Last Ghost at Gettysburg by Paul Ferrante

Mike cleared his
throat. “Uh, LouAnne, before I take you to work, I’ve got to
discuss something important. We’re having problems in the
park.”
    “Such as?” inquired his daughter, arching an
eyebrow.
    “I’m not at liberty to say. Not yet. What I
can tell you is that it’s become downright dangerous at night, and
I have to remind you both again to stay away.”
    “A man of mystery,” cracked Terri, attempting
to lighten the mood. A sharp look from her husband put an end to
any such levity.
    “Okay, Uncle Mike, no problem,” said T.J.
    “Good. At least my nephew understands when
I’m being serious.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go, babydoll,
you’re gonna be late.”
    They left as T.J. helped his aunt clear the
table. “Any idea what’s up?” he attempted, trying to be
nonchalant.
    “He won’t even tell me ,” was her
answer. “Which is very unlike your uncle. I hope he’s not banging
heads with his boss again. Bruce Morrison can be difficult, and
your uncle is known to be a bit hardheaded himself, so they
sometimes clash.” She sighed as she loaded the dishwasher. “Let’s
hurry up, and we can watch Wheel of Fortune !”
    “Sounds good. Hey, Aunt Terri, I’m going to
walk down to the Charney House a little later on, okay?”
    “Sure. Just skirt the battlefield, like Mike
says. Take an umbrella, though. They’re predicting rain for later
on.”
    “Okay, sure.”
    They watched Wheel of Fortune , and a
few more shows as well, Aunt Terri taking breaks from her
needlepoint to peer over her reading glasses at the TV. T.J.
counted the minutes until he could get out of there. Uncle Mike had
returned and was clanking weights out in the garage. No way was he
going out there, taking a chance on slipping up and blabbing.
    Finally, 9:00 P.M. arrived. T.J. scooped up a
blue Totes umbrella and headed down Buford Avenue towards town,
almost jogging. Thunder rolled in the far distance. A ghost tour up
from Baltimore Street crossed the town square, a couple of the
teenaged girls waving at him coyly as their mothers fanned
themselves in the evening heat. Maybe a good rain would cool things
off.
    He entered the Inn as the last patrons were
streaming down the stairs from the garret. LouAnne followed a few
steps behind, giving him a little wave. When she reached him she
quickly squeezed his hand and said, “I’m parched. You want to have
a Coke at the bar?”
    “Can we?”
    “The place is empty, silly. And I’m pouring.
Let’s go.”
    The bar was tiny, more for waitresses to pick
up table orders than for a cocktail hour setup. LouAnne, quickly
shedding her 1860s outfit and hanging it in a back room, slipped
behind the bar, loaded two glasses with ice, and filled them with
cola from a spray nozzle before dumping in a few cherries. They
clinked glasses and tipped them back. The moisture was welcoming to
T.J.’s throat. He had no idea how to start. But, as usual, LouAnne
beat him to the punch when she said, “So what’s bothering you, my
darling cousin?”
    “How do you know something’s bothering
me?”
    “Puh-leeze. Girls know these things. What’s
up?”
    “Something you’re probably not gonna
believe.”
    “Love problems? That Katie Vickers babe
dumping you long distance?”
    “What? Who?” T.J. stammered, momentarily off
balance. Katie Vickers was the last thing on his mind. He
couldn’t even believe LouAnne had remembered her name. But he put
aside any possible implications of her question and said, “I think
I know what your dad was talking about at dinner.”
    “How so?” she said, the different colored
liquor bottles on the shelves behind her creating a surrealistic
frame for her curious smile.
    “Okay, I’ll tell you, but please don’t laugh
at me.”
    “I won’t,” she said, her voice barely a
whisper. She reached across the bar and put her hand on his.
    T.J. took a deep breath and then, as calmly
as he could, told her everything about his adventure in