“I told Joe about what happened when it was dark and you were around. It looks like Joe certainly has filled out,” Gram said.
Just like the other ghosts, Joe had filled out, became less transparent, more solid, more real. I could see a straight inch-long scar on his cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. He was small with delicate features. I wondered if he’d ever even grown facial hair during his living years. I remembered what Jake and Esther had said about eighteen being considered old for Pony Express riders.
“How old were you when you died?” I asked him.
“I don’t know.”
“We figure he might have been seventeen or eighteen, but we don’t know for sure,” Gram said.
“I feel like I was older than that, but I can’t be certain,” Joe said distractedly as he reached into a pocket on the mochila. “There are only three letters left in here, but I can only pull out one at a time and read one at a time. The bag will only let me do it that way.”
“It’s always been that way,” Gram added.
“Here, can you see it?” Joe held out an envelope.
I could see it. It was as solid as Joe was and illuminated by whatever made the ghosts glow when they were in the dark. Joe still wasn’t as solid as when he was alive, but the letter would seem real enough even if it wouldn’t feel like paper. It was as solid as Sally Swarthmore’s ax had been, as solid as the horse. I looked at Gram with my eyebrows high in question. Should I touch it?
She nodded, so I reached forward.
It’s the absence of a noticeable change in temperature that I’ve found the most off-putting characteristic of the ghosts and their implements. I can feel their skin and it feels solid, but without warmth. I can sort of feel the different textures of their clothing, but there’s nothing they wear or carry that is warm or cool to the touch. Until I started touching the ghosts and their items, I had no idea how important even tiny temperature differences were to the whole sensory experience.
I looked at the object in my hands; it didn’t feel like much of anything.
“The outside of the envelope says Mrs. Frederick Morrison with an address in Broken Rope that still exists, I think,” I said.
“That’s sometimes helpful, though it’s rare that family from back then still has descendants living in the same place. It can be a start that leads us somewhere, though,” Gram said.
“Go ahead, open it,” Joe said.
“Yes, do,” Gram said.
Carefully, I lifted the flap on the envelope.
It opened just fine, and I was able to grasp the folded piece of paper inside and easily pull it out.
I looked at my audience of two, both of whom had big eyes full of anticipation. Actually, the horse did, as well. It was a captivated audience of three.
“I want to try to touch it, too, but I’ll wait until you see if you can read it,” Gram said. “I don’t want it to poof away or anything.”
“I doubt that’ll happen, but I understand,” I said.
I unfolded the letter, and it was covered top to bottom with words written in ornate, old-fashioned handwriting, but still legible.
“Read it out loud,” Joe said.
“Okay.” I cleared my throat; it wasn’t a purposefully dramatic pause, but I sensed the audience’s anticipation grow. “It’s dated February 1, 1861. It says: Dearest Elaine, I am sending you greetings from Sacramento. I know you’ve longed to hear from me, and I apologize for the rude delay in my communication, but I have been otherwise detained with so many distractions here and from the other side of the country.