song, so much in love that one couldn't live without the other, SHE DIED FOR LOVE OF HIM. Nobody loved Harrison that much. Nobody ever would.
"Kid?" the breeze seemed to whisper. "Kid?" Then, more insistent more human, "Are you all right?" Harrison opened his eyes and found that he had somehow ended up kneeling on the ground. He blinked in the bright sunlight Birds were chirping. In the distance, at the farthest edge of hearing, someone was mowing a lawn. The woman jogger with the dog stood poised on the grass between him and the curb as though unsure how close she should approach. She held on to the dog's collar to keep him from bounding over to Harrison.
"I'm"—his voice sounded so husky and unused—"taking a shortcut home so I won't be late." He ran his tongue over his parched lips.
The jogger hesitated before nodding. "Oh." Her jaw twitched, perhaps an attempt at a smile. She took a step back toward the road.
Harrison pulled himself up by leaning on the gravestone.
The jogger tugged on the chain collar until she and her dog were both on the road. Harrison checked his bicycle's wheels and chain and handlebars and seat while the two of them disappeared over the crest of the hill. Then he got back off and knelt by the grave.
SHE DIED FOR LOVE OF HIM . Harrison didn't think he could bear the incredible sadness of it. That they had lived and loved and died before he had even been born. Before his parents had been born. History had always seemed unreal to him, as though everything that had ever happened in the whole of the world had been leading up to him, to whatever moment he was experiencing. Now he felt unreal. Surely things had peaked here, in 1892, for Robert and Eulalia. Surely
he
was superfluous, extra, unneeded. Not smart Not loved. Worthless. Nobody would ever grieve at his grave.
We would,
a voice whispered into his ear, a voice as warm and beautiful and clear as the singing of angels.
We have enough love left over for you. Come to us. Trust us.
Harrison lay down on the grass and closed his eyes.
We're the ones who care for you,
another gentle voice whispered.
Only we. No one else.
But then a shadow fell across him, blocking out the sun, so that he shivered. "Hello,
Harrison," a
quiet voice said.
Harrison looked up and blinked several times to get the tears out of his eyes. Tears for himself. Tears for Robert and Eulalia. They were waiting for him. They'd make everything better.
"Remember me? Charlie Sonneman?"
SHE DIED FOR LOVE OF HIM . Slowly the vision retreated; the voices retreated. That was all right. He'd be able to call them back. "Hello, Mr. Sonneman," Harrison said. This was Mr. Reisinger's partner in the gardening business. Or at least he had been. Vaguely Harrison remembered hearing that Mr. Sonneman had retired last summer for health reasons. Why was he bothering Harrison now?
"How are you doing, Harrison?"
"Fine," Harrison said, still lying flat on his back.
"I was wondering if you could give me a lift to the gatehouse."
Harrison would have thought Mr. Sonneman was too old for riding double on a bike, but apparently Mr. Sonneman didn't think so. Harrison was annoyed at the interruption, but he figured he could always come back.
"Hasn't your father ever told you," Mr. Sonneman asked as he took hold of the edge of the seat behind Harrison, "not to talk to strangers?"
"You're not a stranger, Mr. Sonneman."
"I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about those two: Robert Adams and Eulalia Meinyk."
Harrison slammed on the brakes hard enough to jerk them both forward.
"Probably you should go home for the rest of the day," Mr. Sonneman said, ignoring the sudden stop, ignoring the expression that must have been on Harrison's face as Harrison turned to stare at him. "Tomorrow will be easier. You'll be out of danger then. Anniversaries are a powerful thing. As are thunderstorms. And hate."
"She died for love of him," Harrison protested.
Mr. Sonneman shrugged. "Robert's mother wrote that She
"Kid?" the breeze seemed to whisper. "Kid?" Then, more insistent more human, "Are you all right?" Harrison opened his eyes and found that he had somehow ended up kneeling on the ground. He blinked in the bright sunlight Birds were chirping. In the distance, at the farthest edge of hearing, someone was mowing a lawn. The woman jogger with the dog stood poised on the grass between him and the curb as though unsure how close she should approach. She held on to the dog's collar to keep him from bounding over to Harrison.
"I'm"—his voice sounded so husky and unused—"taking a shortcut home so I won't be late." He ran his tongue over his parched lips.
The jogger hesitated before nodding. "Oh." Her jaw twitched, perhaps an attempt at a smile. She took a step back toward the road.
Harrison pulled himself up by leaning on the gravestone.
The jogger tugged on the chain collar until she and her dog were both on the road. Harrison checked his bicycle's wheels and chain and handlebars and seat while the two of them disappeared over the crest of the hill. Then he got back off and knelt by the grave.
SHE DIED FOR LOVE OF HIM . Harrison didn't think he could bear the incredible sadness of it. That they had lived and loved and died before he had even been born. Before his parents had been born. History had always seemed unreal to him, as though everything that had ever happened in the whole of the world had been leading up to him, to whatever moment he was experiencing. Now he felt unreal. Surely things had peaked here, in 1892, for Robert and Eulalia. Surely
he
was superfluous, extra, unneeded. Not smart Not loved. Worthless. Nobody would ever grieve at his grave.
We would,
a voice whispered into his ear, a voice as warm and beautiful and clear as the singing of angels.
We have enough love left over for you. Come to us. Trust us.
Harrison lay down on the grass and closed his eyes.
We're the ones who care for you,
another gentle voice whispered.
Only we. No one else.
But then a shadow fell across him, blocking out the sun, so that he shivered. "Hello,
Harrison," a
quiet voice said.
Harrison looked up and blinked several times to get the tears out of his eyes. Tears for himself. Tears for Robert and Eulalia. They were waiting for him. They'd make everything better.
"Remember me? Charlie Sonneman?"
SHE DIED FOR LOVE OF HIM . Slowly the vision retreated; the voices retreated. That was all right. He'd be able to call them back. "Hello, Mr. Sonneman," Harrison said. This was Mr. Reisinger's partner in the gardening business. Or at least he had been. Vaguely Harrison remembered hearing that Mr. Sonneman had retired last summer for health reasons. Why was he bothering Harrison now?
"How are you doing, Harrison?"
"Fine," Harrison said, still lying flat on his back.
"I was wondering if you could give me a lift to the gatehouse."
Harrison would have thought Mr. Sonneman was too old for riding double on a bike, but apparently Mr. Sonneman didn't think so. Harrison was annoyed at the interruption, but he figured he could always come back.
"Hasn't your father ever told you," Mr. Sonneman asked as he took hold of the edge of the seat behind Harrison, "not to talk to strangers?"
"You're not a stranger, Mr. Sonneman."
"I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about those two: Robert Adams and Eulalia Meinyk."
Harrison slammed on the brakes hard enough to jerk them both forward.
"Probably you should go home for the rest of the day," Mr. Sonneman said, ignoring the sudden stop, ignoring the expression that must have been on Harrison's face as Harrison turned to stare at him. "Tomorrow will be easier. You'll be out of danger then. Anniversaries are a powerful thing. As are thunderstorms. And hate."
"She died for love of him," Harrison protested.
Mr. Sonneman shrugged. "Robert's mother wrote that She
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