by Jenny Goebel
WHEN THURSDAY MORNING FINALLY SLID INTO PLACE AS IT always does, following Wednesday and before Friday, it wasn’t necessary to fake being sick. Not like I’d planned. I hadn’t slept well since who knows when, due to my nightmares and all the worrying I’d done waiting for this day to come. And it showed. I was a right fright when I slunk down to the kitchen with a long face and big, heavy bags under my eyes. I hardly touched my breakfast, and Mimi sent me straight back to bed, which was a good thing, since my stomach was churning like a cement mixer again.
I spent most of the day staring at Isabella’s portrait — looking at her frozen gray face — and feeling guilty about Michael. I slid my finger over the smooth rock like it was a good-luck charm … or a maybe a worry stone. But it did nothing to soothe my fraying nerves. Nor did thinking about Mama and Thomas or about what an awful day this was to be attempting my plan.
Mimi knocked on my door around lunchtime. I dropped Isabella’s portrait on the carpet beside my bed and slid beneath the covers as she carried in a tray with apple slices and a peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave you alone tonight.” Mimi set the tray on the nightstand beside me. “I know how much Mrs. Evans liked you. She would’ve wanted you there …” Mimi said, her thoughts trailing off at the end.
That didn’t sit well on the pile of bad feelings in my stomach. There definitely wasn’t any room left for food. I pushed the tray aside. “Mimi, will you make me some soup for dinner tonight?” I said. “I’m starting to feel better, and I think I might be hungry by then.”
“Of course, Bernie.”
“And don’t worry about Mama and Mr. Stein. I’m sure I’ll be up to bringing them soup later, as well,” I added.
Mimi bit her bottom lip, “Oh dear, your mother … I don’t like leaving her, either.”
“She’ll understand,” I said. “Just go and say a few extra Hail Marys for the both of us.”
Mimi patted the sheet covering my legs. “You know I will, Bernie. I always do.”
The thought of Mimi praying for me brought a bit of comfort and I started to sit up in bed. Mimi stopped me with her hand. “Get some more rest. I’ll check on you before I leave.”
“Thanks, Mimi. I’ll try.” I most definitely could’ve used some rest and peace, and some sort of supernatural ability to just bypass this awful day altogether now that it was here. But that wasn’t possible, and my wanting heart was begging to get it over with. Sometimes, when you know a hard thing’s coming, the waiting is even more difficult than being able to dig yourself right in.
I paced and fretted the afternoon away until I finally heard Mimi’s footsteps outside my door again. Then I hopped under the covers once more before Mimi poked her head in to blow me a kiss. Feeling extra sappy, I blew one right back at her. Something I hadn’t done for ages.
As soon as I heard the front door shut behind her and Dad, I packed Isabella’s portrait into my backpack and slipped quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen. I left the lights off the entire way. The last thing I needed was to draw Mr. Stein’s attention.
Not seeing any movement in the backyard, I scooped a bowl of beef-and-barley soup out of the pot on the stove and then turned up the heat on the burner. I was still too nervous to eat, but I wanted to bring some up to Mama before … well, before I did anything else.
Mama’s room was still and silent when I pushed open the door. The shades were drawn back, but with the sun already starting to set, the room was fuzzy with evening light.
“Mama?” I called out softly.
“I’m awake.” Mama’s voice cracked from somewhere under the covers.
“Mama, can I see you?”
My mother slid up to a sitting position from under the lightweight summer comforter. Her white-blond hair was matted against her head, and her eyes were puffy and rimmed in red — the only color visible, what with her face as white as her ivory nightgown.
“Today’s the day …” I said.
“Yes.” My mother’s voice cracked again, but I knew she hadn’t caught the double meaning of my words. I wouldn’t have expected her to, of course. She had no way of knowing.
I probably should have said more — how I was sad, and how I missed Thomas, too. But instead, I set the bowl of soup down on her nightstand and touched the palm of my empty hand to her cheek. “Mmmm … Your hand’s so warm, Bernie,” she said. Mama smiled at me, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“I love you, Mama,” I said.
