by Jane Kurtz
By then a bunch of fourth graders were standing around. Half voted to name the cat Midnight, and half voted for Halloween. A perfect tie. Peacemaker Dad wrote “Midnight H. Cat” on the form at the vet’s office. Why did we save her, though, if we were going to move her to Kansas and freak her out?
I set her on the floor, got up, and studied the backyard. It had a shed. What if she crawled under and a skunk was waiting there? What if the mean kid, Simon, was lurking around? “By the way,” I said, “I need a flashlight and fire extinguisher.”
Upstairs, Isabella hollered, “Mom!”
Mom sighed. “I’ll call your dad and tell him you’re coming over to discuss safety supplies.”
What Mom had asked for was three hours a day of writing time. So far what she was getting was zero hours.
When I got to the church, Dad was outside studying the church sign. “I bet you’re wondering what to put next,” I said as I ran up.
He laughed. “There ain’t no flies on Anna. Got any good ideas?”
He tipped his head to one side, studying the sign, then hooked my arm and sang, “Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam.” He grinned at me. “Kansas state song.”
Dad had gone from the Beach Boys to buffaloes.
“You know what I need?” I said. “A flashlight. Also, I wanted to tell you—”
“Hey, hey,” Dad said, “what’s this?”
Across the parking lot came Cousin Caroline pushing Great-aunt Lydia in her wheelchair with a violin in her lap. The person behind them carrying a basket must be Morgan—tall and bold like her mom.
“Bet you didn’t know that one of your ancestors arrived in America with nothing but a hat and a violin,” Dad told me.
“Of course I didn’t. You never told me anything about your roots.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded sorry. “Did I tell you about our ancestor who could catch flies with his bare hands?”
I guess there weren’t no flies on him. How many kids in school already knew that story?
The family parade was close now, and Great-aunt Lydia pointed her violin bow at Dad. “What did you mean by staying away for so long?”
“What do you mean by going cantankerous?” He leaned over and kissed her. I was having a hard time breathing, with feelings taking up all the air. After a minute Dad said, “The last time I visited . . . well . . . I’m sure my mother never meant to upset everyone so much.”
“Ach.” Great-aunt Lydia clicked her tongue. “You come out to the farm on Monday. I’ll make lunch. Remember mak kuchen?” She took his hand as if he were a kid.
Morgan headed toward a garden bed at the side of the church lawn, and even though we hadn’t been officially introduced, I followed, trying to see inside the basket, as if I were two giant eyeballs on legs.
She pulled a seed packet out.
“Did you know it’s not true that moss only grows on the north side of trees?” I asked. “If you get lost, remember that a forest thick enough to get lost in is thick enough for moss to grow anywhere.”
“Really?” she said. At least she wasn’t a sixth grader, all full of her own awesomeness. Maybe I could even show her my disaster notebook.
“By the way,” I said, “great tree house.” She gave me a fifth-grader-I-come-in-peace face, so I went on. “At least what I could see looked interesting. There’s not that much interesting around here, so—” Oops. That might be insulting. “I guess you’ve been learning a lot about farming.”
“Uh-huh.” She held up the packet. “Bean seeds.”
“You can see Pikes Peak from my house,” I said. “Unless it’s cloudy. You moved here two years ago, right? Wasn’t it hard to leave the city? Is it always this hot here?”
Morgan put the packet down. “Come on. I’ll show you something interesting.”
I left Dad talking to Great-aunt Lydia and followed Morgan around to the back of the church. “Have you personally seen a tornado?” I asked. “Because my grandma did. Almost anyway.”
“And they left the baby upstairs,” Morgan said. “I hear that story every family reunion.”
Hey. I wasn’t used to someone else having my personal family stories. I was staring up at a stained glass angel with spread wings, and I almost tripped over a curved flat stone.
Apparently the something interesting Morgan wanted to show me was a graveyard.
