by Jane Kurtz
Everywhere sat teeny things. Lanterns that were really some kind of seed with a papery shell, all fluttery and transparent. A green bug carcass, shiny in the sun.
Simon must hope his angel mom or dad would visit him. Where were all the angels anyway?
Another house in a hollow log. It had a loft, up a tiny ladder, with mushroom drums. A weird secret world.
For a fizzy minute I stood with my hands on my hips. One kid lived here, and the kid had hidden the houses for a reason.
I finally had the power to smite Simon.
CHAPTER 46
The Power to Smite Simon
I put out my foot and poked the dome with my toe. Someone a few streets over was calling for a kid or a dog. Something rustled softly. “Kitty, kitty?” I called.
No answer. Maybe a snake.
I had Simon now. Next time he’d come back here . . . holding a feather or shell or something . . .
Maybe I should jump on the houses. It would take a few seconds to turn everything into mush.
Or with a good kick, that tiny forest of pinecones and tiny fake canoes would explode.
Or, better plan:
1. Run to my house and get a camera.
2. Show everyone at Sunday School.
3. Listen to them mock Simon.
Too bad I wouldn’t be around very long to see how he liked his own medicine. Morgan would stick up for him, but it wouldn’t be enough. Even when he was scooching around with a cane in his old age, Oakwood folks would say, “There. That’s the one.”
Wait. People were already saying that.
“There. That’s the kid whose dad got in that freaky accident.”
Maybe Simon threw rocks and eggs and water balloons at us because he couldn’t throw them at God directly.
I started back. Something stickery grabbed my hair, and I had to jerk my head to get loose. That spiderweb was a hanging glob now. The house looked at me with shiny blink-at-me windows.
I went around the corner. Don’t look up at the creepy lions. Now I couldn’t stand it that maybe someone was home. Simon . . . breathing fog rings on the glass. “What’s taking so long?” Morgan called.
Maybe she already knew about the angel houses. She’d tell Simon I was there. They’d dismantle everything and say I was having fake visions. It would be some pretty good revenge on me.
“Come on!” Morgan said. “I have an idea for your cat.”
I reached the gate. “You do?”
“You know how Bob-Silver tracks down small animals?” She pushed the gate open for me. “I wonder if anyone has ever tried to use a K-nine to find a cat.”
“Did you ask your mom?”
“I didn’t want her to say it was impossible.”
I considered. Bob-Silver? “Do you know anything about how to do it?”
“Do you have something with your cat’s scent?” she asked.
I pulled out the green jingling mouse.
“Mom once told me she wasn’t sure if his nose could tell the difference between small animals or if they all smell the same to him.”
Midnight H. Cat definitely had her own unique smell. But would Bob-Silver think so? “I’m sorry,” I blurted out.
“For what?”
I couldn’t get words out. The tree house? Sorry that my grandma left and broke your grandma’s heart? Sorry about hogging your mom? “Sorry about your dad,” I heard myself say. “I’m sure Great-aunt Dorcas is wrong about him.”
“Mom says he won’t ever come live with us.” Morgan kicked the sidewalk. “I want him to, though. When he gets out.”
“Maybe he will.” One thing I’d learned in Oakwood is that you prepare for something and it doesn’t happen and then you don’t prepare for something and it does.
“Sit,” Morgan said to Bob-Silver. “Do you want to work?”
CHAPTER 47
Psychic Bob-Silver
Bob-Silver wiggled like crazy, and his eyes said, Yes, yes, please. He and TJ sure thought work made the living sweet.
Morgan brought the toy mouse up under the dog’s nose. “Take scent.” His ears went forward. “Are you ready?”
He looked at her as if he were saying, Of course.
Dogs were that way. They thought they could do anything, just like fifth graders.
“Search,” Morgan said.
Bob-Silver started off immediately. “He could be following Midnight H. Cat’s particular scent,” I said.
“Maybe.” She was too calm—like her mom.