“I love you, too.” She shivered and turned to look at the open window. The temperature was beginning to drop outside. The room was still stuffy, but the draft was cold. I walked over to close the window for her, pausing a minute to look down on the carriage house below. Little rays of light were trying to escape through the cracks of Mr. Stein’s door.
“I think I’ll try to sleep now,” Mama said.
I returned to her side thinking she’d lie back down, but Mama remained sitting with her head tilted down and her shoulders curled inward. Her knobby knees created peaks beneath the bedding, and they seemed to be stretching out to connect with the porcelain-like skin of her forehead.
Looking at her that way split my heart with want. Part of me wanted to fold her body further, cradle her within my arms. Stay with her and bear some of her misery. At the very least I probably should’ve touched my hand to her cheek again before I left. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hold her pain along with the weight of what I was about to do, and a larger part of my heart was already out the door.
As I quietly left her room, I questioned my plan one final time: What could be? Could I make this different? Could I un-break my mama’s heart if the tools were mine? Even if I could, even if she got better, would I ever be able to stop causing her pain? I would always remind her of Thomas. I would always be me, unsaintly Bernie, no matter what kind of future I attempted to chisel out for my family.
I walked down the landing. With the door now shut between me and Mama, I felt how utterly alone I was. Every noise I could hear was made by me, and it was the rapid sound of my heart beating that was loudest in my ears. It pounded and throbbed with fear. What if I just turned around? What if, like Mama, I went to my room and hid beneath the covers until this night was over? I almost did, but then my thoughts turned to Michael, and I kept walking.
Just as I made it to the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rang. My fear was momentarily replaced with surprise, and without Mimi around to hear it, I cursed freely and then threw open the door.
It was as though I’d magically conjured Michael here by thinking about him, and that was the last thing I wanted, or was it? I gritted my teeth. Michael stared back at me the same way he had the day he’d brushed his fingers across mine — tight-lipped and grimly serious. “Sorry. I know you don’t want me here, but when you didn’t show up at the church with your dad and Mimi, I got worried.” His floppy hair was a mess, and his sneakers were untied. There was a small waver in the way he breathed in air and then let it back out. He was a nervous wreck.
Part of me knew it would be best to find another stinging thing to say, something that would make him want to leave, but I wasn’t myself. I was weaker and more afraid than I’d ever been, and just the sight of him was reassuring. “Get in here,” I said before I realized what I was doing.
Michael followed me to the kitchen. I started up with the pacing again, but it felt different with him waiting silently in the corner. It felt better. Less lonely. I was so grateful to him for showing up. After all the awful things I’d said, he still cared enough about me to come back. But now that he was here, how could I possibly keep him safe? I groaned inwardly as another wave of fear and dread washed over me.
I glanced at Michael. In the dim light, I could only just make out his outline across the kitchen. Yet everything about the way he was standing — all jittery and alert to my every move — made it clear that he was more concerned about me than he was about himself, and tha
t wasn’t fair. He still didn’t know what was truly at stake. I stopped pacing and walked across the kitchen to be near him.
“What?” Michael asked when I didn’t say anything. He must’ve sensed that I had something to tell him, but that I was having trouble spitting it out.
“Mr. Stein … He sort of, well, he might have his sights on you. He was etching your portrait … before I destroyed it.”
With the lights off I couldn’t see his face all that well, even standing as close as we were, but I could imagine it turning the exact shade of green as the sea-foam colored walls in my bedroom. I heard him suck in a deep breath of air. “Oh,” he said. I could tell he was searching for a way to turn this bit of information into a joke, but he couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I deeply meant it. “I thought maybe if you weren’t around, Mr. Stein would just forget about you.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling and shook his head disbelievingly.
