if the bed was the same one where Howard died. Until he spoke about dying, she had almost forgotten that he was a ghost, not a new love interest, but the reality hit hard. No matter how much this felt like the fragile beginning of a relationship, it could not be anything more than a strange friendship because he was spirit and she was human.
With no need to rush – Howard wasn’t going anywhere, after all – she unpacked her bags and struggled to collect her thoughts during the mundane task. Making a mental list of every boyfriend she had ever known, Lillian compared how she felt at the beginning of each liaison to how she felt now. The same giddy excitement, the desire to know more about the person, and the urge to please him were present. She was not the naive teenager that fell for a basketball player, Josh, the guy she dated until after high school graduation or the blinded co-ed that had a brief but intense relationship with an English professor.
Until a few months earlier, Lillian had been dating another teacher, Rob McGraw but the relationship had lacked any sizzle and they parted as good friends instead of lovers. Rob had been as comfortable as a worn pair of blue jeans and their tastes similar but no spark of passion ever ignited. Occasional dates since then had included a quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs, a newspaper staff writer, and a real estate guy but there had been nothing more than fun with any of them, no potential for anything lasting.
That made her attraction to Howard, a long dead farmer with a beautiful home that had become his prison, all the stranger. Lillian could not deny, even to herself, that she felt that familiar pull, that awakening of interest that had so often been the first step of a relationship.
“We can be friends,” Lillian said, staring at her own face in the wavery mirror above the dresser as she brushed out her hair. “I didn’t come back to Neosho only for Howard, anyway. I love this old house.”
Then she stuck out her tongue at her reflection and sprayed a little perfume over her wrists before heading downstairs to hear Howard’s story. As she descended, piano notes filled the air with a burst of song and she recognized the old George Cohan tune, Yankee Doodle Boy.
Howard’s voice, a rich baritone, echoed through the second parlor as she entered. The chorus was familiar as Yankee Doodle Dandy but Lillian did not recognize the other lyrics but she smiled. Somehow, the music melted away her inhibitions and banished the shy, awkward feelings far away.
“So were you born on the Fourth of July?” She settled down on a comfortable wing chair beside the piano.
His fingers danced across the ivories so the music continued although he stopped singing to answer. “No, actually I was born on December 13, 1867 but I am a Yankee Doodle boy, born in Illinois.”
Lillian did the math; he was born two years after the Civil War ended. Andrew Johnson was president, she mused, and when he was just a toddler, General Grant, that heavy-set oaf with the cigar clamped between his pudgy fingers, took over the Oval Office. A shiver, the kind her mother had always called a goose walking over your own grave, made her shudder. Keep it light, Lillian, she thought, just be light.
“Chicago?” she guessed. “Hog butcher for the world, tool maker, stacker of wheat.”
The Sandburg quoted didn’t register – Howard showed no recognition to the poetry - so she figured the poem was published later than Howard’s lifetime. He shook his head.
“No, Tompkins, in Warren County. It is near Monmouth, county seat and home of the college. My father was a farmer. I grew up there.”
That surprised her. She had thought he must be from Neosho. “I’ve been to Chicago. My Aunt Lou lived there but I don’t know where Tompkins is.”
“You wouldn’t.” He played the last notes of the song and turned to face her, hands in his lap. “It’s a township, not even a town, just good farmland
With no need to rush – Howard wasn’t going anywhere, after all – she unpacked her bags and struggled to collect her thoughts during the mundane task. Making a mental list of every boyfriend she had ever known, Lillian compared how she felt at the beginning of each liaison to how she felt now. The same giddy excitement, the desire to know more about the person, and the urge to please him were present. She was not the naive teenager that fell for a basketball player, Josh, the guy she dated until after high school graduation or the blinded co-ed that had a brief but intense relationship with an English professor.
Until a few months earlier, Lillian had been dating another teacher, Rob McGraw but the relationship had lacked any sizzle and they parted as good friends instead of lovers. Rob had been as comfortable as a worn pair of blue jeans and their tastes similar but no spark of passion ever ignited. Occasional dates since then had included a quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs, a newspaper staff writer, and a real estate guy but there had been nothing more than fun with any of them, no potential for anything lasting.
That made her attraction to Howard, a long dead farmer with a beautiful home that had become his prison, all the stranger. Lillian could not deny, even to herself, that she felt that familiar pull, that awakening of interest that had so often been the first step of a relationship.
“We can be friends,” Lillian said, staring at her own face in the wavery mirror above the dresser as she brushed out her hair. “I didn’t come back to Neosho only for Howard, anyway. I love this old house.”
Then she stuck out her tongue at her reflection and sprayed a little perfume over her wrists before heading downstairs to hear Howard’s story. As she descended, piano notes filled the air with a burst of song and she recognized the old George Cohan tune, Yankee Doodle Boy.
Howard’s voice, a rich baritone, echoed through the second parlor as she entered. The chorus was familiar as Yankee Doodle Dandy but Lillian did not recognize the other lyrics but she smiled. Somehow, the music melted away her inhibitions and banished the shy, awkward feelings far away.
“So were you born on the Fourth of July?” She settled down on a comfortable wing chair beside the piano.
His fingers danced across the ivories so the music continued although he stopped singing to answer. “No, actually I was born on December 13, 1867 but I am a Yankee Doodle boy, born in Illinois.”
Lillian did the math; he was born two years after the Civil War ended. Andrew Johnson was president, she mused, and when he was just a toddler, General Grant, that heavy-set oaf with the cigar clamped between his pudgy fingers, took over the Oval Office. A shiver, the kind her mother had always called a goose walking over your own grave, made her shudder. Keep it light, Lillian, she thought, just be light.
“Chicago?” she guessed. “Hog butcher for the world, tool maker, stacker of wheat.”
The Sandburg quoted didn’t register – Howard showed no recognition to the poetry - so she figured the poem was published later than Howard’s lifetime. He shook his head.
“No, Tompkins, in Warren County. It is near Monmouth, county seat and home of the college. My father was a farmer. I grew up there.”
That surprised her. She had thought he must be from Neosho. “I’ve been to Chicago. My Aunt Lou lived there but I don’t know where Tompkins is.”
“You wouldn’t.” He played the last notes of the song and turned to face her, hands in his lap. “It’s a township, not even a town, just good farmland
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