CHAPTER 17
The Children’s Graves
We were behind the church, and the stained glass angel was staring from high above. There were rows of gravestones with grass and dandelions in between. I also saw a few benches and pots of red geraniums.
“That’s where my grandma’s buried.” Morgan pointed. “Your grandma was supposed to be buried beside her.”
My grandma was buried in California. “People don’t just stay in the ground, you know,” I said. “They become angels and stuff like that. Are there hundreds of generations of our ancestors here?”
“Not hundreds,” Morgan said. “Our great-grandpas were born in Russia. Keep coming.” I followed gingerly through the gravestones, trying not to step on anyone’s bones. “Ta-da.” Morgan pointed to three small, old stones.
I bent over and read: “Charity.” Nobody would name a kid that, would they? It was probably an adult. An old woman who was all withered up and happy to die.
I touched the name on the second stone. “Faith,” it said. And the name on the third one was “Hope.” I knelt on the prickly grass.
All three stones had the same dates: 1878–1888.
This was not savory. Not savory at all.
Morgan plopped on a bench that had “And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever” carved on the back. “It was the children’s blizzard,” she said.
I rubbed Faith’s name softly. The stone was rough, and my stomach felt like it was curling around the edges like spiders do when they die. Where were the sirens? Didn’t Oakwood at least have a bell in 1888?
“The prairies were unusually warm that day,” Morgan said in a storyteller way. “Men went off to farms and children went to school with light coats or no coats at all.”
The questions didn’t make sense, but my brain kept asking them anyway. Where were the fire trucks and ambulances? Where was 911? “This is a gruesome story,” I said, “isn’t it?”
“It’s okay if you can’t handle it,” Morgan said.
“Okay,” I said. “Go on.” I joined her on the bench and leaned my head against the word forever.
“Here’s what happened,” Morgan said. “A gray cloud loomed in the sky. Faith, Hope, and Charity were in a one-room school.”
“Have mercy,” I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “Didn’t they have a safety plan?”
Morgan said the three girls left the school holding on to a rope so they wouldn’t lose one another. “But within minutes a wall of ice crystals and hurricane winds slammed into everything. The winds threw snow high into the air, blinding and suffocating man and beast.”
I focused on one feather in the stained glass angel’s left wing. Violin music floated around from the front of the church. Great-aunt Lydia must be playing for Dad. My eyelids wouldn’t stop blinking. What about angels? Where were the angels?
“All over the prairies, people were scrambling for shelter,” Morgan said. “No one had a chance to get a rescue party together or anything like that.”
Did kids’ brains at least go numb if they got that cold?
Did Faith, Hope, and Charity wish, wish, wish they’d done something different? “I guess they died, huh?” That was obvious. The gravestones.
“Our great-grandpa was in that blizzard, too.” Morgan gave me a nod to say, another story we have to share. “He said the snow came as if it had slid out of a sack.”
Shiverydee. The angel in the window was holding something that might be a shepherd’s staff, but maybe it was something to whack the evil and the insincere with.
Morgan leaned close. I felt her breath puff on my sweaty neck. �
�He said it was as dark as a root cellar. You could hold up your hand, but you couldn’t see it.”
“I guess he survived,” I said, “or we wouldn’t be here.”
“He almost lost his feet. They were frozen solid, but his friend said, ‘Put them under my coat and right here against my heart.’”
Morgan was a great storyteller. I sat on the bench listening to her go on, with my legs swinging back and forth, looking up at the angel and feeling massively glad that by the time of the next Kansas blizzard we’d be far, far away.
CHAPTER 18
Preparation Is Better than Hope
When Cousin Caroline called to Morgan that it was time to finish planting the beans, we went back to the front of the church. I told Dad about the safety supplies, and he found a flashlight in his office desk. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”
As we crossed the parking lot, I said, “By the way, nobody in Grandma’s family is old and weak. Did you know Great-aunt Lydia is eighty-one?”
