Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  He laughs. “Didn’t you see me drive up?”

  I scratch my head and sit up. “Uh … I must’ve been napping?”

  “Napping?” He comes over and sits down in the chair beside me. “Have you been here the whole time I was gone? Didn’t your friends show up?”

  I blink at him as everything I’d done since he’d rolled out of his driveway flashes through my mind.

  Going to the police station …

  Running into Danny …

  Infiltrating the funeral parlor …

  Getting stuck in a corpse cooler …

  Escaping the Vampire …

  Running until I thought my lungs would burst …

  And I don’t know—the thought that it looked like I’d just been sitting there the whole time made something in me snap, and I started laughing.

  Not ho-ho-ho, ha-ha-ha laughing.

  Hysterical laughing.

  And pretty soon I can’t talk, I can’t breathe, my eyes start watering, and I’m, like, convulsing in my seat.

  Hudson puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right? Sammy! Are you all right?”

  I catch my breath and wipe my eyes dry. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him.

  And then I start laughing all over again.

  He watches me a minute, then goes inside. And when he comes back, he’s got two tall glasses of iced tea, and I’ve pretty much exhausted myself. “Better?” he asks, holding out a glass.

  I nod, then take a deep, choppy breath and accept the tea.

  “So,” he says, “maybe I shouldn’t have gone to church with Rita?”

  “No, no, that was fine.” I sit up a little and ask, “How is Grams, anyway?” but it comes out all goofy sounding. Like, How’s the old bat, anyway?

  “We had a very nice time,” he says, but he’s talking carefully. Like he’s afraid of setting off another bout of hysteria. “We went out for coffee afterward.”

  “Very good!” I tell him, and now I’m sounding like some dorky schoolteacher rallying the class.

  He just stares at me a minute, and I stare back as I take the world’s longest sip of iced tea.

  “So what’s this about?” he finally asks. “Boys? School? Heather?”

  The answer comes spitting out before I even know what I’m going to say.

  “Death.”

  Then I get back to sipping my tea.

  His bushy eyebrows flex way up. “What about death?”

  “Why do people get laid out in a casket with satin padding and pillows and flowers everywhere? And why do people look at them? Why can’t they just not look?” I sit up even straighter. “And what do you know about getting embalmed?”

  His eyebrows are still reaching for the roof, only now his mouth is in a little O. Finally he says, “Did you attend a funeral recently?”

  I slouch and cross my arms. “I wouldn’t call it attending.”

  “But this is all precipitated by a … by a visit to a … ?”

  I eye him. “Funeral parlor.”

  “And you went there because … ?”

  I sit up again. “It’s a long story, all right? It’s a really long story. All I want to know right now is, what do they do when they embalm you? What does that mean?”

  He takes a deep breath, gives a single nod, and settles into his chair a bit. “They replace the blood in your body with a preservative.”

  “Formaldehyde?”

  “I believe so.”

  “With a machine?”

  He eyes me. “Yes.”

  “So they drain your blood and pump you full of chemicals so you don’t rot?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “But why? You’re dead! It’s over! You’re eventually going to decompose anyway, right?”

  Hudson is still eyeing me. “Right.” Then he takes a deep breath and says, “Different cultures have different beliefs, Sammy. Some cultures believe the body will be resurrected in the afterlife.”

  “And what? People don’t want to look like grizzle-faced ghouls when they float up to heaven?”

  He chuckles. “Perhaps.” Then he adds, “There was a time when body preservation was only available to the very wealthy.”

  “Like pharaohs?”

  “Right.”

  “But still. It’s like people are trying to hold on to life when life is gone.”

  “I’ve always seen it as something that’s done more for the living than the dead.” He sips from his tea, then says, “Consider this: Embalming may go way back to ancient Egypt, but it wasn’t until the Civil War that it became widely used in the United States.”

  I think about this a minute. “Because families …”

  My voice just drifts off so he nods and says, “… wanted their fallen soldiers to be returned home. And with the distance from the battlefields and limits in transportation, getting them home was impossible without preserving the bodies. Without embalming, they’d have to be buried—probably in unmarked graves—near the battlefield.”

  I let all this soak in, then say, “Well, that seems like a good reason.”

  “It’s really the same concept now. Funerals take time to coordinate and it takes time for loved ones to gather. And a lot of people want to say their farewells face to face. It gives them a sense of closure. Besides, most burial customs are based on a belief that the soul remains in this world for a period of time before moving on to the next, and traditionally, families have certain obligations toward the dead before their souls move on. And to help their souls move on.” He takes a quick sip of tea and leans back. “That’s what All Souls’ Day is about.”

  “Wait—All Souls’ Day? Didn’t you say it was All Saints’ Day?”

  He laughs. “Yes. Today is All Saints’ Day. Tomorrow is all Souls’ Day.”

  I blink at him. “So you have to go back to church again? Why? What’s the difference?”

  He gives a little shrug. “Today’s a holy day of obligation. You pray for people who are in heaven.”

  “But … if they’re already in heaven, why do you have to pray for them? They’re already inside the Pearly Gates, right? Don’t you pray to them? Like, please help me … whatever?”

