Letters From The Grave Read online

  Using the etching as her canvas, Emma painted the grave with the dogwood tree in bloom and angel statue in the foreground. She wanted to work in the face of Emma somehow, but was afraid, that like the angel it would end up looking like her. All the pictures she had done in the past, of the faces of the dead, came from her own imagination if she couldn’t find a likeness of them when she did research on the person who was buried beneath each tombstone etching that she did. Sometimes, she was lucky to discover historical photos or paintings of the people she researched. But this was entirely different, and she was almost afraid to research Emma Harrison, for fear it would lead to herself, and then she would have even more questions to ask and discover answers to. For all her researching of historical figures connected to gravestones she had discovered, she had never bothered to look up her own family history. Her father, being a historian, should know the answers, though, she thought, and she wondered why she had never asked him about the history of her own family?

  Emma could not concentrate on her artwork. Her head was too full of questions that she couldn’t answer, unless she did some research, so finally, she put down her brushes, and went to the phone and dialed her parent’s number.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said, as she heard her father’s familiar voice over the phone.

  “Hey there, sweetheart, how are things going with you?”

  “Oh, pretty good, but I was just wondering about something…”

  “Yes?”

  “You study history, and I was just wondering if you had the history of our family. I want to know how far back you have it, and if you know anything about our ancestors back before the Civil War?”

  “Well… I know you are interested in dead people, but I never thought you were interested about our dead relatives. What brought this all on?”

  “It was a grave I found the other day. You will never believe it, but the tombstone, had my name on it, Daddy, and the person was born on my birthday, and died on my birthday a hundred years ago. So, of course, I want to know if I am related to that Emma Harrison or not.”

  Her father was quiet for so long that Emma thought they had been disconnected. Then she heard him take in a breath. “That is very interesting. Where did you find the grave?”

  “Out by a roofless church where the old plantations used to be back in the Civil War times. The grave yard has not been tended in no telling how long. Everything is all over grown and full of weeds.”

  “You are in luck, pumpkin. I just happen to have our family tree, which goes back farther than that, but I can tell you, that we named you after an Aunt of mine who lived back then and had your same birthday. I had been doing our family history when your mother was carrying you, and that is how I knew about it at the time. When you were born on my great, great something aunt’s birthday, it seemed natural to name you after her. She died shortly before the Civil War, at a young age. She married a Foster, who was a member of a prominent family back then, and owned a plantation out in the area you are speaking of. If you want to come take a look at the family tree, I can show it to you.”

  Emma drew in her breath. It had to be the same Emma Harrison who married Doran Foster, and was buried in that grave. “I’m coming right over,” she squealed, and hung up the phone.

  It didn’t take long to get to her parent’s house, since they only lived three miles away from where she lived, and Emma could not wait to see how she was related to that Emma Harrison Foster, and wondered if that was why she was able to contact that woman’s husband through time and space.

  Her father, Donald Harrison, a tall stocky man with brown hair, graying at the temples, and a neat cut mustache, was waiting for her in his den with papers spread out on his desk, which contained her family history. He was dressed casually in slacks and a blue flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled, with house slippers on his feet. He smiled at her in a quizzical way, feeling pleased that she was taking interest in their family history. He was anxious to show her the family tree, since history was his occupation, and he had written several books on various historical events.

  “Well, sit yourself down, and we will go through these papers, and trace back to the Emma Harrison, who, apparently, was buried in that graveyard you found. We never could find her grave, when we were doing research on the family. We knew it was in a private graveyard belonging to the plantation, but never knew just where that plantation was located, since it was the property of Foster, and I hadn’t done any research on that family. We just knew the general area, which always eluded us whenever we searched for it. Count on you to find it!”

  The paper was in a roll, and Emma’s father put paper weights at either end to keep it from rolling back up. Emma looked down at the chart and traced her finger over the names.

  She began to read the names on the chart. Emma’s parents, Matthew L. Harrison, Martha Sue Cummings were married in 1835. She had an older Brother, Mark Daniel Harrison, born 1837 married to Julia Ann Smith in 1856. He had two sons, William Harry, born 1858, Jacob Joseph born 1860. Jacob married a Margret Lynn Johnson, 1883, having three children… Mary Kay, 1885, John Tyler, 1887, James Edmond 1890. James married Sandra Lee Todd and they had five children, Samuel Thomas, 1893, Laurence Dean, 1895, Jasmine Rose 1897, Gregory Todd 1899, Linda Sue 1902, Mark Matthew, 1905. Mark married Jenny Jo Landry 1922, and they had two children, Matthew James, 1924, Ellen Margret, 1928. Matthew married Ester May Yates, 1940, they had one child, Donald Fredrick, 1941, who married Darlene Kay Jones 1958 who were the parents of one child, Emma Anne, born 1959.

  So this was how she was related to that Emma Harrison Foster, who lay in the grave with the angel watching over her, and a door in her tombstone that mysteriously allowed her to contact Doran Foster, her husband. Emma decided that she would not tell her father about the letters. He would either think she was crazy, or if he actually believed her, insist she ask all sort of historical questions of the man in the past that was contacting her through the tombstone. No. This was something she was going to have to work out on her own.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, and turned from the room.