Mr. Garcia was hosing off a muddy string of Christmas lights that must have been in his basement. He lifted his hand to say hello.
I was feeling impressed—until Bob-Silver got his paws up on a tree trunk and I saw the squirrel. “Leave it,” Morgan said.
Immediately he found something worse. A random cat. Sitting on a porch.
“Go for it,” Morgan told him.
“Why?” I asked.
“If he identifies that cat, we’ll know he can’t tell the difference between cats.”
As Bob-Silver got close, the cat jumped up and hissed. Bob-Silver trotted right back. “Good,” Morgan said. “His body language tells us he knows this isn’t the cat he was searching for.” She glanced at me. “So . . . that’s good. You can look hopeful.”
I wanted to look hopeful. But even a K-9 couldn’t uncover a cat that a tornado had whirled off and spit out far away. And by now I could see he was definitely heading toward my house. I’d poked over every inch there.
I needed a psychic dog.
At the tree in our front yard, Bob-Silver halted. His nose twitched as he swung his head from side to side. “He smells something,” Morgan said.
“No good.” I made smoochy sounds to try to get the dog’s attention. Of course Midnight’s smell was going to be all over the house and yard. “We’re wasting time.”
Bob-Silver refused to be distracted. He led us right to the big pile of boards in our backyard. “That’s the old shed that collapsed.” I rubbed the dog’s ear. “She couldn’t be there. I’ve called and called. Why wouldn’t she meow?”
“Yeah.” Morgan shook her head.
“I looked all around that pile a hundred times.”
Bob-Silver whined. He scratched at a mossy log. “Leave it,” I said.
“Wait.” Morgan bent over. “Shouldn’t we at least try his idea?”
I picked up a board. Bugs scuttled everywhere. “Look at Bob-Silver’s body language.” Morgan got down on her knees. “I wish I could see under that pile.”
“I’ll get a flashlight,” I said. My heart went thump-thump. My brain said, Quit it! It can’t be.
A few minutes later I was back, flat on my belly, with the thin flashlight beam glinting on something shiny. Was it eyes?
“Get my dad!” I shouted.
CHAPTER 48
Always Two, Always Together
As Morgan ran off, I lay on my stomach, smelling the dark, wet dirt and trying to keep the flashlight steady in case it was Midnight H. Cat. In case she could see the light. Please, please, please. That’s all I could think.
I stretched my hand as far as I could and rested it on one of the boards. My thumb hurt. A splinter? An old blister?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Please. Please. Please.
Once in Colorado I’d flopped like this on the floor of my tent, making flashlight patterns on the wall, feeling my heart thud against the earth. Just like that time, every second seemed to be big and fat and slow.
Suddenly my dad came rushing around the corner with Mr. Garcia and Mr. Yoder and Mrs. Miller, and I scrambled to my knees.
“Scooch over, honey,” Dad said. “Better yet, run in and get a towel.”
I leaped up. Now the seconds whistled by. Back door locked. Race around the house. “What are you doing?” I called as I ran by Morgan. She pointed to Bob-Silver to say she didn’t want him to freak out my cat.
If it was my cat.
Jump the stairs two at a time. Fling my mu
ddy shirt in a corner. Grab a clean one. Grab a towel. Pull the shirt on while I squeaked back down the stairs.
When I got panting back to the yard, Mom was there, holding Isabella. I saw Mr. Garcia toss aside a board. “There,” he said. I pushed between Dad and Mr. Yoder and leaned in to see. Midnight H. Cat. Huddled. Shaking.
Mr. Garcia took the towel, bent over and wrapped it around my cat and lifted her out—almost like when Dad rescued her the first time.
“Midnight?” I whispered. I didn’t dare reach a finger toward her. In case she was hurt or in shock.
We all glanced at each other. No one seemed to be sure what to do next.
Then Mrs. Miller came rushing up followed by a woman who said, “I’m a vet. Can I help?” I looked into her kind eyes and let out a big whoosh of breath.
Was my cat hurt badly? Was she in pain?