  He laughs. “I’m sure there’s a lot of that going on, too. But tomorrow—the Day of Souls—you pray for people who haven’t yet ascended to heaven.”

  “Like, what? You put in a good word for them?”

  “Right. Many people believe that collective prayers help lift a soul from its transitory state into heaven.”

  I scratch my head. “But why can’t you just pray for saints and souls in the same visit? Why do you have to go to church two days in a row?”

  He gives me a little smile. “Some people like to go to church, Sammy. It gives them comfort. Other people like to go to the graveyard. That gives them comfort.” He shifts a little. “As a matter of fact, tomorrow will also be a big day at the graveyard.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because we have a large Hispanic population here and people from Latin America celebrate on All Souls’ Day.”

  “They celebrate? Like, they party?”

  “That’s right. They call it Day of the Dead.”

  “Day of the Dead? And that’s a celebration?”

  He laughs. “That’s right. They go to the cemetery with the deceased’s favorite food and drink, they decorate the grave with flowers and pictures, and they sit around telling stories about them.”

  “They have a picnic? At a graveyard?”

  He grins at me. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s a very widespread custom, and I think it’s a good one.” Then he adds, “Not everyone goes to the cemetery—many build private altars in their own homes.”

  “Wow,” I tell him. “I always think of graveyards as being sad or spooky. Having a picnic?”

  He nods. “You know, I think you should go there tomorrow, just to see for yourself. It will seem like a completely different place to you.” We’re both quiet a minute, and then he says, “So,
did that help at all?”

  “About death?”

  He nods.

  “I’m not sure.” I give him a little smile. “But it didn’t hurt.”

  He waits another minute, then says, “So do you want to tell me what sparked all this? I’m guessing something upset you at the funeral parlor. Was there an open casket?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, and before he can ask me anything else I get up and say, “You know, I ought to get going. Can you call Grams and let her know I’m on my way home?”

  “Sure,” he says with a nod, but I can tell it’s not easy for him to just let me go. He knows there’s a lot more that I’m not telling him, and it bothers him that I don’t want to talk about it.

  And normally I would talk about it. Normally, I’d start to tell him a little bit and before I knew it, the whole story would come out.

  But not this time.

  This time I’d started, but then I’d just stopped.

  I hurried away from his house, trying to ignore the fact that it bothered me, too.

  I just wanted to go home.

  Trouble is, as I’m walking past the mall, two things happen at almost the same time.

  First I see Heather going into the mall, and before I can ditch it out of view she spots me.

  Actually it’s her whiny friend Monet who spots me, but she goes and grabs Heather and points me out, so bottom line, I’m spotted.

  Now, I’m across a parking lot and across the street, so I just act like I haven’t seen them, but then the second thing happens.

  Officer Borsch pulls up alongside me in a police cruiser.

  He powers down the passenger window and calls, “Sammy!”

  I look ahead like I don’t know him. And what’s weird is that in the old days it was important that Officer Borsch didn’t see me, but now it’s important that I’m not seen with him. “Leave me alone!”

  “Hey!” he calls, totally not leaving me alone. “Get in. Let’s talk!”

  “Go away!” I tell him, looking straight ahead. But when I crank my eyes over toward the mall, I know the damage is already done. Heather and Monet have stopped and are looking right at us, and I know what they’re thinking.

  Sammy Keyes is buddy-buddy with a cop.

  Sammy Keyes is the one who narc’d on Danny.

  So I do the only thing I can think of to save the situation.

  I jaywalk right in front of his squad car.

  The first time I met Officer Borsch he wrote me up for jaywalking. He just has this thing about jaywalkers. I, on the other hand, have this thing about not going clear down to the crosswalk if it’s safe to cut across the street.

  Anyway, jaywalking in front of Officer Borsch is like poking a rabid dog in the eye, so I knew there was a pretty good chance that he couldn’t let my “blatant disregard for the law” slide.

  Which he couldn’t.

  Especially since as I jaywalked in front of him I pulled a belligerent face and threw my arms out at him, like, You jerk!

  Yup, before I’m even at the median, his lights are flashing and his sirens are wailing, and he’s doing a completely illegal U-turn to pull me over.

  When I get across the street, I do a sly peek over at Heather and Monet.

  They’re still watching.

  And this time when the Borschman pulls up to me, he doesn’t try to talk to me through the window.

  This time he lurches out of the car and comes charging at me.

  I turn to face him and cross my arms like I’m really mad and tell him, “Don’t look. Heather’s watching and I want her to think you’re ticked off.”

  “I am ticked off! You just jaywalked right in front of me!”

  “Yeah, I did that to tick you off. So keep acting mad. You know, yell at me and get all red in the face and jab your finger around all over the place.”

  He just stares at me then says, “I don’t do that when I’m mad!”

  “You do, too! Now come on! Don’t just stand there! Act mad! And then write me a ticket!”

  His eyes start shifting around. “Where’s Heather? And what does she have to do with this?”