He nodded. “Aunt Lydia said their eighty-year-old brother—your great-uncle—went skydiving last month.” His phone rang.
“Doesn’t the church have a secretary?” I asked.
“Nope.” He tapped my head. “But that call can wait until after lunch.”
We were at the field now. I wondered if seeing an angel here was a onetime thing. “Do you think angels still bring messages to people?” I asked.
“Angels.” Dad rubbed his chin. “They’re pretty complicated.”
At lunch I launched right into telling Morgan’s story. By the time I got to “Great-grandpa and his friend tried to find their house,” Mom was looking pale. Morgan’s words were bright in my brain. “Ice hung from their whiskers and almost suffocated their faces, but they staggered on. They shouted, but no echoing voice returned.”
Mom frowned. “I’m not sure this is appropriate for Isabella.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Dad wouldn’t have been born if it had a sad ending.”
“That’s a relief,” Dad said.
I ignored him. “They thought they’d have to kneel down and die, but finally they saw a hog shed. More dead than alive, they crowded in among the hogs.”
Mom was still frowning.
“Happy ending now,” I said quickly. “Great-grandpa’s feet got saved by his friend. And the friend put his feet under a hog.”
Dad tweaked Isabella’s nose. “Never give up hope.”
Preparation was better than hope. Pompeii, for example. Some people sat around, hoping ash wouldn’t bury them, when they should have been rowing into the ocean as fast as they could go.
I imagined the one-room schoolhouse teacher opening the door to swirling snow. Telling Faith, Hope, and Charity, “Stay together and don’t lose one another.” I wouldn’t say that part in front of Isabella. Too massively sad. Instead, I said, “Good thing we’ll be out of Kansas soon, huh?”
All the rest of that day people rang the doorbell and brought more casseroles and potatoes. Every time I made sure Midnight H. Cat didn’t slip out. When someone brought us some cans of corn, I took them to the basement. “Are we poor now?” I asked Mom when I got back up. “Do you even know things to make with all these potatoes?”
Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “And yes. Or at least I can try.”
“I’ll bet you miss your Friday yoga class,” I said. “Do you think you’ll forget how to do your yoga poses if we don’t get back to Colorado right away?”
“Yes,” Mom said. “And no, I won’t forget.”
That night, before I took the sleeping bag to the hall, thunder boomed and smashed. I read Kansas Safety Tips by the night-light and then opened my Safety Notebook.
Tornado? Check.
Fire? I had baking soda so far.
Locusts? Extinct.
Wolves and feral hogs wouldn’t come into town, I was pretty sure. But I should help Isabella practice wildlife safety just in case.
CHAPTER 19
The Power of Jell-O
The third day in Oakwood was Saturday, and I woke up in my sleeping bag in the hall for the first time. Victory! Small . . . but a victory.
Now to find out more about a kid who would throw a water balloon at me. Before I got downstairs, Dad gave me a squeeze. “Off to the lumberyard and grocery store. Gotta get some beans for bean soup.”
Dad and his bean soup. He loved to cook it no matter what else we had in the house. “It’s not my favorite,” I reminded him.
He grinned. “Luckily, starvation doesn’t set in for days.”
I ran after him onto the porch. “Get a fire extinguisher, okay? And check to see if they have any screaming monkeys.”
He waved. I climbed my tree onto the branch and sat on it, smelling the steamy air. A man walked by pushing a lawn mower—just like a weekend back in Colorado. Then I heard a squeaking sound.
Uh-oh. I got ready to duck.
But it was just a teenage girl holding the hand of a little girl trying to balance on in-line skates. “Hey,” I called.
“What are you doing?” the little girl called back.
They came closer. “Are you the people who moved into the church house this week?” the teenager asked.
Well, I was one of the people. They looked like their family might have come from Mexico, not Russia. “You aren’t my cousins, are you?” I asked.
The teenager shook her head. “I’m Mae. My sister is Slurpee.”
“Slurpee?”