Thud, thud, thud. I walked all draggy shoes behind Mr. Garcia, who carried Midnight H. Cat gently into the house and laid her on the table. “See you soon,” he said with a squeeze to my shoulder.
Everyone stepped back to give us room, and the house was suddenly so quiet I heard a fly buzzing.
The vet gave me a steady smile. “Keep her as calm as you can while I check her over.”
I stroked Midnight’s whiskers and ears and prayed, Help. Even without looking, I knew Dad and Mom and Isabella were standing just behind my shoulder, silently watching. “Mae and I called and called around that pile of boards,” I said.
“I’ve seen it with lots of cats.” The vet gently moved one back leg and then the other. “They crawl in someplace close to home and stay completely mum even when their owners are searching a few steps away.” Her hands moved up and down. “I don’t think she has any cuts or broken bones. Just needs a little time and a smidge of loving to be right as rain.”
She helped me tuck Midnight H. Cat carefully inside the cat carrier.
That evening a gaggle of people gathered at the church to put things back in the basement: the table, the cook stove, spoons and knives and shovels and rakes and garbage cans and cleaning supplies. I knew their names and faces now. People like Mrs. Miller, who didn’t hold Sunday School against me, and Mr. Garcia and Mae and Slurpee and Noah and Chad and Kylee and Mrs. Yoder and of course the great-aunts and Cousin Caroline and Morgan.
Sort of like a bunch of friends.
When only Stuckys and Nickels were left, Dad said, “I have a big pot of bean soup. Come help us eat it.”
Great-aunt Dorcas said, “I can tell you my sister and I need to get ourselves to home and clean up and stay put for twelve hours,” but Cousin Caroline and Morgan said they would drive Bob-Silver to the farm and come back. It didn’t take long before they walked into the house with rolls and lavender honey.
So there we were, sitting around the table, holding hands for the blessing. I couldn’t stop looking at Mom and Isabella, in their chairs as if they’d never left.
While we ate, Cousin Caroline and Morgan explained their ideas for the Lavender Festival and a booth at the farmers’ market. I definitely wanted it all to work, even though I wouldn’t be around to see. I wanted the goat to get big enough to give milk for cheese. I wanted Morgan to even get her horse someday.
Dad put down his spoon and gave us a significant look. “I appreciate everyone’s efforts while I was here.” He cleared his throat. “Whatever church I’m in, I don’t expect my family to be perfect so everyone will think I’m a great father and husband and nephew.” He paused and stared at his plate. “By the way, I don’t expect myself to be perfect either.”
“Uh-huh,” Isabella said. “You are.”
“Except for your bean soup,” I said.
“You know,” Dad said, “this bean soup is even better than when I made it.” He grinned at me.
I reached for the rolls. “Nice try.”
Dad treated us all to his rhinoceros laugh.
Later, while Mom and Dad went upstairs to put Isabella to bed, Cousin Caroline said, “Leave the dishes to Morgan and me and go love up your cat.” So I sat on the front steps with the porch light on and Midnight in her carrier beside me. I was thinking about the angel houses I wasn’t going to destroy.
Why not? I could hardly figure it out.
Maybe it was because Morgan had every reason to get back at me and she didn’t. Maybe it was because small towns are like spiderwebs, and I didn’t want to start new things jangling.
I touched one stiff whisker through the carrier door.
Maybe it was what Dad said about our inner jumbles. Maybe it was the teeny tiny baby step of forgiveness, even though I didn’t ask for any forgiveness to come along. Maybe old Isabella was right, and it was God in my stomach.
The door opened behind me. Morgan. She smelled like dog, but Midnight didn’t even stir, which meant she was really worn out.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Yep.”
“No, really. You saved my cat.” I glanced at Morgan. “I was the one who ruined your tree house. I’m very sorry. It was an accident,” I added quickly.
She nodded. “I should have invited you up anyway. It was—you know—awkward.”
I looked up at the first stars, and the weight floated off like flies.