  “But don’t you want to know more about the family?” he questioned as she started to depart.

  “I might, but right now, that was all I wanted to know, unless you happen to have any information on the man Emma married, whose name was Doran Frank Foster.”

  “And why would you be so interested in his family history?”

  “Maybe it is in my blood, being the daughter of a historian,” she laughed.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  But she was already out the door and climbing into her car, her mind going a mile a minute. So she was related to the woman that Doran married, and now she was talking to that dead woman’s dead husband, who seemed to be alive and well through time and space, while he wrote to her through the tombstone. Emma thought, If I could find that piece of cake (or was it cheese?) that Alice in Wonderland ate to make myself small, I could climb into that little door and maybe transport myself back in time and space! How absurd she was suddenly becoming!

  By the time Emma had left her father’s house, it was close to noon, and she decided she would check the grave yard one more time before returning home and working on her artwork. Later that evening, she would have to go to work and serve the dinner crowd, so it did not give her a lot of time to fool around.

  When she approached the gravestone, she was elated to see that once again, there was a new letter waiting for her, but this time she saw that it had been written with a ball point pen. It had to be the one she had sent to him, she decided. The paper was still the same as the other letters with the same water mark on it.

  April 11, 1859

  Dear Emma,

  It is peculiar for me to call you by my dead wife’s name, and I am finding it very difficult to write this, but I must respond to you and try to discover how this odd occurrence has come about. As you can see, I have decided to try out your ball point
pen, which came through with your letter. I find it very different, and regret the penmanship is not very much enhanced by it, but it is rather convenient to use, as I don’t have to pause and dip it in ink or worry about smudges or wet ink on the paper. I do not have to sand it or blow it, to dry the ink before placing it in an envelope, so I am sure it saves a lot of time for those who use it in your day.

  I really don’t know where to begin, because I do not know if you are the spirit of my dead wife, or just someone with her name who lives in the future and has found her grave. However, I find many things about your writing to be similar to hers, and the things you say are the very things she would say under the same circumstances, so I feel that there must be some connection between her and you, and possibly, me as well.

  I am intrigued by the fact that you live in the future, and therefore I can learn many things about what will take place, which I would have no way of knowing otherwise. I long to hear of all the new inventions that will be made between my time and yours, and of course the history of what will happen in the future, which is your past, I suppose. I want to hear more about the war that is on the brink of breaking out among the states, and what the outcome will be, even though it may not influence me to change my views about the reasons this war is about to break out.

  I fear for my family and home and even though you may not be able to tell me what happens, concerning them, if you know of anything that may help me to prepare for whatever is to come, I would appreciate hearing it. I want to hear about your life, and what things interest you, and what you do from day to day, if you are married or have a young man you are interested in.

  If you are truly a reincarnation of my dead wife in the future, I hope that somewhere my own reincarnation is at hand so I can find you again. If you are not married, do not be too hasty and please wait for me to find you. I hesitate to speculate on that, though, because if I were there in the future, close to you, and found you, then you would have no reason to write to me any longer. I so look forward to hearing more of you if this strange phenomenon continues to happen, which allows us to communicate with one another. Therefore, I would hate to lose your friendship, so closely after losing my wife, for your letters have given me hope that there is life after death. And that perhaps, we do come back to earth and meet one another again, to further our relationship with the people we love.

  I hope you are well and happy, and that your life is rewarding to you. I so long to hear what brought you to my wife’s grave and if it has been well cared for over the many years she has been buried there. Has anyone tended my grave? Is my plantation still standing? Has the countryside changed there in all this time? Perhaps you do not know the answer to that since you cannot see it as I see it now, but if you could describe it to me, I could let you know. I look forward to hearing from you again soon.

  Forever, your servant, Doran Foster

  Emma read the letter several times, before she put it in her purse, which was lying on the seat of her car. She could feel the excitement rising within her, as she thought about what she would write back to him. She would not have time to do it until after work, but she could not wait to tell Cassandra about this new letter. She felt it was better not to tell anyone else about it, and she wanted to warn Cassandra about keeping it a secret. She was afraid if more people knew, the letters would suddenly stop going through time, and this was something she wanted to explore for as long as it lasted.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1859

  Doran found it difficult to sleep. How could he sleep after discovering that he was writing to someone in the future with his dead wife’s name? Every time he held her letters and smelled the perfume she put on them, memories of his wife floated back to him, and yet, this was not his wife. This was someone he had never met, and never would be able to meet, unless he could transport himself into the future, the way his letters seemed to appear there, but that seemed more absurd than believing the letters were coming through time and space. It pulled at his heart, because it was like writing to his dead wife, whom he could not bring back from the dead, and would never see again. His first letter had felt hopeless because he never expected an answer to it. Now, it seemed, he could receive answers to his letters, even if they weren’t coming from his actual wife.

