duty to write
influential editorials.
The sun had set,
darkness had fallen. William began edging his way out of his narrow
grave. “Coming?” he enquired.
“ Just as soon as I
can get around this humungous stone my lovely wife placed on top of
me,” Frank replied. “Not that I don’t appreciate it. She meant it
for the best, and I suppose it made her feel better.”
“ Oh, go on! You’d be
insulted if you had a little flat plaque on the ground that no one
could see, like old Crowley, there!” Crowley was their neighbour in
the cemetery, as unpopular in death as in life.
Frank and William
floated up from the ends of their plots, resting a minute on
Frank’s large headstone to check the weather. A calm night meant
moving deliberately and slowly where they intended to go. Rain had
a tendency to wash them to the ground, while wind—well, once Frank
had been blown in a gale nearly to the next county and it had taken
him three nights to get back.
Tonight there was
only a moderate breeze, making the tree-branches tremble and the
traffic-light in the centre of town sway on its cable. Helped by
the breeze, the two ghosts were soon in the town square, pausing on
the bell-tower of the town hall and surveying the scene. The town
of Sparrow Falls was built along a river where a disused mill
recalled a previous busy age. In the centre of town, a few stores,
the library and a few churches clustered around the Common. From
here, some business blocks spread along Main Street, and
residential streets ran off on each side. Among the houses with
green lawns and shrubbery in front, vegetable gardens and tool
sheds in back, were the former homes of Frank Cranston and William
Scott—now the homes of their grown children.
Frank swooped down to
a lighted window of his son’s house. “Working late on bills, looks
like.” Frank watched as his son suddenly threw down an envelope on
a pile of a dozen others, pushed back his chair, and groaned. The
room door opened and his wife appeared.
“ Don’t do any more
tonight, honey. It’s too late.” The room darkened as they exited,
footsteps on the stairs were heard, and soon a light appeared on
the second floor.
William had been
watching as his daughter put her little girl to bed. Little
Kirstey’s room was filled with stuffed animals, her collection of
china horses, and her favourite books. Her mother tucked her in,
and turned out the light, while her husband called to their teenage
son, Marty. “Turn out the lights downstairs, school tomorrow. Time
to turn in.”
“ Ha!” William said.
“They think Kirstey’s in bed, but she’s gotten up and is looking
out the window at the moon. And Marty has gone out to the shed.
What’s he doing out there?”
Marty had gone out
with his flashlight and was poking around the dark corners of the
shed.
Frank called. “Come
on. I want to see who’s on the night train from Truro. Last week a
whole bunch of theatre people came in for a performance at the
Legion Hall.”
The two friends
drifted off. But when the night train pulled in to the tiny
carpenter’s gothic station and creaked to a stop, the only
passengers who got off were a group of college students returning
from their evening courses at the Community College. With quite a
bit of noise they set off in various directions, calling: “Good
night!” “See you tomorrow!” “See you on Facebook!” “Meet you at the
Caff!” “I’m going to skip tomorrow, send me a tweet!”
Frank and William,
continuing their circle of the town, found it no more interesting.
The pool hall showed two die-hards competing for a five-dollar bet.
At the police station, Officer McQuestor sat at the wheel of an
idling police car until his buddy Constable Shivers came down the
steps and jumped into the passenger seat. The car sped
away.
“ Off they go. Should
we take after it?” Frank suggested.
“ Probably just a
barking dog or a treed cat,” William replied. “Nothing interesting
ever
influential editorials.
The sun had set,
darkness had fallen. William began edging his way out of his narrow
grave. “Coming?” he enquired.
“ Just as soon as I
can get around this humungous stone my lovely wife placed on top of
me,” Frank replied. “Not that I don’t appreciate it. She meant it
for the best, and I suppose it made her feel better.”
“ Oh, go on! You’d be
insulted if you had a little flat plaque on the ground that no one
could see, like old Crowley, there!” Crowley was their neighbour in
the cemetery, as unpopular in death as in life.
Frank and William
floated up from the ends of their plots, resting a minute on
Frank’s large headstone to check the weather. A calm night meant
moving deliberately and slowly where they intended to go. Rain had
a tendency to wash them to the ground, while wind—well, once Frank
had been blown in a gale nearly to the next county and it had taken
him three nights to get back.
Tonight there was
only a moderate breeze, making the tree-branches tremble and the
traffic-light in the centre of town sway on its cable. Helped by
the breeze, the two ghosts were soon in the town square, pausing on
the bell-tower of the town hall and surveying the scene. The town
of Sparrow Falls was built along a river where a disused mill
recalled a previous busy age. In the centre of town, a few stores,
the library and a few churches clustered around the Common. From
here, some business blocks spread along Main Street, and
residential streets ran off on each side. Among the houses with
green lawns and shrubbery in front, vegetable gardens and tool
sheds in back, were the former homes of Frank Cranston and William
Scott—now the homes of their grown children.
Frank swooped down to
a lighted window of his son’s house. “Working late on bills, looks
like.” Frank watched as his son suddenly threw down an envelope on
a pile of a dozen others, pushed back his chair, and groaned. The
room door opened and his wife appeared.
“ Don’t do any more
tonight, honey. It’s too late.” The room darkened as they exited,
footsteps on the stairs were heard, and soon a light appeared on
the second floor.
William had been
watching as his daughter put her little girl to bed. Little
Kirstey’s room was filled with stuffed animals, her collection of
china horses, and her favourite books. Her mother tucked her in,
and turned out the light, while her husband called to their teenage
son, Marty. “Turn out the lights downstairs, school tomorrow. Time
to turn in.”
“ Ha!” William said.
“They think Kirstey’s in bed, but she’s gotten up and is looking
out the window at the moon. And Marty has gone out to the shed.
What’s he doing out there?”
Marty had gone out
with his flashlight and was poking around the dark corners of the
shed.
Frank called. “Come
on. I want to see who’s on the night train from Truro. Last week a
whole bunch of theatre people came in for a performance at the
Legion Hall.”
The two friends
drifted off. But when the night train pulled in to the tiny
carpenter’s gothic station and creaked to a stop, the only
passengers who got off were a group of college students returning
from their evening courses at the Community College. With quite a
bit of noise they set off in various directions, calling: “Good
night!” “See you tomorrow!” “See you on Facebook!” “Meet you at the
Caff!” “I’m going to skip tomorrow, send me a tweet!”
Frank and William,
continuing their circle of the town, found it no more interesting.
The pool hall showed two die-hards competing for a five-dollar bet.
At the police station, Officer McQuestor sat at the wheel of an
idling police car until his buddy Constable Shivers came down the
steps and jumped into the passenger seat. The car sped
away.
“ Off they go. Should
we take after it?” Frank suggested.
“ Probably just a
barking dog or a treed cat,” William replied. “Nothing interesting
ever
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