“What?” I said. “It’s working, ain’t it? You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Michael smirked. “I am, and you’re not getting rid of me this time.” He reached forward and draped his arms over my shoulders. I let him pull me toward him. It felt weirdly good, tucked close to his chest — my head fit neatly beneath his much larger one. Michael held me for a while, and my stomach, which felt like it’d been roiling for weeks, slowed to a quiet shuffle. I hadn’t wanted Michael to be here, but I hadn’t wanted him to be my friend in the first place, either. I’d been wrong on both counts.
“Now that that’s settled, can we just hurry up and find a way to stop Mr. Stein?”
Michael came with me as I slipped through the den and out into the garage. I dropped my backpack (with Isabella’s portrait inside) behind a stone waiting for its turn to be sandblasted. It kicked up a cloud of dust, and Michael and I nearly burst a lung trying to keep from choking on the swirling dust particles.
We rushed back to the kitchen with tears in our eyes. When we’d each taken a sip of water, and when I could speak again, I said, “Ready?”
Michael nodded and I filled another bowl of beef-and-barley soup. I placed it on a tray, not bothering to grab a spoon. Mr. Stein wouldn’t need one. Feeling a gush of energy now that my plan was finally, finally being put into action, I sprang to the back door with my only weapon, soup. It was steaming, and now, so was I.
Michael stayed close on my heels as I bounded out the back door and down the paver pathway with the tray in my hands. He was right beside me as I reached the carriage house.
“Stand there,” I whispered, and pointed beside the door.
Michael pasted himself against the wooden slats in a place where he wouldn’t be spotted right away when Mr. Stein opened up the carriage house door. I knocked sharply, waited a few minutes, and then knocked again.
“What is it?” Mr. Stein snarled as he swung open the door. A brief, sweet sigh of relief floated through my lungs. Not that I’d ever seen him without it, but Mr. Stein was wearing his overcoat.
I lunged forward, knowing Mr. Stein would wonder why I was hanging around so long if I didn’t move swiftly. Pretending to trip, I caused the beef-and-barley soup to splash out of the bowl. I aimed for Mr. Stein’s face. And just like that, Michael was on him before Mr. Stein could react. He’d jumped out from behind the door as I’d hurled the soup, and was already pulling on the lapels of Mr. Stein’s black overcoat.
“Ummph.” Mr. Stein struggled against Michael as he shook the soup broth from his eyes and bits of carrots and barley from his face. But Michael was a step ahead. He slipped the coat from Mr. Stein’s arms and took off, full sprint.
“Run, Michael!” I screamed. I stood back, watching, my tongue heavy as a rock in my mouth. How could I have put Michael in danger? It should’ve been me doing this part, not him. As Michael sprang for the garage, overcoat in his hands, Mr. Stein let out an angry hiss and used his hands to wipe the rest of the soup from his face. Then, without so much as a glance in my direction, he charged after Michael.
Michael was far enough ahead that the back door creaked and then swung shut between them. Mr. Stein fumbled with the handle and then finally yanked it open. Michael would have a sliver of time alone in the garage, but I wasn’t quite sure it would be enough.
I waited. I heard the garage door slide open and then the sound of footsteps running down the front pavement before I made my next move.
Quickly, but quiet as a whispered prayer, I took my turn creeping into the garage. I left the lights off again, knowing everything might be lost if they drew Mr. Stein’s attention back to the house.
I reached behind the mammoth headstone. My bag was where we’d left it earlier and my heart swelled with relief as I lifted it up and felt the added weight. The tools were in the bag. Michael had done it! God bless him. Michael had done it! I pulled the drawstrings tight, threw the bag over my shoulder, and slipped out the back door.
Michael’s next step was to head west — the opposite direction of the cemetery. Even though Michael was long and lanky, he was better at loping than sprinting. I worried his laid-back strides wouldn’t keep him a step ahead of Mr. Stein for long.
If he reached the Wood Mill, five blocks away, he was to drop the overcoat in plain sight — just discard it in the middle of the sidewalk — and then head into the open space reserve. Five blocks, just five blocks. PLEASE, I pleaded under my breath. PLEASE let Michael find a good place to hide there until this is over.
