by Jenny Goebel
Mama and Dad and I drove to the county fair, me squashed between the two of them on the bench seat of Dad’s truck. All the while, my parents kept stealing starry-eyed looks over the top of my head, thinking I didn’t see them.
We ate cotton candy at the fair until our fingers were sticky and gooey with globs of pink sugar. Channeling his high-school-baseball-playing days, Dad knocked down some glass bottles and won a stuffed giraffe for me and an elephant for Mama. Then Dad insisted that Mama and I have pencil portraits made. He wanted us to sit together and to be drawn by an artist that did true-to-life sketches. No cheesy cartoon stuff.
I was feeling a little green about the gills having eaten entirely way too much cotton candy, and it showed in the sketch. But my mama … You could almost see the joy radiating from her heart … and I could almost pretend it was me that put it there and not the spark of life growing in her stomach.
I knew if I took out my own sketch pad and rubbed a little lead on the rough paper, I’d feel even less shaken. It would soothe me. The rhythm of it. Long, smooth lines, followed by shorter, scratchier ones. I could lose myself in a drawing the way Dad did with his sandblasting, but I didn’t have the time for it. Even if I was creeped out by Mr. Stein and my bad dream, I couldn’t ignore the breakfast trays. I couldn’t ignore Mama.
I rolled the paper up and returned it to the drawer. By the time I made it downstairs, Mimi had the trays ready as well as an extra-long list of chores waiting for me. I started right in; best to be busy and keep my mind off things.
After I dropped off the trays (Mama’s to her room and Mr. Stein’s to the usual paver), I began sweeping. It wasn’t long before Mrs. Evans walked through the showroom door. I glanced up from what I was doing. She had the most joyfully plump and round face, framed by ribbons of long black hair. Normally seeing her would perk me up, no matter what kind of crummy day I was having. Yet this time I felt a sudden pang of guilt for not having been friendlier when I’d seen her outside Mr. Finley’s house. I should’ve at least said hello.
My grandmother never minded if I abandoned my duties when Mrs. Evans came by. She’d just serve up a kettle of honey-sweetened breakfast tea and slices of zucchini bread (or whatever she had on hand). There’d be small talk and gossip, mostly about Sacred Heart parishioners. Then Mrs. Evans would head upstairs to visit with Mama, and Mimi and I would return to our chores.
But since I was feeling slightly ashamed and was afraid she might ask me about our brief non-encounter, I just smiled as warmly as I could, and switched to filing paperwork as Mrs. Evans headed off to the kitchen. No sooner had I filed my first invoice than I heard my dad shout, “MOTHER GOOSE! THAT WAS FAST!”
“Mother Goose” was as close to a swear word as we got in the Morrison household. Mimi was dead set against taking the Lord’s name in vain (and anything else she deemed vulgar). So when Dad blurted out anything nursery-rhyme related, I knew something big was happening.
I popped my head up from the filing cabinet, and there was Mr. Stein holding out a new portrait for my father to see. This time, I was there and looking right at the portrait with them before Dad could add, “Old Mother Hubbard!”
Mrs. Finley never looked better.
Somehow Mr. Stein had carried her perkiness right out of the photograph and onto the stone. Each curl of her hair was etched in detail, and her cheeks pushed up beneath the bottom corners of her eyes, adding frames to her toothy smile. I’m not gonna lie, I was blown away by Mr. Stein’s artistic skills, but looking at the portrait, I felt a prickle of something just beneath my skin. And it wasn’t jealousy. Okay, maybe it was, a little. But this new portrait wasn’t doing anything to squelch my growing suspicions.
“Mr. Finley will be very pleased. How did you manage to get it done so quickly?” Dad asked.
I was wondering the exact same thing — that, and why I was suddenly feeling so cold, other than that I was suspicious and, yeah, a little jealous, too. I felt an aching chill enter my bones like the kind you get when you stay out sledding too long. Was it sadness and downheartedness, brought on by the sight of Mrs. Finley’s portrait, that made my blood run cold? Perhaps. But being around death and loss was nothing new to me … Whatever it was, no one else seemed to be feeling it.
