Author's Note: This story combines elements of the book by Natalie Babbit and the musical by Claudia Shear and Tim Federle. I discovered them both this summer, was inspired to write this, and waited until the first day of August to post it. Be warned: if you love these characters, this might make induce crying.


"Beyond the Grave"

While the Tucks were lingering over the Foster family plot, a man approached them. He wore a nice shirt and jacket, but his pants were ragged and dirt-stained, and he carried a straw hat in his hand. He looked half like a businessman and half like a gardener.

"Excuse me, folks," he greeted them. "Are you friends of Mrs. Jackson?"

The question itself might have been casual, but it was addressed with such directness that the Tucks were immediately wary. Miles and Jesse subtly shifted to flank Angus, who answered the question as honestly as he could. "Yes—at least, our family was, a long time ago. We're just passing through," he added, repeating their usual story, "and thought we'd pay our respects."

"May I ask your name?"

"Tuck. Angus Tuck."

The man looked very pleasantly surprised. "Then you're who I'm looking for. I'm the cemetery caretaker. There's something I'm supposed to give you. Would you come with me?"

Mae and the boys exchanged glances, equal parts shocked and hopeful. When the caretaker had turned away and started walking, Angus faced them with a look of astonishment. But he shrugged and made to follow the man, so the others followed as well. Perhaps they were being overcareful, not letting Angus go off alone with a stranger, but they were also intensely curious.

As they walked, the caretaker spoke to them over his shoulder. "In her will, Mrs. Jackson left a bequest for the Tuck family. Nothing big, mind you, just a package. Only, she had some strange instructions for how to deliver it. She didn't seem to know where you were, only that you'd come someday. Said to give it to anyone of that name who might come by, and that they'd probably come the first week of August. There was something about ten-year intervals, too—she must've thought you might take a long time."

"Ah," Angus said, his voice a little strained. "I see." He could say no more, and luckily the caretaker did not press for details.

He led them to a small building that turned out to be part shed, part office. The caretaker approached a shelf and took down a small, wrapped parcel. When the Tucks saw its size and shape, they immediately suspected what it was.

The caretaker handed it to Angus, but he passed it reverently to Mae. She passed her fingers over the writing on the paper: an aged hand had written To the Tucks in a script that would now be considered old-fashioned.

Mae carefully untied the string and pulled the paper off her music box. She was not surprised to see what it was, but that did not stop her breath from catching and her heart from aching.

"I can't believe it," Miles said softly.

"Hmph. I can," Jesse said, crossing his arms with a smile.

Angus put his arm around Mae, who choked back a sob. To save her from having to speak, he looked up at the caretaker and thanked him heartily. "This means more to us than you could ever know."

To the surprise of her husband and sons, Mae did not open the music box in the office. Instead, she waited until they were back at Winnie's grave. Then she sat down, wound it up, and opened it.

They all remembered the tune, but after going decades without hearing the music box, the instrumentation sounded even purer and richer than they had remembered.

What startled them even more was that there was something inside the box: a folded paper envelope. It, too, was addressed to the Tucks. Mae picked it up delicately, and opened it with the greatest care. Inside were several pages of elegant but shaky handwriting.

"She wrote to us," Mae whispered. She ran her thumb over the heading of the first page, then looked up at the headstone. "It's dated just a few years ago—about a year before she—" Mae broke off, unable or unwilling to say it. She held the papers out to her husband. "You read it, Angus; I can't."

Angus took the papers and cleared his throat. Mae, Miles, and Jesse listened with rapt attention as he read Winnie Foster's last message to them.

My dear Tucks,

I guarded the secret carefully, but I had to leave this for you. I thought about passing the music box on to a family member, but seeing as no one else knows about you, it would not mean as much to them as it did to me. So, I thought it only right to return it to you. I hope it will remind of you me, as it reminded me of you. If it weren't for this box, I might have convinced myself that I had imagined the more fantastical parts of my adventure with you.

I'm writing because I want you all to know the effect you had on my life. When I met you, you'll recall, I had just run away from a home full of love, and a life full of promise. To put it simply, I was bored. Every day seemed the same, and my woods seemed like just a bunch of trees. But you taught me how to appreciate the wondrous beauty of an ordinary life. After meeting you, I looked at everything differently, and I became content with what I had.

