#Wattys2015 The Ghost of James Fitzpatrick

Chapter 9

"It's a school project," I lied right to Mrs. Miller's face while I sat at her kitchen table. I was just not prepared to admit to anyone that I thought I had seen a dead guy in my bedroom.

"What sort of project?" she asked.

I answered with the first thing that came to my mind: "The impact of death on a limited social setting, such as a neighborhood." What had I said?

Mrs. Miller looked at me, dare I say, incredulously, if not downright suspiciously. It could have been paranoia on my part, so I pressed on, like any driven reporter would.

"Do you think you'd be able to help me by letting me interview you on the subject?"

"Of course, Sarah!" she replied very cheerfully for a woman who was about to embark upon such a macabre discussion. She dried her hands on her dishtowel and pressed an errant gray curl back up into her hair clip.

"Which class is this for again?" she asked innocently, and all I could do was cringe inside. What was with the third degree from her? My lies were mounting like bones at a chicken dinner.

"Psych," I answered. I don't even have Psych this year. I was convinced I would be struck dead by lightning on my twenty second walk home later. Thankfully, Mrs. Miller began to speak.

"Well, Mr. Miller and I have been here in this house since about 1974," she said, "and we've seen many families move away, and a few of our close neighbors have died." Her gray eyes moved about quickly as she searched her own thoughts, flipping through chapters toward the back of her memory. "Remember the Roberts, and Betty Langer, the one with those little dogs, and Sergeant Lewis, and Mrs. Lewis?" I jotted these names into my spiral notebook. "They were all older, and it's easier when we know one has enjoyed a long and full life. But I would say Sarah, the most difficult, at least for our family and this neighborhood, was the death of the boy who lived in your own house."

Well that certainly didn't take long. My heart flip flopped in my chest.

"What?" I asked, trying to remain composed, but I think my eyebrows rose with surprise. "When?"

I mentally ticked through several possible death scenarios that may have occurred in my bedroom. Ax murder of course came to mind first, then hanging, scarlet fever, a fall from the front window, a fire, typhoid, tuberculosis...

"1978. Margaret had just started first grade."

Mrs. Miller stood up and walked back to her kitchen sink. I followed her as she began to unload plates from the dishwasher.

"Did no one ever tell you about him in all the time you've lived there?" she asked me.

"Well, no, but then most of my friends don't live on this side of Arden," I replied, "but this is just the sort of thing I would like to know, Mrs. Miller. Can you tell me more about him?"

"Gosh, of course," she began, "I remember him very well. Our oldest daughter, Margaret, was devastated when he died. If you can be in love when you're six, she was in love with James Fitzpatrick."

His name was James.

Mrs. Miller continued to pull glasses from the dishwasher and placed them gingerly into the cabinets above.

"Margaret's almost forty four now, she's married and has children of her own, but every couple of years, James Fitzpatrick's name will still come up in conversation."

"How did he die Mrs. Miller?" I asked.

"He jumped off the Interstate 70 Bridge into the river," she blurted out without even turning around. "He was only seventeen, maybe eighteen, I think, but the story was, he was cut from his baseball team that day at school, and everyone around here knew baseball meant a lot to James. His friends mentioned how upset he seemed, nonetheless, I was very surprised and just deeply saddened by what he did. We all were."

She turned to face me, plates in hand.

"I told Margaret he died from a sudden illness; I couldn't bear to tell her what he'd done. She didn't know there was even such a thing as suicide of course, and the idea of his death was tough enough, I didn't want to try to explain to her why he'd jumped. She cried every night at bed time for weeks, but she always prayed for him."

Mrs. Miller set the stack of plates on the counter next to her.

"She made a little scrapbook for him. I know I still have it. Would you like to see it?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, definitely," I said. It was icing on the morbid cake.

I followed her upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Though now void of most furniture, there was still a writing desk, an oak chair, and a shelf along the wall full of encyclopedias, dictionaries and picture books.

Mrs. Miller went straight to Margaret's scrapbook and pulled it carefully from the shelf.

"I have trouble throwing out books. I can still pick up Green Eggs and Ham and it takes me right back to a memory. It sounds pretty sappy when I say it out loud, but someday when you're a mother you'll understand."

I had heard those same words from my own mother a hundred times.

She handed me an old, blue, school folder, the kind that holds the papers with three brass prongs. On the cover was written "James" in childish block letters.

The pages were sheets of construction paper, each a different color, and for never having met the author or the subject, it was a touching and thoughtful tribute. I felt flush with emotion, like I may have cried if I were alone.

"It's not good for much actual information really; I cut out all references to his drowning," said Mrs. Miller, "and I would only give Margaret the pictures and parts of the articles, even though she barely knew how to read at the time."

Mrs. Miller distractedly thumbed through some of the other books on the shelf.

I opened the little scrapbook to the first page, and James smiled back at me from his yearbook photo, soon to become his obituary photo. I felt a rush of blood to my head. He was, without a doubt, the same boy I saw in my window.

"May I borrow this Mrs. Miller?" I asked. "I'll bring it back tomorrow, and I promise to be careful with it."

"Of course you can. Keep it as long as you like Sarah."

We stood up started back downstairs. I followed slowly behind her, both of us running our hands along the polished banister as we descended.

"His mother and brother moved upstate after he died, fresh start and all, I suppose." Mrs. Miller stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look back up at me.

"It's funny you should ask about James," she commented and smiled.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he was a sweet boy, and my husband and I both adored him, we really enjoyed watching him grow into a young man. It's been so many years," she continued softly, "but Sarah, you will discover as you get older, there are people you will come across in this big world, who will simply make an impression on you that will last a lifetime. For us, he was one of those people."