Of Grave Concern Read Online Free PDF Page B

hurt me. Still, she threw a cloth over the glass the next day. Henry never made any knocks or raps, but he found plenty of ways to show himself when I was alone. His face would appear in a windowpane or on a polished metal surface, or it would form in a bowl of water. Any reflective surface would do.
    â€œO- phel -ia!”
    Eventually I removed the cloth from my bedroom mirror. “Horrible Hank” had appeared to me so often that his appearance could no longer shock me. Being eleven years old, and steeped in Tanté Marie’s stories about magical New Orleans, I assumed that seeing dead people was not all that unusual.
    Besides, Hank told jokes.
    â€œWhy is a dog like a tree?” he would ask. “Because they both lose their bark when they die.”
    Another: “Why has a chambermaid more lives than a cat? Because every morning she returns to dust.”
    And: “What is the undertaker’s favorite sport? Boxing.”
    These were hilarious to my unseasoned sense of humor. As I grew older, the jokes grew somewhat coarse, and I would often catch Hank leering at me from the mirror.
    â€œStop that,” I would say.
    But I was never sure if he heard me. If he did, he never gave a sign. Perhaps it was the eternal gale on his side that prevented him from hearing, or perhaps sound didn’t pass from our world through the glass, or perhaps he just didn’t feel like conversation.
    Then, one night while I was sitting at the dresser and trying to draw a comb through my tangle of red hair, Hank appeared over my reflected shoulder. The wind on his side had calmed, his hair was positively neat, and his necktie was hardly flapping at all.
    â€œShow me who you love,” he said, “and I’ll show you who you are.”

6
    I must have been asleep, because I didn’t know Tom the Jailer, was standing outside my cell door until he spoke.
    â€œMiss Wylde?”
    I opened my eyes and saw him there with a newspaper beneath his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand. From the coal oil lamp in the bull pen, half his face was bathed in yellow light.
    â€œYes, what is it?” I asked, taking Eddie from my shoulder and placing him back in his cage.
    â€œI don’t know if you drink coffee, but it is about all that we have here in the jail, except for the bottle of whiskey that the marshal keeps for snakebite upstairs in his desk drawer that nobody is supposed to know about. And he gets popped by more rattlesnakes out here than any other man I know of.”
    â€œCoffee,” I said. “Bless your rustic soul.”
    â€œI also brought you yesterday’s paper, for the boredom.”
    â€œOnly dull people are bored. But thanks.”
    He passed me the coffee through a little trapdoor in the bars and I passed back my dirty plate and lunch things. I took a drink of the coffee and it was so strong my eyes fluttered in pleasure.
    â€œToo rough for you?”
    â€œRough? It’s perfect.”
    He smiled.
    â€œTom,” I said, “I have been here some hours and was beginning to wonder . . . well, how am I to attend to personal business?”
    A blank stare.
    â€œYou know,” I said. “Private . . . business . The kind the coffee will undoubtedly hasten.”
    â€œOh, sure. There’s a thunder bucket in the corner of the cell. All prisoners are supposed to use the bucket. But seeing as how you’re a cut above the ordinary inmate, I can escort you to the privy out back.”
    â€œFor that, I would be grateful. Half an hour?”
    He nodded.
    â€œOh, Tom,” I said as he turned to go. “There’s another thing I need: a lawyer. I need to clear up this case of mistaken identity as soon as possible, so I think a writ of habeas corpus is in order. You must have seen the lawyers in this town at work in police court. In your opinion, who is the best?”
    â€œBest sober or drunk?”
    â€œBest during their normal state of