Oct. 6, 1968

Captain's Log

Were it so that today's entry could be written from my small captain's cabin on a dangerously lisping clipper, penned by the light of a wildly swinging lantern, my left hand tightly grasping a rope to right myself in high seas, quill in hand – over one hundred years ago. Those seemingly rote chronicles of my voyages captured only our longitude/latitude, the frequent lassitude of our journey, the various food shortages engendered by trips to the other side of a great expanse, and the sundry observations of my first mate.

But that ship, as today's cynics are so fond of noting, has sailed. Over 100 years ago. Today, I no longer am commander of anything, let alone my heart. I may walk the foredeck of our cabin, legs planted firmly apart in the manner befitting a captain of my stature, superior in every manner, but this is a vain pretence.

Carolyn Muir is new mistress in my life, a warm harbor in the gloom of my afterlife. Of no import now the formidably cold Atlantic Ocean with its storm-tossed gray waters. No enticing challenge now in plowing my way through dangerous waters off remote Patagonian coast or the seamann-killing, ship-sinking Horn of Africa. Safe passages such as these dwindle when I wrap my arms solidly around you as you stand at the Captain's wheel on the living paradise that is our private balcony.

Now I understand what it is to share a life – even if it is an afterlife – with a lover, friend and soulmate. To entertain children I love almost as much as their elegant mother. To dance on the front lawn, cotillion in mind, your small, lithe body pressed against mine in mortal time, eternity on the horizon.

Methinks I pontificate, as would you, sitting by the fire, smiling your bewitching, enchanting smile, would gently admonish me. Madam, you take the wind out of my very sails.

But I digress. Here I stop to stroke my beard in an effort to accurately depict the events of last night, when I stopped to invisibly assist Martha in the difficult task of situating your rowdy rapscallions in their beds. Stormy sailing, that. Jonathan, of course, wished to hear of my debarkation into a dangerous African port with menacing colonial therefore by definition, arrogant French soldiers. I was in no mood to humor the lad, given your most tantalizing but one-way conversation with your busybody housekeeper. The lost opportunity to imbue your son with greater masculinity would have to wait.

I will give Martha this much – instead of fainting, screaming or batting so much as an eyelash at my materialization, she sipped her coffee thoughtfully, seemingly pleased by the addition of milky Irish liqueur. For the first and only time in my life, I was dumbstruck.

"Where has Mrs. Muir been hiding the Bailey's?" she snorted characteristically after a moment. We stared – or might I suggest? – glared at each other for what seemed an eternity. Given I am somewhat of an expert in that dimension, it galls me to admit the plebian Martha captured my tongue for so long. My 'temper-squalls' as you laughingly call them, seemed unequal to the occasion. Martha is her own-force-of-nature and I knew intuitively this was not the time for earthbound manifestations of my spectral powers. Instead, I sputtered.

At last, I managed to sputter: "Where she hides the Bailey's is no concern of yours neither is the nature of my relationship with the lady of the house. Mrs. Muir, I assure you, is first and foremost a lady."

Martha stared briefly at the steam rising from her coffee. "And a lonely widow last? Captain Gregg, you arrogant seadog" she snapped, "Stuff it. Save your weak explanations for Jonathan and Candy. Stories indeed."

"Mrs. Muir needs your help," she leaned back into her chair – a positive sign, I intuited – then continued intently in her no-nonsense fashion.

"We all need your help. You're right, what goes on between the two of you is none of my business. I know, however, you've got a very invested interest in her prompt return to Gull Cottage. Her return ever to Gull Cottage. Either you're in or you're out. I'm asking one more time. What is the extent of your spectral powers? I'm afraid you are the only (pause here for a great harrumph) person who can return Mrs. Muir to our safekeeping."

This intrigued me greatly. At the same time, my heart sank. My dear, you must be in grave trouble. The thought that your safe return lay in my hands engendered a sense of self-control. Bumbling idiots such as Claymore and your Philadelphia family and in-laws would not be tolerated.

Indoctrinated Baptist that Martha is, I was mildly surprised her first question wasn't about the Lord's will or the afterlife. She is a true believer of the kind I now know our creator intended us all to be. When I was alive, my feelings about churches and organized religion were well known in Schooner Bay. I chafed against the iron thumb of Calvinistic drivel that ruled the lives of our distinguished yet sanctimonious and hypocritical townsfolk. My faith in God was limited by the cruelty of a deity who condemned so many seamen to watery depths. Conversely, I admit to feelings od enormous gratitude each time this same creator endowed us with strong easterly winds. I sensed his presence in the depths of glorious sunsets over his watery realm

And now, I staunchly hoped and fervently prayed to the merciful God of Martha's church. To the Creator of all churches, synagogues, mosques and temples.

God helps those who help themselves, and I am certain he would not limit my powers in a horrible situation such as this.

"Martha, my spectral powers are quite extensive and completely at your service," I replied with utter confidence. I can move objects, interfere with humans in annoying fashions, manipulate the weather, invisibly snoop and imitate voices of others. When appropriate, I can even interfere in mortal matters. If you have any doubts, ask Claymore."

Martha pulled a cigarette from her apron. She lit up and exhaled thoughtfully in my direction.

"Sounds like you are just the ticket. How much did your spectral eavesdropping hear in my conversation with Miz Williams?"

"Martha, to the point" I demanded. Tears welled unbidden to my eyes. I was a mere lad the last time I cried, and that at my beloved mother's graveside. Regrettably, I lost control this time. My nose rested between my thumb and forefinger, my head momentarily bowed by emotion.

When I looked up to squarely face Martha, I registered belief and trust in her eyes.

"Captain," she said softly and without wry sarcasm. "I believe you are capable of handling the truth. That your belief in Mrs. Muir is planted more firmly than in whatever goes on between the two of you each night."

She dropped her cigarette into what remained of her coffee, leaned forward and clasped her hands.

"Carolyn killed Bobby. She shot her husband. Miserable drunk and wife-beater. She was just defending herself. Bobby was well known to the Philadelphia police. God knows they showed up plenty of times on Carolyn's doorstep. So they fooled with the evidence to make it look like he shot himself in a drunken rage. The Muirs strongly suspected Carolyn. And now they have the ear of a friendly police chief. They're well-connected, you know. They want revenge, especially since they'd get their hands on Jonathan and Candy if Mrs. Muir ever got convicted."

Please don't think me perverse, madam. I was relieved. Very relieved.