  I can tell he’s about to crane his neck around so I tell him. “Don’t look! She’s over by the mall. She and Danny are tight, okay? They’re like barbs on wire! Now act mad.”

  So finally he gets it, and real loud he starts going, “You think you can just thumb your nose at me? You think you can just break laws and get away with it? Well, think again!”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the Borschman act this way and I can’t help it—a little grin creeps across my face.

  He drops his voice. “Stop that!”

  “Oh, just write me up, already.”

  So he gets his ticket thing out of the car and pretends to scribble away, and when he rips off my copy and hands it to me he says, “Can I come by your grandmother’s later?”

  I snatch it from him. “Not a good idea. She doesn’t know anything about what happened with Danny.” Then I tell him, “There’s something I have to talk to you about, but not now, and not in front of Grams. I’ll call you from a pay phone.”

  “Is Heather still watching?” he asks, and I know he’s dying to look.

  I crank my eyes way over. “Yup. Talk to you later.” Then I storm off like I’m totally ticked off at him.

  “Next time I’m calling your parents!” he yells after me.

  “Next time I’m suing for harassment!” I yell back and keep on marching.

  Since I’m now on the mall side of the street, I decide to take the winding walkway that goes around it. I love to ride it on my skateboard because it’s got little hills and valleys and curves, and it goes through pine trees and oversized shrubs—it’s like an amusement park where you bring your own ride.

  But I don’t have my skateboard, and as I walk between trees and bushes I start getting the creepy feeling that Heather could totally ambush me. I mean, she’s come out of nowhere and attacked me before, and even though by now she ought to know not to mess with me, somehow I think it still hasn’t quite sunk in.

  Plus, even if she wasn’t going to ambush me, she might be tailing me to see where I live. Heather’s tried that before, too, and believe me, her figuring out that I live in the Senior Highrise would be disastrous.

  Now, I don’t want to go looking over my shoulder to see if I’m being followed. I mean, if I do look and she is there, then she’ll know I knew she was watching and realize that the whole exchange with Officer Borsch was staged.

  So after the next curve I do what I always seem to do when I’m trying to hide from someone—I dive behind some bushes.

  It’s already too late when I realize that I’ve picked a stupid spot. There’s a straightaway ahead and if Heather is following me, it’ll be pretty obvious that I ditched it somewhere. Plus, I’m feeling kind of ridiculous. I mean, why am I hiding in bushes?

  Again.

  And how paranoid am I, anyway? Like they don’t have better things to do than follow me?

  Well, apparently not. I’m in the bushes for all of ten seconds when I hear Monet say, “Why do you even care?”

  “Look, if you can’t shut up, go back!” Heather hisses.

  I see them through the bushes as they scurry by, but all of a sudden Heather stops, punches her fists on her hips, and turns clear around in a slow circle. “Okay, so where is she?”

  Monet eeks out, “Maybe she knew we were following her?”

  “Maybe she heard you, you idiot!” Heather throws her hands in the air. “I can’t believe this happened again. Where did she go?”

  Monet starts looking around. “Um … maybe she’s hiding in the bushes?”

  I can practically see the light bulb go on over Heather’s head, and believe me, there’s definitely an Uh-oh in a thought bubble over mine.

  Their backs are turned, so I pick up a softball-sized rock and hurl it over their heads and into the bushes on the other side of the walkway.

  “There!
” Monet cries. “Did you hear that? She’s in there!” But before I can escape, the bushes where I’d hurled the rock start rustling and shaking, and a deranged-looking homeless guy comes staggering out of them.

  Heather and Monet both scream and then hightail it past me, around the corner, and out of there. And now they’re the ones being followed, because after yelling some pretty X-rated language the homeless guy staggers down the walkway after them.

  Getting over to the Senior Highrise was pretty easy after that. Especially since I decided to use the front door. I mean, it’s not like I was planning to stay inside all day, and since the manager knows I “visit” Grams regularly to bring her groceries and do her laundry and stuff like that, it’s no big deal to go in the front door once in a while.

  I just have to remember to leave.

  “Hey, Mr. Garnucci!” I call over at him when I come through the door.

  “Sammy!” he calls back. “Long time no see.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been busy.”

  “Your grandmother expecting you?”

  “Yup,” I tell him. “I promised I’d help her with some chores.”

  “Wish more kids were like you.” He nods toward the elevator. “Go on up. She came home from church not too long ago.”

  So up I go. And while I’m riding the elevator, I’m feeling really weird. Like I’m one of those people playing about six games of chess at the same time. You know, where they make a move at one station, then go to the next and move a piece there, then go to the next, all the way down the line until they wind up back at the first game.

  The difference is that people who play chess like that are really good at it. They think lots of moves ahead and store every game in some separate little corner of their brain. Me, I’m going from one board to the next with no idea what I’m doing, and no time to think about what a long-range strategy might be. I just make some random move and find myself at the next board, hoping not to get trapped in a checkmate.

  Anyway, as I’m letting myself into Grams’ apartment, I’m thinking that I don’t want to be at home so much as I want to be alone.

  I need time to think about my next move.