling in front of Louis Jerome.
"Goat?" Emma echoed, close on her heels. "What's its name?"
"We're supposed to choose," Lisette said. "My recommendation is that whatever you choose, you do it before Cecile comes back. Otherwise she's going to insist on naming it herself. Pick something, and we'll tell her that's its name and she can't go around changing people's names—or things' names. By the way, it is a she." Lisette might have been from the city, but she knew that much. "Why don't you come out and meet her?"
"What if Monsieur Maurice comes back?" Louis Jerome asked.
Lisette refrained from telling him to wait in the basement, just in case. She said, "He's gone to Sibourne to do his marketing."
The children followed Lisette out into the backyard, where they found the goat eating one of the diapers from the laundry basket. Lisette jerked the diaper away, which caused the goat to follow her closer to the house, where the children waited. "Don't be afraid, she won't bite." Lisette wasn't positive of that, but she assumed it was true because if goats were dangerous animals, people would keep them behind bars in zoos rather than on farms.