I found a matching set decorated with a border in the drawer. Putting Daniel in his swing, I sat down to write, wondering how to best put what had to be said—in mundane terms that wouldn’t alarm the woman.
I started,
“Dear Cecily,
“You don’t know me, but I am an admirer of the music of Terence Dearborn. Having researched his life, I found that you and he were sharing this address before he . . . ” (I hesitated, wondering how to put it delicately, and decided prettifying it would sound pretentious) “. . . died. I hope you don’t find me presumptuous, but being a musician myself, and having found and loved Mr. Dearborn’s one album, I wonder if he left other musical compositions, as yet undiscovered. It seems strange that he hasn’t, as someone as talented as Mr. Dearborn surely would have been working on new compositions after his successful debut.
“Is it possible that unpublished music was misplaced and forgotten following his demise? Pianists often store music in the compartments beneath their piano benches, although I imagine you and his family have already checked this possibility. Consider me a concerned fan who feels some exploration ought to be made.
“If you do turn up any recovered work by Mr. Dearborn, I would greatly appreciate hearing of it. Hoping this letter reaches you and will hopefully bring fruitful results, I remain,
Sincerely yours,
Leigh Ann Elfman”
I addressed the envelope and held it and the letter up for Terence’s inspection.
—I can’t read it. It’s hard to read physical writing through spirit eyes. Some can. I’m not particularly adept at it.—
—Would you like me to read it silently?—
—No need. I caught your thoughts as you wrote it. I’m quite satisfied.—
I slipped the letter into the envelope, sealing it up. I had some money from a small allowance my father had given me. “I hope this doesn’t cost too much to mail overseas,” I muttered, then called down to the basement. “Mom. Danny and I are taking a walk to the post office. Do you need anything while we’re out?”
“No, dear. I got groceries this morning.” She appeared at the base of the stairs. “You can help me make dinner after you get back. Do you need money?”
“No. I’m fine.”
I dressed the baby and myself snugly and, Daniel held firmly in one arm, pulled his carriage outside with my other hand. I put him gently inside, drew the carriage blanket around him and wheeled the carriage down the pathway to the sidewalk.
The weather had warmed, cotton clouds drifting through a pastel blue sky.
It would be a triumph, both psychically and culturally, if Cecily Saraband found the missing music. —So much for Bael’s prediction,— I telepathed to Terence. —With any luck, we may yet resurrect your lost symphony, sonata and nocturne.—
Terence remained silent, walking beside us for two or three blocks, then, so softly I almost didn’t catch it, said, —Thank you.—
We continued to saunter along, the pleasant day lulling us. Then a faint unarticulated question played in the corners of my mind. It concerned Terence’s death.
—Why do you have to know how it was for me?— he asked me.
—Well, you’re the first person I’ve met psychically who, well, has died. Just curious to know what it’s like.—
—I’ll tell tonight, while you’re out-of-body. I’ll try to wake you up afterwards. It might help you to remember. That is, if your precious Bael doesn’t come around to interfere. Although we seem to be spared his presence for now.—
I let that last terse remark rest. Terence still smarted, no doubt, from Bael’s crass denouncement on the fate of the lost compositions.
We reached the Castor Avenue post office. I parked the carriage outside and carried Daniel into the building. A man coming out held the door for us.
The line wasn’t long, the letter to Cecily Saraband quickly weighed, stamped, and deposited in the overseas mail bin. I took Daniel back outside, snuggled him into the carriage and headed home.
I wondered if the letter would ever reach the woman and, if so, if Terence’s missing music would really be recovered. I knew the difficulties involved in trying to work from psychic clues. Failure was more of a potential than success.
I wondered if I should have done more mortal sleuthing, written a letter to the recording company producing Terence’s album, asked them for his publisher’s address. But the authorities might find it strange at best or an intrusion at worst if I asked for the current mailing address of Cecily Saraband and Terence’s parents. I could imagine the polite response letter, if I received a response at all: “We are not at liberty to give out personal information of this nature.” That left me back at square one, mailing the letter to Cecily at the address Terence remembered, our only option, short of Terence haunting his ex-girlfriend and parents, and trying to lead them to his music.
—It’s not the same for everyone,— Terence said. His words seemed unrelated to my current thoughts.
“What’s not the same?” I asked aloud, then brought myself up short for it. Someone not near enough to hear me clearly might assume I spoke to my baby, but it was definitely a bad habit to get into.
—No one heard you.—
—I still shouldn’t answer verbally. People sock you away in mental institutions for things like that.—
—Oh, you’d give them a lovely run, I’ve no doubt, if they stuck you in one. Probably give them a nutshell lecture on the universe’s dimensional nature.—
—Then they would throw away the key.—
—My guess is they’d throw you out to save their own sanity.—
—I’ll definitely take caution over being committed. It’s a rational thing. I prefer not having to stage escapes from loony bins.— We had turned the corner to my street. —So what is it, that’s not the same for everyone?—
—The death experience.—
—Well, then,— I told him, steering the carriage up the walk to my family’s house, —I couldn’t tell anyone the whole truth.—
—Not at all,— he conceded. —It appears to be all relative to one’s state of mind.—
—When you die, you mean.—
—How you die and, apparently, how you live, before and after.—
I unlocked the door and pulled the carriage with Daniel in it up the front steps and into the porch. Carrying Daniel into the living room, I rested him on the sofa, unsnapping his jacket. My mother walked into the room, carrying a finished basket of ironing. She glanced about the room with an expectant air, as if sniffing a scent. “There’s a male presence in the room, Leigh Ann.”
I hesitated then said, “His name is Terence Dearborn, a classical musician who passed away about three years ago. I have
