Eggs

by Jerry Spinelli

  “Are you going to say something?”

  The mouth did not move.

  “You’re dead, aren’t you?”

  The beautiful face was as still as the trees.

  He was not afraid.

  “My name is David. I’m nine. My mother died too. She hit her head. Her name was Carolyn Sue Limpert. We used to live in Minnesota. That’s a state. I have a memento in my pocket, but nobody’s allowed to see it.” He thought for a moment. “I guess it’s okay to show it to you.” He took out the memento and held it before the closed, glittery eyes. They did not move. He returned the memento to his pocket.

  A button on threads — daddy longlegs — came walking across the leaves onto a cheek. With a finger flick he sent it flying. His name was being called.

  He stood. “I have to go now.” He started to walk away. He stopped and came back to her. With great care he placed the yellow egg back on her mouth. “Bye,” he said, and ran.

  When he saw that he was the last kid heading back up the hill, when he saw his grandmother’s eyes wild with worry, he slowed down.

  5

  David had dreams that night. He kept hearing his mother’s voice, calling him from the top of a sunlit hill. She was a shadow within thin tinted shells of eggs, speaking to him in sounds he did not understand. He saw leaves, a figure darkly rising, shedding dry leaves, rising silently as moss in wooded silence, and he tried and tried but he could not see her face.

  There was no school the next day. Easter vacation. David bolted from the house as soon as he woke up. Let his grandmother figure out where he was. He rode his bike. He did not need directions. Even though the park was a mile away, he had biked there before. He had biked all over this new town of his. Perkiomen. Not that he really wanted to, but he wanted even less to be stuck in the house with his grandmother. Plus, biking was something you could do by yourself, which he usually was.

  It was hard to pick out the hunting ground without all the people around, but when he walked his bike down the steep hill and onto the trampled grass, he knew he was there. Pastel chips of eggshell glittered in the thatch. He parked his bike at the tree line and reentered, it seemed for an instant, his dreams.

  He went straight for the spot, and knew at once that something was wrong. The yellow egg was gone. And the leaves, still a pile, were shallow now, not heaped as before. Gingerly at first, then more forcefully, he kicked at the leaves, broomed them away with his foot until they lay flat and scattered on the ground. No lips. No eyes. No beautiful face. Nobody.

  He went deeper into the trees, seeking tracks, scraps of clothing, evidence. Had animals carried her off in the night? Eaten her? Had someone found the body and notified the police? Yes, he decided, that was it. The police had come and taken photographs like in the movies and carried her away on a stretcher with a sheet over her from head to foot.

  When he returned home his grandmother was in a tizzy. She talked in that whispery, patient voice of hers; she never yelled. As usual, she was full of whys. Why this? Why not that? She couldn’t get it through her head that he didn’t give a rat’s rump about whys.

  As usual, she slipped his father into it. “If you won’t behave for my sake, David, or even your own, you should at least behave for your father’s sake. He’s trying his best to provide for you. That’s why he drives all the way to Connecticut and back every week. That’s why he’s so tired all the time. He’s overwhelmed.”

  His father’s company needed him to manage a shopping mall in the state of Connecticut, over 200 miles away. He was home only on weekends. David knew exactly what “overwhelmed” meant. It meant less time for David.

  She finally came to the end of her speech, saying, “I think you ought to stay in the house for the rest of the afternoon.”

  This was how she introduced all of her infrequent punishments: “I think you ought to . . .” More plea than command. She delivered punishment the way she drove a car: timid, nervous, afraid of a backfire. David’s usual answer was, “I don’t think I ought to . . .” And he would do as he pleased.

  But this time he had a problem. He actually wanted to stay in the house, because he wanted to be there the instant the daily newspaper arrived. He was sure news of the body would be all over the front page. But staying in the house would give his grandmother the impression that he was obeying her, which was unthinkable. He could not leave. He could not stay.

  He sat mired in the living room, wondering what to do. His grandmother went back to her housework. Every so often she would glance over at him. Her looks became more and more kindly, sympathetic. Any minute now she might decide to say, “Okay, David, you’ve stayed long enough. You can go out and play.” And for the rest of her life she would smugly believe she had successfully punished then pardoned him. He could not allow it.

  Think. Think.

  He went into the kitchen and got a Mango Madness from the refrigerator. There were always bottles of Mango Madness on the bottom shelf. As he drank at the kitchen table, the answer came.

  He popped up and swaggered past her as she was watering a plant. “Guess I’ll go out,” he said as if to himself and headed for the door. “David,” she called, but she had lost and she knew it. One more limpid “David” and he was out the door, slamming it behind.

  He took his time. She would not come to the door. She would not call after him. She would not do anything to upset him. She would sigh and close her eyes and remind herself that he had already had enough upset for a lifetime. It was all part of what she called “The Sadness.” Nor would she tell his father, for he was already “overwhelmed.”

  David sauntered down the street. No one, not grandmothers, not anyone, could touch him. His mother’s death had made him invincible.

  6

  The answer was so simple. All he had to do was wait outside for the paper girl, meet her down at the end of the block.