Mr. Stein gave a frosty smile. “Let’s just say I was inspired,” he told my father.
“Well, I have to tell you, your timing couldn’t be better,” Dad said. “I just got this stone here for Mr. Thompson finished, and as soon as I get it placed, I can start setting Mrs. Finley’s portrait in a monument for their family.”
Dad looked as though Mr. Stein had truly taken some of the weight off his shoulders. He looked downright relieved. I forced myself to take a deep breath thinking that, for his sake, I should try to reel back some of the unease I was feeling. It didn’t matter whether I liked Mr. Stein or not, as long as he was making things easier on Dad, right? Maybe it was better that Dad hadn’t heard me when I said there was something not right about this man.
At least it was better until I knew for sure … I shook off whatever dark cloud was hovering around me, and that’s when genius kicked in. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes I’m quite amazed by my own cunning. “Why doesn’t Mr. Stein go with you to place this stone?” I whacked my knuckles on the hard granite and tried to forget all about Mrs. Finley’s portrait. Still playing innocent, I added, “You’re always saying you have trouble managing the stones alone since Grandpa died.”
“You know, Bernie, you’re right. I could use some help,” Dad said. “What do you say, Abbot? Would you mind giving me a hand?” He seemed almost chipper about the whole thing.
Mr. Stein, however, glared at me as he spoke to my father out of the corner of his mouth. “That’s a fine idea. I’d be happy to assist you.”
As soon as he and Dad had the marker rigged up and I could hear the noisy engine on Dad’s old truck fading in the distance, I sprang into action. I was even more anxious to get inside the carriage house. Not only did I still want to get a good look at the mystery woman’s portrait, I also wanted to snoop around a little. I wanted to see if I could find a real reason to be concerned about our guest.
I jiggled the handle of the door to the carriage house first. It was locked, of course. Lucky for me, I knew how to pop open the window latch. I slipped around back, and then once I was standing on top of the granite tile box again, I shifted the weathered window frame from side to side until at last I heard a clink. I slid open the window just far enough to hoist myself through.
As I catapulted up and off the box, I noticed it seemed thinner than the last time I stood there. But I really didn’t give it much thought. I was too busy congratulating myself for getting inside. And I was more than a little bit nervous. What if Dad and Mr. Stein forgot something and decided to come back?
I landed on the carriage house floor with a thump and then noted right away that nothing really seemed out of place. At least Mr. Stein wasn’t a sloppy neighbor. The tulip comforter was pulled up neatly on the bed. There was a new toothbrush resting near the sink. And it even appeared as though Mr. Stein had done some dusting. The only eyesore in the entire room was his breakfast tray, stacked with empty dishes by the door, waiting to be put outside and then collected by yours truly.
I began scrutinizing every square inch of the carriage house. I started by lifting up the comforter to look under the bed. There was nothing there other than a broom with firm bristles and a dustpan coated with fine, sharp shards of stone. There were toiletries under the sink (he must’ve been out to the store, and it occurred to me that might’ve been where he was headed when I saw him leave after the clouds cleared) and remnants of breakfast in the wastebasket. All in all, everything was even tidier than before. Even the swamp smell was gone.
Still, I was saving the best for last. I went to the worktable and yanked it open.
Stone eyes stared back at me, but hardly the ones I’d been expecting. The eyes in this etching were smaller and half
hidden behind a bottle-thick pair of glasses. Well, what now? It wasn’t exactly evidence of any wrongdoing, but the etching wasn’t of the beautiful lady, either — not even close. This portrait was of an old man, and somewhere or somehow I knew I’d seen his face before.
SO WHAT IF MR. STEIN HAD A NEW STONE PORTRAIT IN HIS drawer? And did it really matter if the person’s face seemed familiar? That’s what Mr. Stein did — etch portraits of people. Just because the sight of it made my skin crawl, that didn’t mean anything. Maybe I was just jumpier than I thought.
And if Mr. Stein could complete those amazing portraits in less than a day, well, then, good for him. Good for us, too. Seemed like it should take longer, judging by the amount of detail and how long it took Dad to sandblast a marker, not to mention the unfinished pencil sketch I’d started days prior. But maybe it all just added up to the fact that he was really good at what he did. Dad sure seemed to think so.