  However, he felt confused. Of what use could this serve, except to perhaps educate him on things of the future, yet, would that be of any use to him, he wondered? Perhaps, if she knew how the prices of commodities were going during his time, he could make wiser choices as to what to plant on his plantation. Since she knew the outcome of the war, he would know which side to fight with, if it came to that. He could see the unrest in the country was growing stronger, and he, himself, was siding against slavery, even though most of his own neighbors had slaves and were supporting slavery. He knew that was not the only reason there was unrest, and if a war started, it would not be about slavery alone, yet knowing the outcome of the war encouraged him. He was glad that the blacks would someday be treated equal to the whites. That was difficult for him to believe though, and he knew that a lot of hatred, and prejudice would have to be overcome before the blacks would gain true equal treatment with whites in the future.

  His thoughts were distracted by the crying of Matthew just barely audible from the nursery, located in the third story above his own room. Unexpectedly, he got the urge to see his son, who had only brought him sad memories of his wife every time he looked upon the babe. Now it seemed important to be closer to his son and take on the role of father, which he had been reluctant to do up until now. He had been perfectly happy to just let his mother and the nanny have charge of his son.

  He pulled himself out of bed and put on a dressing gown, sliding his feet into his slippers, and then going out into the hall and climbing the stairs up to the nursery. When he arrived at the door, he could hear nanny Doris crooning to the child, and the persistent crying of Matthew, in spite of the nanny’s attempts to comfort him. She was surprised to see him standing in the doorway.

  “I am sorry if the child disturbed your sleep, sir,” she began. “I am trying my best to quiet him.”

  “Don’t worry, Doris. I am not angry.” He walked over and looked down on the red face of Mathew, as a new whimper escaped his lips.

  Instinctively, he reached his arms out for the child, to meet the shocked look on Nanny Doris’ face. He had never asked to see or hold the child before, and she was beginning to believe he had no interest in the poor infant, what-so-ever. She looked questioningly up at him, and then smiled, handing the bundle over to his father.

  Doran looked down on the crying infant, and then, by some miracle, the child opened his eyes and looked straight up into Doran’s face, and stopped crying. In fact, a smile appeared upon the infant’s face, and he reached out a hand and touched Doran’s cheek. It was if his wife had reached down from heaven and touched him in that instant, and Doran felt a shock run through him. Yet it was a pleasant shock, and he hugged his son all the tighter to him. It seemed that he was getting over the loss of his wife, and he knew he had this woman of the future to thank for it. He suddenly felt happier than he had since before his wife had died, and he felt everything was going to be better for him. Matthew had quieted, and he handed him to Doris.

  “Well I’ll be…” she exclaimed, as Doran handed the baby back. “I suppose he was missing you,” she added, and Doran nodded, trying to hold back the sting of tears behind his lids.

  “I think I was the one missing him,” he said at length, and turned from the room, as his voice started to break.

  He went back to his bed, determined to make a complete turnaround, and make life worthwhile for both himself and his newborn child. He could not wait until he could check the tombstone to see if Emma had responded to his last letter. Sleep came easy, now and he dreamed of his wife, but it was a happy dream, and not a sad one, which made him feel refreshed when he woke in the morning.

  He came down the stairs whistling, and his m
other, who was passing through the hall, looked up startled, and then smiled.

  “You seem chipper, this morning. At first I thought a stranger was in the house,” she laughed, “but I see now that it is merely my son restored to his usual cheerful self!”

  He paused and kissed his mother on the cheek, which caused her to giggle. “I am restored, Mother. I feel so alive this morning. I saw Matthew last night, and realized that life must go on. I cannot let my son suffer from my indifference. I see that now. From now on I am a new man, and will act accordingly.”

  “Well, I swan! Will wonders never cease? I can see these letters from the future have given you some sort of new hope.”

  “I don’t know if it is hope. I think it is just realizing that life does go on. That someone in the future is dealing with life in their time, just as I am dealing with life now. And in some way, our crossing time has given us both a different perspective on life. I am so eager to discover everything I can about this person and what her life is like in the future. And perhaps she can help me deal with my life here in what she would consider the past.”

  “You might as well get some food into you before you go off to that graveyard, as I can see you are anxious to do. Knowing you are not going there to brood has brightened my day. While I am as anxious as you are to learn of things from the future, it might be just as well if you keep them to yourself. I don’t want you to jinx this new experience you are having.”

  “As you wish, Mother.” He took her arm and ushered her into the dining room where the table was already piled with food. He could barely concentrate on his food, because he was so anxious to discover if there was any new mail in the cubby hole of his wife’s head stone.

  When he arrived at the grave yard, he quickly retrieved the key from its hiding place and opened the little brass door, for he could already see that there was a new envelope inside, and something else. When he reached inside he almost dropped both the letter and what appeared to be a new kind of photograph, which was in color. The face staring out at him was that of his dead wife, only she was wearing unusual clothing, which would be outrageous if worn in his day, which were slacks and a lose-fitting shirt. He stared down at the picture. The woman’s hair was fixed totally different than the style he was used to seeing, but it was unmistakable, that her face was the face of his own wife’s face, and this totally shook him. He reached out and touched the face of the woman in the photograph, as if trying to reach through time to touch her. With shaking hands, he opened the envelope.