  Hanging on the corner, he worked on his yo-yo stunts and thought about the paper. He was sure the entire front page would be filled with the story. There would be a big picture, maybe in color, showing the mound of leaves and the beautiful face and the yellow egg. And a headline with letters fat as fingers would say:

  BODY FOUND IN PARK

  He wondered if they would give her a name. He had never seen his mother’s full name in print until he saw it in the newspaper:

  CAROLYN SUE LIMPERT

  At last he spotted the paper girl. He ran to her, got the paper, fell to his hands and knees, and spread it out right there on the sidewalk. There was a headline all right, but it said:

  LITTLE LEAGUERS

  READY TO ROLL

  The picture was in black and white and showed a kid batting a baseball to his dad. No mention of a body in the park. Not on page one, or two, or any of the other pages.

  At five o’clock David went up to his room and turned on the news. Nothing there. Later, in bed, he watched the eleven o’clock news. Not a peep.

  Tuesday was more of the same: a ride to the park, newspaper, TV. He even widened his search at the park, in case it was animals after all, and they carried her off and maybe buried her so they could go back and dig her up whenever they got hungry, like squirrels with acorns. He found nothing that looked like a freshly dug hole.

  Wednesday he called the police. He thought about biking to the station and talking to them in person, but he chickened out.

  The voice on the other end said, “Police Department. Sergeant Wolf speaking.”

  David did not know what to say.

  The voice repeated, “Sergeant Wolf speaking.”

  David said, “Uh —”

  The voice said, “May I help you?”

  David said, “Uh —”

  Silence, except for a beep that sounded every few seconds.

  “You’ve reached the Perkiomen Police Department. Do you wish to speak to the police?”

  Beep . . . beep . . .

  David blurted, “Did you find a body?”

  More silence, more beeps.


  The voice said, “Will you repeat that, please?”

  “Did you find a body?”

  “Who is calling, please?”

  “David.”

  “David who?”

  Why was this man asking questions? David was supposed to be asking the questions. “Did you find a body?”

  “Did you see a body?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Where?”

  “At the park, maybe.”

  “Where at the park?”

  “The trees.”

  “And what did you say your last name was, David?”

  David froze. He slammed down the phone. The receiver was wet from the sweat on his hands.

  7

  His grandmother was doing it again — mopping the kitchen floor. How many moppings did a floor need? Of all the things she did to torment him, this was the worst.

  So he did what he always did at times like this. He walked right into the kitchen, across the wet floor to the sink. Then to the fridge. Then to the cereal cupboard. Not really looking for anything, just pretending. Pretending he didn’t know she was there, pretending he didn’t know she had stopped her mopping and was staring mournfully at him. He knew what she wanted to say — “David, please don’t walk on the wet floor” — and he knew as well that she would never say it, never ever use those words to him. As he left the kitchen, he looked back just to enjoy the sight of his sneaker tracks all over the wet floor.

  By the time he was halfway through the dining room, the enjoyment had worn off, and all that remained was a grim reminder. He ran to his room and slammed the door shut. He lay facedown on his bed. The tears came.

  It was a wet floor that had killed his mother.

  A wet floor where she worked.

  A wet floor that a custodian had just finished mopping.

  A wet floor that had no sign saying

  WET FLOOR!!!

  And along comes his mother.

  It wasn’t one of those spectacular head-over-heels cartwheel slips. It was just a little one. A tiny one. But it happened at the worst possible place: at the top of a stairway. Down she went. And even then, when she hit bottom, it wasn’t the world’s hardest bump on the head. Heck, David had had worse noggin-knockers himself. But again, it was in the worst possible spot, and that was that. She never woke up. Never called him “Davey” again. Never took him to see the sun rise.

  It happened on April 29. Less than a year ago.

  From that day forward, David had never even bruised a rule, much less broken one. (Except his grandmother’s, of course, and her rules didn’t count.) It was his most secret secret, one that he shared with no one on earth, not even the daylight. For David believed that if he went a long enough time without breaking a rule — a year, five years, twenty — piling up a million obediences, a billion — sooner or later, somehow, somewhere, a debt would be paid, a score would be settled, and his mother would come back.

  8

  Weeks went by. A month. Two. School was out.

  David had stopped searching the newspaper. He went back to watching only cartoons and comedy shows and such on TV. He cut out his favorite comic strip, Beetle Bailey, and saved his favorites for his bedroom wall. He no longer went down the hill and into the trees.

  Three days after school ended, he had to go with his grandmother to the Perkiomen Library. She was a volunteer reader for Summer Story Time. They walked. David stayed five paces behind.

  Along the way they came upon a kid playing with a yo-yo. To David’s horror, his grandmother stopped and said, “Well, hello there.”

  He knew what she was up to, trying to make friends for him. She just would not quit.

  The kid stopped and looked up. “Hello.” He couldn’t yo-yo and talk at the same time. It was the ugliest yo-yo David had ever seen. Snot-green. What a geek.

  “Do you live here?” his grandmother said, all sugar and smiles.

  “Yeah.”

  “I see you’re playing with a yo-yo.”

  “I just got it yesterday,” said the kid.

