“She grew up and for awhile she helped her father run the business. But, as will happen, one day she met a young man and fell in love.”
“This is where it gets yicky,” groaned Charles.
“Well, not too yicky. As a matter of fact, it was more like a ‘sticky’ problem.” Miss Marie handed out the lemonade and sat down to begin on her own piece of pie. “Mmmmmm! No one makes coconut cream pie like Miss Ruby,” she sighed.
“Best I ever had,” agreed Fred.
“It’s real good, but what happened next?” urged Max.
“Well, this young man was not of the same, shall we say, gentlemanly class as the young girl’s family. He was a waterman from Elliott Island, and though the folk around here do really value the work a waterman does, not everybody wants their children to grow up and marry one. This was the case of the old widow man, the girl’s father. He forbade his daughter to have anything to do with the young waterman.”
“That wasn’t very nice,” said Max.
“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Miss Marie, “and it wasn’t very smart, either. ’Cause their love was strong and that pair, the waterman and the daughter of my lovely ghost, eloped one night. They went off to the town of Hurlock, woke a minister up, and got themselves married.”
“And lived happily ever after,” said Charles.
“Well, not quite. They moved to Elliott Island. The young man worked hard as a waterman. He worked long hours out on the water. His wife had one little daughter but never saw her father again. He disowned her.”
“That was stupid!” said Max in a slam-down voice.
“Sure was. I think he regretted it later, but he’d never admit it. He never saw his daughter again. She died about two years after she eloped. She and her husband drowned together one summer day during the crab season. Caught in a summer squall, their boat capsized quicker than the blink of a lightning bug’s light.”
“Boy, this really is a sad story!” said Fred.
“Sure is,” agreed Charles.
“The little girl was sent to live with her grandfather and grew up in the inn helping him until she was well into her thirties. Then, when he died, she married.” Miss Marie smiled. “Guess who she married?”
“Who?” said Max and Charles at the same time.
“A waterman from Elliott Island!”
“Boy, I bet her grandfather wouldn’t have liked that much,” said Max.
“Nope, I suspect not. But she was smart. She didn’t give in to her love and get married until after he died. So, she inherited all of her grandfather’s fortune, a considerable amount. She sold the inn in Mardela Springs and with the money bought some very nice boats for her husband. She had a beautiful home built on the island. She lived quite happily there, raising her big family of three sons and three daughters, none of whom became watermen nor married watermen.”
“None of them?” asked an incredulous Fred.
“Nope, and only one stayed on the Shore. The others scattered to New York and other big cities, choosing business over beauty. The son who stayed on the Shore (I shouldn’t say this, but I will) is a lazy no-account. He thinks himself to be a business man, but spends most of his time going to meetings at local restaurants. I think his meetings are with bowls of soup and dinner plates.” Miss Marie rolled her eyes.
“So, let me get this straight. The old woman who came to visit you was the granddaughter of the woman who was killed by lightning,” said Charles slowly. The day had been a long one, and with a full stomach, he was feeling a bit sleepy. His mind was somewhat blurred by the long and complicated story.
“That’s right, dummy,” whispered Max.
“That’s right,” said Miss Marie.
“But what did she want with you?” asked Charles.
“Well, here’s the real kicker. She told me she had come to meet her grandmother’s ghost. That, all her life, from a little girl on up, she had always wanted someone to sing her a lullaby. She had heard a rumor that her grandmother’s ghost lived in my summer kitchen and sang lullabies at night. She said to me, ‘I’d just like to have her sing me a lullaby, just once before I die.’”
“Incredible!” said Max.
“Only on the Eastern Shore,” sighed Fred. “I love it.”
“And did she? Did the ghost sing her granddaughter a lullaby?” asked Charles. He was suddenly wide awake again.
“That’s what she told me. Oh, I let them be alone. I told that lovely old lady she could stay in my inn as long as she wanted, days if need be. I was so moved by her sad longing.” Miss Marie wiped her eyes at the memory. “But it didn’t take days. Her grandmother appeared that very night and sang and sang.”
“You heard it?” asked Fred.
“Well, mind you, I didn’t stay with them. I went to my own rooms. But it was a cool summer night and my window was open to the salt breezes. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but yes, I heard the most beautiful singing I think I’ve ever heard in my life. It was truly a miracle.”
“What a story,” said Fred.
“And what did the old lady do?” asked Max.
“Well, she spent the night. It was really too late for her to drive all the way back to Elliott Island…”
“Or End of the World,” whispered Charles.
“… Or End of the World,” repeated Miss Marie. “I saw her in the morning. She was flushed in the face, like she’d been crying most of the night. She took me in her strong thin arms and she held me for a long, long time. She told me ‘thank you’ maybe a thousand times. She said she’d never forget the wonderful gift I’d given her.”
“And did she ever come back?” asked Max.