By the time Dad and Mr. Stein returned from the cemetery, I’d nearly convinced myself that the man’s portrait was nothing to worry about. I was back in the den, safe and pretending I’d been there filing paperwork all along. Dad still looked chipper and Mr. Stein’s jaw was lax and unmoving. A sign, I thought, that he was feeling as content as he ever got.
No sooner had they walked in the door than Dad scribbled some wording on a piece of paper, handed it to me, and sent me off with a new ad for the church bulletin. All it took after that was a short jog down the block and around the corner, and I could see the metal cross that sat atop Sacred Heart Parish. Beyond it, the mountains looked fuzzy and gray; smog had moved in and blurred their normally sharp edges.
The church sits smack-dab in the heart of Stratwood. Stratwood isn’t a real small town. Just smallish. The difference being, in a small town, everybody knows everybody. In a smallish town, you don’t know everybody, but just about everyone you run into looks familiar. Which, most likely, they are — but you still don’t know them.
That’s the trouble I had with the new portrait. Hard as I tried to tell myself it wasn’t important, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Glancing again at Sacred Heart as it pointed its holy head toward heaven, it crossed my mind that my mystery man might be a parishioner there. It was likely, actually, since I’d spent more time staring around at faces on Sunday mornings than paying attention to the pastor’s sermons.
“Wait up, gravedigger!”
I groaned. Not again. Ignoring the voice, I pushed my shoulders back and continued walking. It was easy to pretend I hadn’t heard Michael Romano. I was still angry at him for nearly landing his pogo stick on my feet and Mr. Finley’s, and no way did I feel like telling him for the hundredth time, My family doesn’t actually dig the graves!
“Wait up, Bernie! Who’s the creepy guy staying at your house?”
That stopped me dead in my tracks, and I turned to face Michael. At least he wasn’t springing up and down this time. “How’d you know about Mr. Stein?” I asked.
“You’re kidding me? Ha! Is that really his name? Mr. Stein. Let me guess. First name, Frank, middle name, Nathaniel? Right? Frank N. Stein. Get it? Frankenstein? Holy cannoli, you really are running a freak show over there at Alpine Monuments.” Michael tipped his too-large head back and laughed.
I started walking again.
It didn’t surprise me that Michael knew about Mr. Stein. Michael’s an expert at getting into other people’s business. He’s what Mimi calls a “busybody,” and I thought the word fit him in more ways than one. Not only was he a complete blabbermouth, he also couldn’t seem to keep his body still (busy body, right?).
At that point, the steeple of Sacred Heart was piercing the sky just a block away. I hurried to put distance between me and Michael Romano. In some ways, I guess I felt sorry for him. He just wasn’t a good fit for Stratwood. People around here liked things to stay the same as they’d always been. Same stores run by the same families. Same laid-back clothing styles paired with the same sensible shoes. Same restaurants with the same menus they’d been eating off for years. Same old everything.
Me and my family were enough of a departure from that “sameness” just by being in the business of making headstones. Michael was a full-on rattling disruption. His parents had been looking for a quieter way of life when they moved to Stratwood, but I’m not sure they realized they’d just be bringing the noise right along with them.
“Bernie, c’mon. You know I didn’t mean it!” he yelled. The sidewalk was far from crowded, but the few people that were on it turned their heads to look.
I stopped. Not ’cause of Michael’s apologizing. I wasn’t embarrassed, either. It’s just that my curiosity had finally gotten the better of me. “Where’d you see him?” I asked as I stood waiting for Michael to catch up.
“I didn’t,” Michael said when he’d caught his breath. “My mom did. Mr. Stein was wandering around Prospect Park yesterday.” Prospect Park wasn’t really much of park, more of a lake with some park benches and a trail around it. “You know how Mom is about loiterers,” Michael added.
I nodded. Sheriff Romano kept Stratwood mostly free of all hitchhikers and other such riffraff. She must’ve gotten her fill of them patrolling the city before she moved here. I was certain the sight of Mr. Stein hanging around the park on a hot afternoon with his heavy overcoat didn’t cause her any small thrill.