  David felt her bony fingers on his shoulder. “This is my grandson, David. What’s your name?”

  “Tim.”

  “Tim. Well, Tim, David moved here not too long ago. He doesn’t know many people yet. But he sure loves to play with his yo-yo.” She aimed her smile at him. “Don’t you, David?”

  “No,” said David.

  She chuckled. “He’s just being modest. He’s actually very good with a yo-yo. He can do lots of things.”

  The kid chirped up at her, “I can walk the dog!”

  “Yippee,” said David.

  His grandmother ignored him. “Really?” she gushed. “Would you like to give us a demonstration?”

  The kid didn’t wait to be asked twice. He backed off a couple steps, took a deep breath and spun the snot-green yo-yo down its string. It walked for about an inch, then lurched like a tire hitting a tree trunk and flopped onto its side.

  David laughed.

  His grandmother shot him a glare. “That was just for practice, wasn’t it, Tim?”

  “Yeah,” said the kid. He tried it again. Same result. Then he did a surprising thing. He pulled the string loop off his finger, held the yo-yo out to David, and said, “Want to try?”

  David sneered at the cheap toy and pushed it away. He unsnapped the yo-yo holster on his belt and drew his Spitfire. He knew he was playing into his grandmother’s hands, but he couldn’t help it. He ran a few test drops, then, with a hard snap of his wrist, sent her down for good. The spool of many colors — David had once counted nine — hummed as it spun an inch above the sidewalk, then a half inch, then a quarter. Then, ever so lightly, it kissed the concrete and, like a dog on a leash, walked smartly from one sidewalk crack to the next before scooting back up the string and into its master’s hand.

  With a disdainful sniff, David slipped off the finger loop and holstered the yo-yo. The kid went gaga. “Wow!”

  His grandmother cooed, “David! I never knew you were that good.” Not surprising, since David had been careful not to show her his best stuff. “I’ll bet Tim would love to take lessons from you.”

  David walked on, tossing his parting words over his shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

  His grandmother stayed behind until they came to the library. At the door she whispered, “I can’t believe you were so rude,” and they went in.

  The little kiddies and their mothers were already there, almost filling the Community Room. David took a seat in the back row. He folded his arms, put on a pout, and stared at the wall. He had no intention of listening to stupid stories, especially from his grandmother. He made one silent vow to himself: if she started reading Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, he would walk up and rip it from her hands. Because that was the story his mother used to read to him at bedtime.

  One last person came in, took a seat at the other end of the back row, and then the librarian introduced his grandmother. Lucky for her, she read Brown Bear, Brown Bear. Halfway through, the little runts were yipping along with the story. Everybody but David clapped at the end.

  Then she read Green Eggs and Ham. Then Make Way for Ducklings. Finally, the last one: Goldilocks and the Three Bears. About the time Goldilocks was peeping into the bears’ house, David happened to look over at the other person in the last row. It was a girl. Teenager. She wore lime green shorts and a white shirt tied across her stomach and pink earrings down to her shoulders and brown hair unlike any David had ever seen before. It was pulled into a pair of woven ropes that hung halfway down her back. Bare feet. But the main thing was, her head was bowed and her eyes were shut as if she were sleeping.

  About the time Goldilocks was sampling the porridge, David looked again. And kept looking.

  As Goldilocks headed upstairs, David began moving quietly from seat to seat in the sleeper’s direction.

  Goldilocks was settling into Baby Bear’s bed as David stopped two chairs away. The bears were staring at th
eir porridge bowls as David lowered himself carefully to one knee and saw the roller skates on the chair beside her and tilted his head to get a better look at her face and her closed eyes, which he now saw were tinted with purple glitter like a pair of bird-size Easter eggs. And Baby Bear had just exclaimed, “Somebody has been sleeping in my bed!” when David let loose the scream of his life.

  9

  The shock wave from the scream sent Primrose toppling over backwards in her chair. From the floor she saw a sandy-haired little kid backing away, screeching, “You’re dead! . . . You’re dead! . . .”

  Primrose felt her face, wiggled her fingers. She looked around at the stunned, wide-eyed faces. The kid seemed awful sure of himself. The look on his face. She was beginning to wonder.

  “I am?” she said.

  “I saw you. You have to be.” He was no longer screeching, no longer backing up.

  Primrose got to her feet, and twenty-five pre-schoolers screamed and clutched their mothers.

  “Maybe I’m a ghost,” she said.

  More preschooler screams. Two fled the room.

  “Ghosts don’t exist,” said the kid, who now seemed more angry than scared.

  His voice sounded familiar. “Say that again,” she told him and closed her eyes.

  “Ghosts don’t exist.”

  “Say ‘My name is David.’ ”

  “My name is David.”

  “I’m from Minnesota.”

  “I’m from Minnesota.”

  She smiled. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her, a blue, bold, unblinking stare. She remembered that in the park, even when he had truly believed her dead, he had not sounded afraid.

  She pulled a card from her pocket. “Here,” she said. She handed it to him, picked up her skates, and walked out.

  The door was closing behind her, but she could not resist. She leaned back into the room and said, “Boo.”