“Oh, she comes back when she can, but it’s not often now. Her big, stupid son thinks she’s off her rocker, crazy, don’t you know. He even made her give up her beautiful home on Elliott Island. Put her in some fancy nursing home. But it’s a nursing home all the same. She has spunk and keeps after him. About every two weeks, he picks her up and takes her for a ride down to Elliott Island for the day, sometimes to spend the night. As a matter of fact, I saw him in his big yellow limo heading back with her just this morning. I tell you, Mrs. Hattie Harriston deserves better than that son,” Miss Marie said matter-of-factly.
Crash! went Charles’ plate. It spun around but didn’t break. “Oops,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
“Who!” yipped Max.
“Hattie Harriston?” said Fred. “What a small world!”
“What is it?” asked Miss Marie, looking at their stunned faces.
“Well, we met a Hattie Harriston, must be the same one. We met her this morning on the road to End of the World,” said Fred.
“It has to be the same one,” said Miss Marie.
“Well, she was with her son in the yellow limo,” said Charles, trying to clean up the mess his plate of coconut cream pie had made on the porch floor.
“Has to be the same,” Miss Marie agreed.
“Wow!” said Charles.
“There’s one other thing you’ve got to tell us,” said Max.
“If I can, what?” asked Miss Marie.
“Well, when we were down on the island this morning, we came to the graveyard at the Methodist church. We got out and looked around at the different graves…” said Charles.
“And there was one for Hattie Harriston with a date engraved on it,” interrupted Max. “Only we couldn’t read the date because it was sunk too deeply into the ground.”
“I’ve heard tell of it,” said Miss Marie slowly.
“Is the death date on the stone?” asked Fred slowly.
“Yes, it is, but it’s hidden and will stay hidden until after Hattie Harriston dies. She had it engraved on there. She claims her grandmother told her of her death, when it would be. Hattie had it put on the stone up in Baltimore, so no one down here would know what it said, and she was careful to be there when they placed the stone in the graveyard, making sure no one saw the date.”
“That’s really morbid,” sa
id Max.
“Well, not according to Hattie. She told me it was lovely. Her grandmother told her not to worry, death would arrive peacefully. She told Hattie she’d come to her with her mother, some evening when wild geese rest in the fields, rustling their feathers as they settle into sleep. Some night when the moon spills its golden light up the rippling Nanticoke River; when the only sound one will hear is the hush of marsh grasses singing the same lullaby her grandmother’s ghost has always sung in my summer kitchen.”
“That’s lovely,” said Fred.
They all sat silently on the porch for a few moments listening to the sounds of the marsh grass and watching as the full moon shone on the river.
CHAPTER 11
LATE NIGHT.
A sound of rustling leaves as wind tossed the great willow outside the Vienna Inn. The river was wild with whitecaps. Spray flew up into the swishing marsh grass and reeds.
“The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,” whispered Max to Charles. The two boys sat in their room on an old trunk in front of the window looking out on the river.
“The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,” quoted Charles back.
“And the highwayman came riding…”
“…riding, riding…”
“The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door,” they ended together.
“Whew!” sighed Charles. “Almost like this place, huh?”
“Except for a few minor details, like The Highwayman was written by Alfred Noyes a long, long time ago. And, like the lady in it, Bess, was shot by a Red Coat, not killed by lightning,” said Max.
“Still, look at the sky,” Charles pointed to the full moon riding over the choppy sea of clouds.
“Yeah, yeah, so now what do we do?” asked Max.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the plan.”
“The plan,” said Charles in a squeaky voice.
“Yeah, the plan. What are we going to do about Miss Cinderella turtle waiting down in her basket coach for us to free her?” said Max.
“Well, I’d like to try and release her tonight, but I mean, after the story Miss Marie told us about the ghost of Hattie Harriston’s grandmother singing in the kitchen, I don’t feel…I don’t exactly feel…”
“Brave!” Max finished for him. “You’re scared.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” admitted Max. “But, I mean, chances are it was just some old ghost story Miss Marie made up.”
“Except for the details, like Hattie Harriston visiting and all,” said Charles.
“Don’t remind me. But if it’s the same ghost, it’s a kind one.”
“A real grandmotherly one.”
“Not scary.”
“Except, I don’t want to meet a ghost,” said Charles, feeling a chill slither over his skin at just the thought of it.
“No, me either. But it’s a slim chance,” said Max.
“Still a chance,” said Charles strongly.
Max stared out the window for a moment. Behind them, the boys could hear Fred softly snoring.
“Well,” said Max finally, “I’d be willing to at least venture out. I mean, it’s a pretty safe little town and it is a time of night when most folk are sleeping.”
“And it’s not like we’d have to go too far. I mean, the water is almost right up to the porch…almost,” said Charles, with a slightly braver voice.
“And Cinderella is close to the Inn,” added Max.
“Yeah, right off the kitchen porch.”
“Ugh,” sighed Max. “That’s right. Right off the summer kitchen porch.”
“Oh, geez,” wheezed Charles.
“This is silly,” said Max. “Let’s go free a snapping turtle and be done with it. Enough hemming and hawing.”
“Ok!” said Charles, but his voice was twitchy and squirming.