I also want you to know that I loved you and carried your faces in my memory. I thought of you every year during the first week of August. Every time I saw a cat with white paws, I wondered if it was your cat, or one of its descendants. I remembered Mae when I finally had my most beautiful day, and every time I looked back on it afterwards. I thought of Mr. Angus whenever I went fishing, especially when I taught my son and grandchildren. Becoming a parent made me understand how much Miles went through, and how much my presence as a child meant to you. I remembered Jesse whenever I saw a fair, as well as every time I did something frightening, and every time my son got into trouble. (I tried to teach him to climb trees as well as you taught me.)

Jesse, you were my first real friend, and my only ever partner in crime. I never forgot that, even as I made new friends—and married into law enforcement, to boot. I fear I disappointed you by growing up and getting married. I want you to know that I waited for you, and if you had come back, I would have considered going with you; but since I didn't hear from you by the time I turned eighteen, I thought you must have moved on, so I decided to do the same. I hope you can forgive me.

I sometimes wondered what you all would have thought of my husband, Hugo. You met him briefly when we last saw each other. He was the constable's son, and he escorted me home after we said goodbye. He was a sweet boy and grew up to be a good man. I think you would have approved of him.

I also thought of you all whenever someone close to me died—my nana, my mother, my husband. Mr. Angus, your words helped to console me in my grief, and to know how to comfort my children and grandchildren in theirs. More recently, they have helped me prepare for my own death. I know I'll get off the wheel soon, and I'm ready.

I hope you'll remember me, but don't feel too sad when I'm gone. I've felt all the joy and sorrow of a full life. I'm also glad that even when everyone I've known is gone, there will still be people alive who remember me.

Most of all, I want to thank you! Thanks for all that you did for me, for letting me into your lives and into your hearts, however short a time.

I hope you still find things to live for, and enjoy the time that's been given to you. God bless you.

Winnie

Jesse had held himself together pretty well up until now, but as his father finished reading, he finally broke down and began to weep. Mae reached for him instinctively, but Miles was faster, and he pulled Jesse into a tight embrace. Jesse clung to him, crying into his sleeve.

"She never forgot you," Miles said, his voice insistent. "She always loved you." That was more assurance than he had about his wife and children.

Something Winnie had written aroused a long-buried suspicion. When Jesse had calmed down somewhat, Angus asked him, not unkindly, "Did you tell her you'd come back?"

"I did," Jesse confessed. "I gave her a vial of the water, and told her to drink it when she turned seventeen. I came back then—but I saw her—with him. They were courting. So I left. I didn't even say hello."

"You let her go?" Mae said in amazement. He nodded, more tears sliding down his face. "Oh, Jesse." Mae hugged him and rocked him as he sobbed again. "You brave, selfless boy."

Jesse almost laughed at that. He had never been called selfless before, and it was strange to be called brave for this, of all things—not for taking some uncertain risk, but for enduring certain pain.

Mae pulled back and held Jesse by the shoulders, smiling at him. "I am so proud of you. I guess this goes to show, even as we are, we can still change. You've … grown up, strange to say."

Jesse scoffed, smiling incredulously as he wiped his tears away.

Miles was looking at the headstone again. He traced his fingers over the date of Winnie's death. "She survived a lot," he acknowledged. This was some relief: they had worried about her during particularly hard times, like the influenza epidemic, the Depression, and the two world wars.

Miles went on thoughtfully. "She asked me, once, what I was going to do with my time. I said I wanted to do something important, something useful, that made a difference in the world. And it sounds like we did. We made a difference for her. She may have been just one person, but she touched a lot of other people. Maybe … maybe it was worthwhile, if it let us teach her all that."

Jesse, Mae, and Angus were amazed. Out of all of them, Miles was the last one they had expected to say that their immortality was worthwhile for something.

Angus folded the letter carefully, put it back in the envelope, and got to his feet. "We best not linger here. We've already drawn attention. But I'm glad we did in this case."

The others stood too, Miles helping Mae as she held the music box in one hand. They all faced the headstone again, wondering what to say or do.

Finally Angus held up his hand in a salute. "Good girl, Winnie Foster."

"Rest in peace," Mae said.

Jesse hung back as the others started to walk away. "You coming?" Miles asked.

"I'll catch up with you."

Miles nodded and followed their parents. Jesse faced the headstone again, his hands in his jacket pockets.

"I didn't think I had much to learn," he said. "It's weird to be learning from someone I haven't seen in decades, who spent her whole life in one small town. I'm older—technically—and I've seen more of the world. I could've taught you so much … but you schooled me. You schooled me good, Winnie Foster. Thanks for that."

He ran his hand over the top of the headstone, and read her name and epitaph one last time. Wife, mother, grandmother. Jesse smiled as he thought of one role that ought to have been there.

"Well." Jesse gave a salute. "So long, partner in crime."