Last Ghost at Gettysburg Read Free

back before you know it. Thanks, son,”
he whispered.
    Now both of them were crying.
     

Chapter Two

    “As The Dan once said, ‘you’re looking
bad, my funky one. Has your superfine mind come undone?’”
    “You could say that,” said T.J., rummaging
through his dresser.
    “What I wouldn’t give to trade places with
you, ya lucky dog,” Bortnicker said with a sigh as T.J. tossed a
pair of athletic socks into his suitcase. “I mean, a whole summer
to explore Gettysburg! You’ve stepped into it, man.”
    “Yeah, well, I’ve stepped into something .” T.J. looked across the room to where Bortnicker
perched on his haunches atop T.J.’s computer desk chair. That was
just one of Bortnicker’s quirks. He didn’t sit. He perched. Like
some squirrel up a tree. Or maybe an owl, with those Coke-bottle
glasses and scraggly, unkempt hair that drooped into his eyes. No,
wait. He was too skinny to be an owl. What was he, then?
    A guy so weird that the nerds at school
wouldn’t even hang out with him. Who didn’t watch TV at all except
for the History Channel. Whose sole hobby was his humongous model
train set. Who quoted obscure lyrics from Steely Dan songs to fit
every conceivable occasion.
    As neighbors from across the street since
they were toddlers, T.J. and Bortnicker had grown up together, if
you could call it that. Bortnicker was floating somewhere between
perpetual childhood and senior citizen sensibility. The guys at
school ragged on T.J. for being his friend. Girls mouthed, “He’s so weird, ” behind his back. Teachers would either sigh with
exasperation or rolled their eyes when Bortnicker went off on one
of his tangents in class. He was at his most deadly in social
studies, where he relished debating virtually every point the
teacher made. This past year had been especially trying, with Mr.
O’Neill literally cringing every time Bortnicker’s hand shot up and
he uttered his dreaded prologue, “I have TWO questions.” To T.J.,
whose personality was so reserved that it bordered on timid,
Bortnicker could be flat out uncomfortable to be around.
    But it was Bortnicker who had talked him down
from the ledge when T.J.’s mom had been diagnosed, and then died,
all within a hellish six months. Bortnicker’s own parents had split
when he was only two. He lived with his mom, Pippa, who counseled
upscale housewives in converting their homes into harmonious havens
of feng shui. And they paid her big bucks for this! In fact, if
Bortnicker wasn’t happily accompanying her on a weeklong feng shui
seminar in Boston the next few days, T.J. had actually considered
staying with him for the summer, to which Bortnicker would have
gratefully agreed.
    “So when do you leave?” asked Bortnicker,
cleaning his fingernails with T.J.’s letter opener. Yuck.
    “Tomorrow. Dad and Wendy are driving
me down to my Uncle Mike’s, dropping me off, and flying to Paris
out of Philly.”
    “How many hours from here?”
    “’ Bout five or so from
Fairfield.”
    “Wait a minute!” shouted Bortnicker. He
frantically plopped down onto the chair and his fingers flew over
the computer keyboard. “Yep,” he said with satisfaction, “Just as I
thought. I love MapQuest!”
    “What?”
    “Well, if you take the Merritt Parkway south,
cross the New York border and pick up 287 West, go over the Tappan
Zee Bridge to Jersey, take the Garden State Parkway to the Jersey
Pike to the Penn Pike, you’ll pass through Lancaster County on the
way!”
    “So?”
    “The Strasburg Train Museum’s there! One of
the best model train exhibits in the world!”
    “I think I’ll pass on that. Besides, Dad and Wendy have a plane to catch. I’m wondering if they’re even
gonna stop the car to drop me off at my uncle’s or just open the
door and push me out.”
    “You’re being too harsh, Big Mon. You just
don’t realize what a great opportunity this is. And what did you
say your uncle does down there?”
    “He’s a ranger at the Battlefield