“The way I see it,” said Max slowly in a matter-of-fact type voice, “the most crucial part of this adventure is getting out of this room without waking Fred. These floorboards squeak a lot. I’ve been testing them ever since we came up here tonight. The worst squeaks are in the center of the room. So, we should avoid that area at all costs. We should walk around, as close to the walls as we can on our journey out.” He pointed to the front door to their room, a good ten to twelve feet from where they were sitting on the trunk.
“Or we could go out the back door, through the little efficiency kitchen and down the back stairs,” said Charles, pointing to the exit about four feet away.
“Oh, sure! Those back steps go right down into the summer kitchen, Charles,” said Max.
“They do?” asked Charles. The squirm in his voice gave a trembling wiggle to his words.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Max smugly.
“Scratch that,” said Charles.
“You sure?” teased Max, a bit of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“Positive,” said Charles.
“Ok, then we go out the front door. We make sure not to lock ourselves out. We go down the main steps, out the big front door—that we’ll prop open with a brick doorstop I saw.”
“Miss Marie might not like having her front door left wide open in the middle of the night,” interrupted Charles.
“Not wide open, Charles, you nit, just open the thickness of that brick.”
“Ok, ok. Let’s stop talking about it and just do it, ok? All this talking is making me uptight.”
“Ok, we’re off then,” said Max.
Slowly, softly, the boys crept along the edge of the room. Occasionally a board would begin to squeak, and they would both stop and hold their breath, listening for Fred’s snores. But, for the most part, the floor cooperated and didn’t make much noise.
The lock on the door was another matter. It was an old lock, actually two locks in one, which required the sensitivity of a safecracker to get them open. But finally, Max was able to twist the great brass knob just the right way, with his knee pressed to the middle board in the door. There was a click and the lock gave up.
A creak of the brass hinges. A whine as the door opened. And the boys were out.
“We’ll leave it open. I have a sock we can wedge in, so it won’t lock us out,” whispered Max as he took off his tennis shoe. He slipped out of his sock and quickly returned his foot back to its place inside the shoe.
“Stinky lock,” giggled Charles nervously, as Max placed his sock in the lock and gently pulled the door closed.
“Better than being locked out,” said Max. “Ok, next, down the stairs we go.”
The stairs were wide and carpeted. The boys made very little noise on them, only a slight brushing sound as their shoes slid against the worn tapestry carpet.
All too quickly, they were face-to-face with the great, tall, old-fashioned front door. It had never looked so big before.
“Ok,” said Max after a moment of staring at the hinged barrier separating them from the outside. “Here goes nothing.” He placed his hand on the enormous brass knob.
“Think it has a fancy alarm attached to it?” hissed Charles by his ear.
“I don’t see anything. No little square box with numbers and signal lights,” said Max, looking carefully around the door.
“Ok, try it,” said Charles.
“Here goes,” said Max. He held his breath and shut his eyes into a squinty line. Slowly he turned the knob.
It rattled its screws loose in their places.
It slowly turned.
With a slight push, Max opened the door.
Both boys slipped out into the salty, sultry late night air.
“Ok, step two,” said Max, his voice just above a whisper. He bent down and picked up the old brick. He placed it in the doorway. “This must be what Miss Marie uses, all right.” He put the brick between the door and its frame and pulled the heavy door closed as far as it would go.
“So far, so good,” Max continued as he rubbed the sand from the brick off
his hands in a satisfied sort of way.
“But still a long way to go before we reach ‘home plate,’” reminded Charles in true baseball slang.
“Next step, Cinderella.”
Both boys eased off of the porch and stepped into the tall grass. The wind through the reeds and the lap of the water seemed to roar in their ears. They started toward the water when suddenly they heard a great honking cough close by.
Both boys jumped and grabbed each other.
The cough was followed by a flutter of wings and another coughing, honking sound.
“Geese,” said Max. “It’s ok, Charles. Only geese.”
“Whew!” sighed Charles. Now the only thing he could hear was the thudding of his heart. It felt like it must have divided into three parts: the greatest piece springing up into his throat, the other two, smaller pieces had each landed in his ears and were still pounding away. They pounded together, in unison, as if they were all, somehow, still mysteriously connected.
“Let’s keep going. I don’t like to lose our momentum. I also don’t want to leave those doors open for too long,” Max said. He started to walk again.
Charles followed him as close as any shadow can be to its leader.
They were following the edge of the porch, only four or five feet away from the brick walls of the old inn. They walked in the grass so their footsteps could not be heard. In the ghostly shadows from the willow and moonlight, those old walls seemed like a huge tower. Every window was dark, except for one.
Straight ahead, just before the corner of the inn, in the place just opposite where the snapper waited, there was a window. The window glowed a rectangle of eerie light.
Max turned and looked at Charles. Neither spoke. They both simultaneously looked back to the window.
“It’s just the kitchen, isn’t it?” whispered Charles.
“No,” corrected Max, his voice taut as a guitar string. “It’s the summer kitchen window.”
“Oh, geez,” trembled Charles.
“Let’s just keep on going,” said Max. But there was very little confidence left in his voice.
They edged closer and closer, then they stopped again. Frozen in a moment of terrifying alertness.
The Great Snapping Turtle Adventure Page 8