Once Katherine, my grandmother, stood in the farmhouse with her suitcase. Morgan’s grandma stood there, too. Always two, always together. Once sisters had huddled in the cellar with a tornado on the way. Now only feelings were left.
Morgan and I had feelings ahead of us still.
Dad and Cousin Caroline came out, and the three of them walked down the steps. Morgan waved as she got into the car. Even if I were staying in Oakwood, maybe Morgan and I never would have gotten to be a team. She was a sixth grader now. And all the cousins and aunts and great-aunts and first cousins once removed—the whole town of Oakwood—it all wasn’t going to stop being a mess anytime soon.
So it was weird that I felt sad.
CHAPTER 49
Where Did All the Angels Go?
When the car drove away, Dad came back and sat beside me on the porch with buzzing sounds all around us. Cousin Caroline had said cicadas lived in the soil for years, sucking on tiny roots, until their special year came, and then a million of them could fill up an acre just like that. I knew they wouldn’t bite me because I didn’t intend to fake them out by pretending to be a tree.
I wondered if Dad’s arm was hurting and if he was still upset with me for anything, but all he said was, “How are you?”
All sympathetic.
“I miss Grandpa and Grandma and Colorado,” I said.
“I do, too.” He sounded completely sincere.
“Does God have power?” I burst out. “Or not? Why did God create tornadoes? Why doesn’t God stop people from being enemies and burning down churches?”
Dad wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “I guess God pretty much leaves some things to us to decide and figure out.”
“But an angel shut the mouth of the lions when Daniel was in their den. Now there are disasters everywhere! Not just Kansas either. Where did all the angels go?”
He shook his head. “I know what you mean. Big mystery.”
I slumped over. Mysteries were a misery.
“There are a lot of big certainties, too,” Dad said.
I touched a bit of Midnight H. Cat’s fur stuck to the porch.
“There’s love everywhere,” Dad said. “And the Bible says flat out that God is love. So maybe—even in the disasters—our job is to look for love. And be love.”
Jericho said God needed people’s hands. If God was in beautiful and good things, I’d seen God in Kansas a few times. Chickens and emus. The pond. And lavender, even with the bees. Also dogs. Probably it was going to turn out that dogs like TJ and Bob-Silver were the angels who were still around.
Dad squeezed me with his good arm. “The Building and Grounds Committee says there’s some wind damage. Old church like that.”
I waited. He didn’t say anything e
lse. I said, “You want to stay here and help fix it up, don’t you? Even if a bunch of people disagree with you and don’t listen to your sermons and feel like everything should go their way.”
“Do you think I should?”
I leaned against him. “Yes.”
“I might, then. Are you going to go to school?”
“Do you think I should?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I might, then.”
We went inside, and I climbed up the squeaky stairs with Midnight H. Cat and put her carefully onto the bed in the pink room. After I kissed Mom and Dad good-night, I crawled in between the covers of my bed for the first time and switched off the lamp and the light flew out of the air.
In the dark it wasn’t a pink room anymore. It was my room in my temporary house, and after a few minutes I could see big green eyes at the end of my bed, Midnight H. Cat watching to make sure I wasn’t going anywhere, making sure Anna was here.
About the Author
Jane Kurtz knows a lot about moving. She was born in Portland, Oregon, but when she was two years old her parents moved their family to Ethiopia to work for the Presbyterian Church there. Jane Kurtz is the author of novels, picture books, and chapter books. After living in North Dakota (where she survived a natural disaster), Colorado, Illinois, and Kansas, she moved back to Portland, Oregon, where she now lives with her husband, the Reverend Leonard L. Goering, H.R.
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Credits
Cover art © 2013 by Brandon Dorman
Cover design by Sylvie Le Floc’h
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the High Test Girls for hand holding, tough feedback, and hope. Thanks, also, to LeAnn Clark and Carol Settgast, Kansas educators with passion and determination; to the smart young researchers at Sheridan Elementary School in Junction City, Kansas; and to all the churches who’ve shared potluck feasts with me.