“That’s my nickname. Watch.” The little girl tipped up on her skates. Good thing she wasn’t related to me or she could have been Slurpee Stucky.
“I’m Anna.” I swung down. “Do you by any chance know where my cousin Simon lives?” I had lots more questions, but first things first.
“We know Simon.” Slurpee looked at her sister. Mae nodded. “Want to see his house?”
I tore inside to tell Mom. She let me take a hard-boiled egg and juice box, and she walked me to the door to meet Mae. “I’ll be right back,” I called to Isabella.
Mae led us over a small bridge. “That’s North Emma Creek,” she said.
“Hi, North Emma Creek,” Slurpee said. She waved at the water.
It was like we were wading into Oakwood. My brain wanted it to be like my Colorado neighborhood, with a coffee shop and college dorms and a giant, crooked sculpture chair outside an art museum. When Jericho and I came to the crosswalks, Jericho would always shout, “Mountains! Right there! See?”
But Oakwood was flat and square, with some fluffy white trees like fancy, show-off princesses standing in the middle of someone’s plain old kitchen. A woman kneeling by a garden called, “Stay cool!” No kids (except for Slurpee). They must be inside their houses, doing whatever Kansas kids thought was fun or funny.
“School’s down that block.” Mae pointed to the left. “See the roof?” Then the sidewalk sloped a bit, and Slurpee started rolling faster, and Mae and I had to trot. “Here.” Mae pointed. “That’s where Simon and his grandma live.”
The house had a fence around it and curved windows and stone lion heads with tongues dangling down. Beautiful. But strange.
I leaned my forehead on the fence. A grandma? What about his parents? Is that why Simon was mean? My hair felt frizzy, and so did my thoughts. “They have a lot of pink trees in their yard,” I said.
“Redbuds,” Mae said confidently. “Some people eat the flowers.”
If Simon and his grandma had munched any redbud flowers, the trees had grown more flowers seriously fast.
“I need—” Slurpee pulled her sister down and whispered in her ear.
“Oops,” Mae said. “Gotta run. Can you find your way back?”
“Sure.”
They rushed off with Slurpee waving one arm in circles to keep her balance. I studied the house, ready to duck if someone came out, wondering what the deal was with Simon.
Finally I ran home and rang our doorbell for fun. When Mom opened the door, I saw a whiskery
face by her feet. “Don’t let the cat out!” I shouted.
“Anna, you can’t keep her a prisoner inside forever.” Mom scooped Midnight H. Cat up. Isabella crawled out between Mom’s legs.
“We aren’t going to be here forever.” My fingernails dug into my palms.
“But you want her to be happy no matter how long or short we’re here.”
I could feel worry wrinkling up my face. “At least let me get her favorite toy. And will you help make sure she doesn’t run away?”
After I got the green jingly mouse, I guided Mom down the porch steps and showed her how to put Midnight H. Cat on the tree branch beside her green mouse. If my cat leaped down and dashed off, would I have the strength of a hundred people like in stories?
Mom stepped back. I held out my arms, tense as a rubber band. “Get ready to help me catch her if she heads to the backyard,” I told Mom and Isabella. “If she gets under that shed in the back, she could get trapped or something.”
Midnight sharpened her claws in the bark, perfectly calm. “See?” Mom gave a little whistle. “Want me to help you up, too?”
“I can do it.” I pulled myself up and hung on the branch all limp with relief in the humid air. “What are you taking to the potluck?” I asked Mom.
“The salad with jicama and bell peppers and lime juice and cilantro.” Mom looked proud. “I brought the ingredients all the way in the cooler.”
If Mom didn’t usually skip the potlucks at our Colorado church, she would know the three best ingredients.
Jell-O.
Pineapple chunks.
Marshmallows.
But I wasn’t about to reveal the secret power of Jell-O. The faster this experiment was over, the better.
CHAPTER 20
Forget, Forgive, and Forget