I couldn’t believe I’d just sent Mr. Stein chasing after Michael when I’d been desperately trying to keep them apart. But Michael had bought me more time than I ever could’ve hoped for on my own. Even if I’d somehow managed to shake Mr. Stein without Michael, I would’ve needed to double back. Now I could head straight for the cemetery, and the biggest danger Michael faced was from what I was lugging in my backpack, right?
I shuddered.
No. Mr. Stein’s heart was black and twisted. Tools or no tools, there was no telling what he’d do. In that moment, I doubted every ounce of my plan, but it was too late not to see it through.
Michael and Mr. Stein had disappeared around a bend in the road by the time my feet hit the sidewalk. My thoughts chased after them, but I turned left and bolted for the graveyard.
THE NIGHT WAS THE COLOR OF SLICK, SYRUPY OIL. IT DIDN’T help that almost all the houses had darkened windows. No television sets or reading lamps lighting up friendly faces inside. The houses were most likely empty on account of Mrs. Evans’s rosary service. As likeable as she was, believers and nonbelievers were sure to be turning up at the church in her honor. The church was where I wanted to be, but wasn’t. And wanting wasn’t getting me anywhere.
I pumped my feet up and down as fast as God made me able, trying to make up for all the other things I couldn’t control. Taking the same path I’d been on Sunday night, I once again ducked in and out of shadows. This time, not having to worry about Mr. Stein looking back, I used the wide southern entrance and darted between the stone columns and into the slumbering cemetery.
Right away, I began rustling through the bush just inside the entrance. I felt all kinds of heebie-jeebies as I sunk my fingers into the pit of thorns and leaves. Luckily, no bony skeleton hands played tug-of-war with me as I lifted out the metal box. Before we’d dumped it in the bush, I’d set the combination to 7-2-3. Seven for the month of July, and twenty-three for the day Mrs. Evans died.
The box was slim and felt like a frozen dead fish in my hands as I carried it through the cemetery. I watched my feet as I weaved back and forth through the headstones. Even the grass seemed grim tonight. The thick, dark-green blades gave way beneath my size six sneakers, leaving smooshed-down footprints in the otherwise perfect sod.
When I’d called the funeral home on Wednesday night, I’d been told Mrs. Evans’s grave was at plot J27. If I’d thought he could find it in the dark, I would’ve used myself for bait and had Michael do this part instead. However, I was much more familiar wi
th the cemetery. I pictured its location in my head — same row as our family plot, just twelve grave sites down.
While I was faking illness and truly feeling queasy at the same time, and while Mimi was tending to me back home, and while the sun was still shining bright, a hole was being burrowed out for Mrs. Evans’s final resting place. I knew the hole wouldn’t be six feet deep, as the saying goes. I knew ’cause I asked Dad about it once when we were delivering a headstone. (These are the types of things you wonder when you’re walking above the dead, hoping that even with all the grass and dirt and hard coffin lids between them and your toes, the bodies are as far down as possible.)
Anyway, Dad said every state has its own laws when it comes to burying their dead. Some states dig up only two or three feet of dirt, but most go down much farther. Ours just so happens to be one of the deeper-digging states. Everybody sleeping in the Stratwood Cemetery was a solid twelve feet under.
Mrs. Evans’s body would soon join them. Twelve feet. Deep enough I could drop down a Bible-sized metal box, swipe in a few kicks of dirt, and it would go unnoticed even when they lowered in her coffin.
Even though all the states have different laws when it comes to their cemeteries, there is one that is the same no matter where you live. Once a person is buried, they can’t be dug up. Not unless the court gives its say-so. “Don’t disturb the dead” and all that. So a grave was the perfect place to hide the iron hammer and chisel.
It occurred to me that dug-up bones were the start of all this, but that was hundreds of years ago. I highly doubted there were any blacksmiths robbing graves these days, especially in quiet, old Stratwood. In a way, it was a fitting end for the tools that were coated in the dust of that poor family’s bones. That is: They would finally be laid to rest. The metal box I planned on placing them in would act as a coffin of sorts.