“He claimed he was staying with your family,” Michael went on. “Mom let him go, but, knowing we’re friends and all, she asked me about him when she got off her shift last night.”
That was another annoying thing about Michael Romano. He thought everyone was his friend. “Well, you obviously don’t know nothin’ if you think we’re friends,” I shot back, still sore from his insults.
Michael kicked at a stick on the sidewalk and let his shaggy, dark hair fall down over his face. He almost looked like he felt bad for all the mean things he’d said and done to me. Almost.
Only a few weeks older than me, Michael stood a whole — in his case, large — head taller. Enough taller that I could see his dark eyes sparkle in the cave that was his hair. I could also see the smile he was trying to hide.
I glanced again at the church steeple. “Did your mom say anything else about Abbot Stein?” I said, emphasizing Mr. Stein’s true first name. I thought Michael’s mom must’ve spotted him soon after he slunk out of the carriage house. Probably right about the time I was guiding poor Mr. Finley back to his home on Benton Street. Hard to believe it had all just happened the day before.
“Nah. Nothing,” Michael said.
“Right. See you later then.”
“Wait, can I come with you?”
I didn’t answer, but seeing how Michael kept following, it wasn’t like I had much of a choice. He was still behind me as I pushed open the massive, hand-carved wooden doors of Sacred Heart. Sacred Heart, like a lot of churches, has a great deal of stonework and a whole bunch of statues. Things that, when I stand next to them, make me feel small and unimportant.
As we walked into the parish, our footsteps broke the silence of the sanctuary, and stained-glass saints frowned down on us from the windows above. We turned left, away from the worship space, and walked down the hall to the church office. The door was open, and I went right in. Michael trailed behind.
Mrs. Evans had her head down and was busily shuffling through papers on her desk.
“Wow,” Michael said, looking around. Patchwork quilts and prints of cows and sheep were hung on the walls behind Mrs. Evans’s desk, and tiny red hearts were plastered everywhere. “This place looks like a dairy farm.”
I had to admit, the folksy decorations were a little at odds with the rest of the church, but Michael didn’t have any business saying so. I threw my arm back, aiming for ribs, and landed my elbow in a tender spot on Michael’s forearm instead. Michael yelped and rubbed at his sore muscle.
Mrs. Evans’s head popped up. “Hi, Bernie! What a nice surprise to see you again so soon. And …” Her gaze shifted beh
ind me.
“Michael,” Michael said.
“Right. Michael. Sheriff Romano’s son.”
Mrs. Evans glanced back at me, and her smile radiated like the sun and warm apple pie all at once. I was relieved to see she wasn’t holding any of my recent, unfriendly behavior against me, and I decided right then and there that if I ever felt up to sketching an older, plumper version of the Virgin Mary, I’d use her as a model.
“What can I help you with?” Mrs. Evans asked as she inched a bowl of Jolly Rancher candies in our direction. If her smile wasn’t quite enough to brighten your day, she was always ready to sprinkle it with sugar.
I ignored the candy and held out the sheet of paper Dad had given me. We’d been running the same ad in Sacred Heart’s weekly bulletin since Grandpa wrote one up over forty years ago. Now, on Dad’s say-so, it was gonna change:
ALPINE MONUMENTS
GRANITE AND MARBLE CEMETERY MARKERS
FEATURING CUSTOM HAND-ETCHED PORTRAITS
Just as Mrs. Evans’s fingers were about to curl around the paper, the phone rang, and she reached for the receiver instead.
“Just a minute, please,” she said to Michael and me.
Michael nodded and snatched a watermelon-flavored candy from the bowl. Mrs. Evans winked at him.
I’d seen that wink before. A few weeks prior, she’d noticed the magazine I had tucked inside my Sunday missal. I thought for sure she’d rat me out to Mimi. Instead, she just grinned and winked at me before turning her attention back to the sermon.
“Hello. Sacred Heart Parish,” Mrs. Evans sang into the receiver. She listened to whomever was speaking on the other end, and then, right before my eyes, her sunny smile crumbled to the floor. “That’s terrible news,” she said.
I perked up my ears, trying to figure out what could possibly have made her face drop like that.