Free The Ghost's Grave by Peg Kehret Page B

casket.”
    â€œThe rest of me isn’t in a box. I want everything together.”
    I glared at him. “You are the most demanding ghost I’ve ever known.”
    His eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’m also the nicest ghost you’ve ever known. Friendly. Talkative. Willing to share information. I’d give you the shirt off my back, only you probably don’t want it.”
    Looking at his coal-smudged shirt, I couldn’t help laughing.
    â€œYou could bring the casket up here,” Willie suggested, “then open it and dump the leg bones in with the rest of me. You wouldn’t have to touch them.”
    â€œWhat’ll I do with the casket?”
    â€œThrow it away. Keep it as a souvenir. Take it back to the cemetery and rebury it. Who cares? It’s only an old wooden box.”
    Before I could respond, he vanished again.
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t do that,” I muttered.
    I sat on a boulder to catch my breath and rest my own legs, which felt as if they would fall off any second. I wished I’d brought drinking water.
    I thought about Willie’s casket. If it was wooden, as he said, it might be rotted by now. I might have no choice but to pluck the bones from the dirt.
    I wondered how many bones there were. Willie’s knee, leg, ankle, foot, toes—would they all still be connected?
    Grossed out by my imagination, I stood and plodded on up the hill. There were fewer trees now and more rocks. I heard water rushing ahead of me; the river wasn’t far.
    The trees ended, replaced by rocks and sand, which led to the river. It gurgled over the rocks, shallow at the edges.
    As soon as I saw it, I removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my jeans, and waded in. I splashed some of the cold water on my face and rubbed it on my arms.
    It was too cold to stay in long. I sat on the rocky beach, letting the sun dry my feet.
    â€œThis is where I used to fish.”
    I no longer jumped when Willie reappeared, which shows you can get used to most anything.
    â€œCaught many a trout in this river. There’s nothing like fresh trout, panfried over a fire.” He sighed and sat beside me. “I miss eating,” he said. “When you’re alive, you don’t give it a second thought. Oh, you might wonder what’s for dinner or look forward to a favorite meal now and then, but you don’t appreciate being able to put a fork in your mouth and actually taste the food. I miss Sarah’s bread the most. That woman baked the best bread—crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside.”
    â€œSometimes my mom bakes cinnamon rolls. Thewhole house smells good while they’re in the oven.” Suddenly, I yearned for home. I longed to sit at the kitchen table with Mom and Steven, all of us eating cinnamon rolls before they cooled, joking about what pigs we were.
    I wondered if Mom and Steven were safe in India. Did Mom enjoy the job? What was New Delhi like? Was the food good?
    â€œThere’s my grave,” Willie said. “Right where the river bends.”
    I put on my shoes and socks, then followed him to a patch of ground about thirty feet from the river’s edge, where a tangle of pricker bushes sent thorny branches crawling over the rocks.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œSarah planted a rosebush there. It blossomed the first few years; then it got scrawny and went wild. Now it looks dead from lack of water.”
    Some of the branches were more than an inch thick and covered with thorns the size of Mrs. Stray’s toenails. I wondered if there might be a small saw in Aunt Ethel’s barn.
    I’ll need to wear long sleeves, I thought, and gloves. Gloves seemed a good idea, anyway, especially if the wooden box had rotted.
    â€œLet’s go,” Willie said. “We have work to do.”
    â€œI’m not coming back today,” I said. “It’s too far.”
    â€œIt’s only a few miles.”
    â€œEasy for