Free Those Who Went Remain There Still by Cherie Priest

idea of praying to dead people makes me feel itchy. It doesn’t sound right.
    But to John’s credit, he gathered real quick that it made me feel strange so he changed the subject some. He told me about what it’s like living in New York, and how he works up there as a teacher and a counselor, helping folks understand his church. Sometimes he just teaches reading and spelling, but mostly it sounded like he enjoyed telling folks about the church.
    I asked if he was something like a preacher in this church. He said it don’t work that way. Then he started telling me about circles and chants and spirits, and my face must’ve told him how I felt about it so he cut himself off.
    “That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t mean to make you ill at ease. I just want you to know that it’s not something awful or devilish, like I’m sure they told you. Suffice it to say, the world is a big, strange, wonderful place—and there’s room for many mysteries. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I do appreciate having the freedom of spirit to chase down my questions.”
    “I understand,” I told him, even though I didn’t understand much of it. I understood that he didn’t mean me or anybody else any trouble, and he wasn’t worshipping Satan, and that pretty much, he was harmless.
    I liked that about him. I didn’t get any sense of anger from him, like I did from everyone else in the valley. I just got that same sense of confusion and fear that me and Titus both shared, and it warmed me up a touch, seeing another Coy with that same uncertainty.
    The situation being what it was, I couldn’t very well confide in Titus or share my worries with him. But John Coy was just as much an outsider as I was, and the name we both wore gave us an excuse to come together.
    I wondered after Titus. I hoped he’d found a place for himself, and I hoped his own people weren’t too hard on him. But there wasn’t anything I could do for him, so I tried not to worry about it.
    ***
    We passed the night on the creaking, half-rotted boards of the floor because there weren’t any beds and there wasn’t any furniture. My other aunts and uncles must’ve cleaned the place out after my mother died. I don’t guess there was any blaming them. They had no reason to think I’d ever be back.
    Some deeply set sense of hospitality made me embarrassed that I couldn’t offer John anything better. It didn’t make sense for me to fret about it, and John didn’t hold the house’s meager state against me, but still.
    All I could do was invite him out to Iowa, and offer him a much nicer place for visiting. He was very kind about it, and said that sometime he’d do his best to come out and see me.
    I didn’t know if he would or not. There was no telling.
    ***
    When morning came we were both aching. We’d have been better off sleeping outside on the ground, I bet. But outside it was cool and everything was shining wet with dew when we stepped off the porch, so I decided to be thankful for the roof after all.
    Our horses were out back under an overhang that wasn’t enough to shelter the poor beasts hardly at all. At least it kept them dry, which was better than nothing. We fed them and mounted them, and took our own sweet time riding back out to Heaster Junior’s place, even though we knew we were running late.
    ***
    We were the last to arrive. People looked at us all impatient-like, but I didn’t care too much about that. They were curious, that’s all. Whatever game Heaster was playing from beyond the grave…they could wait a little longer to hear the details.
    When I had that thought, I remembered what John was saying the night before, about talking to ghosts. And for a second or two, I almost wished maybe we’d tried talking to some ghosts that last night. Wouldn’t that have been easier than all this rigmarole?
    Well, maybe not.
    Heaster was an ornery old fool when he was alive, and I didn’t see any good reason why he’d be