by Delia Ray
“Your mother,” Delaney said gently. “She’s not buried there, is she?”
Delaney was good at this.
The woman pursed her lips. “Oh, no. Mother didn’t want to be buried here. She wanted to go back to her people in New York when she died. But Papa was always content to stay in the Midwest.” She swept her arm out at the graveyard. “He wanted his final resting place to be among his students and his colleagues, his neighbors and friends.”
“I read about your father online,” Delaney said quickly. “He was a famous professor at the university, wasn’t he? Like my friend Linc’s mother.” She turned and motioned for me to come closer. I bounded forward, glad for the chance to finally join in.
“Hello. I’m Linc,” I said, reaching out to shake the woman’s hand. I thought she might be the type to expect a young man to shake hands.
I must have been wrong. The woman stiffened. I let my hand fall to my side.
“Lincoln,” she breathed.
I nodded, trying to smile. “That’s right. But most people just call me Linc.”
She cocked her head to one side in astonishment. “Is that … is that you?” she whispered.
I faltered for a second, feeling disoriented. Why was she acting like she knew me? I’d never seen her before in my life. But before I could say anything else, she took a tottering step backward.
“Excuse me,” I said carefully. “Are you all right?” Her face was trembling. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. The next thing I knew, her old flowers were lying at my feet in the slick grass and she was rushing to her car with the tails of her raincoat flying.
“Ma’am?” Delaney called, trotting after her. “Ma’am?” she called louder.
But the woman wouldn’t stop. She was already clambering into her car, gunning the engine. Delaney flopped her arms at her sides as she stood on the curb watching the car drive away. Then she turned back to me with an accusing look. “What did you do?” she cried.
“Nothing!” I yelped. “I swear.”
BACK IN THE GAZEBO we were still trying to figure things out. “She acted like she knew you,” Delaney kept insisting.
“I know,” I said. “But really, I’ve never seen that lady before in my life.”
Delaney shook her head stubbornly. “Then how’d she know your name? She called you Lincoln.”
“She only called me Lincoln after I introduced myself as Linc,” I reminded her. “Maybe she had me mixed up with somebody else. Or … maybe she’s a little crazy. That’s what she looked like to me, anyway. Remember how Jeeter said he sees her talking to herself sometimes?”
Delaney’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, I guess it’s no use getting worked up about why she ran off.” She began gathering up the foil wrappers and chicken bones and leftovers from lunch and stuffing them in her backpack. “She’s gone now, and I lost my big chance for an interview.”
“We could skip school next Monday and try again,” I offered.
“Are you kidding? Mama would have a conniption.” Delaney hoisted her backpack to her shoulder. “Speaking of Mama, I better get going.”
Delaney was supposed to meet her mother in the parking lot at three. Even though I knew it would take longer, I decided we should use a side route through the cemetery instead of following the driveway, where we’d be more likely to run into Kilgore.
“What about your project?” Delaney asked as we threaded through the rows of tombstones. “How’s it coming?”
I groaned. “Don’t ask.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s kind of creepy. I started out trying to prove there’s no such thing as the Curse. And now I’m actually starting to believe in it myself.” Then I gave Delaney my Black Angel update, rattling off the growing list I was collecting of the Widow Feldevert’s misfortunes. I told Mr. Krasny’s story about his spooky sighting of the widow in Oakland years ago. But Delaney didn’t seem too impressed, even when I dropped the zingers about the rattlesnake bite and leg amputation.
“Some folks just run into a streak of bad luck,” she replied quietly. “That doesn’t mean they’re doomed for life.”
I nodded. I knew she was probably thinking about her baby brother, Will, and trying to believe that better times were ahead for her family. Suddenly it didn’t seem right to tell her about the evil prediction Mr. Krasny had uncovered in the Black Angel’s epitaph: “Suffering awaits you.”
Delaney slowed down beside me. “Hey,” she said, pointing to an old stone tomb that rose over the sprawl of graves in the distance. “Is that the one that Mellecker picked?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” My heart hiccuped against my ribs. I hadn’t ventured anywhere near the Ransom vault since stealing the key.
“Can we go see?” Delaney asked. She didn’t wait for my answer. She was already hurrying across the lawn. I caught up and watched while she walked around the tomb. Except for the layer of moss and mildew staining its walls, the building looked like a miniature version of one of those temples in Athens. There were fluted stone columns and carved urns on either side of the entrance. And the name RANSOM was etched in imposing letters over the heavy iron door.
“Now that’s what I call a proper burial,” Delaney said with her hands on her hips.
I nodded uneasily and let my eyes stray down to the worn knob and the large keyhole in the lock underneath. Delaney must have followed my gaze. “You know, Linc,” she confessed, “I didn’t think it was right when I first heard y’all talking about getting the key and breaking inside. It doesn’t seem respectful somehow. But I have to admit,” she added a little guiltily, “now that I’m here, I sure would love to see what it looks like in there.”
“I’ve got the key,” I said before I could stop myself.
Delaney’s mouth opened. “But—but the other day in the library, I heard you telling Mellecker—”
“I know.” I sighed. “But the truth is … I have it.”
“Where? Here?”
“No. It’s at home in my sock drawer. But you can’t tell anybody. I have to put it back the first chance I get.”
Then I spilled the beans on everything—how hard I had been trying to fit in at Plainview and how bad I felt for stealing the key right under Jeeter’s nose and how I wished I had never thought of the idea in the first place. At some point we had started walking again. Delaney let me babble, never interrupting once as we moved along a row of dripping cedar trees. But when I was done, she fired out her opinion just like a judge. “You have to tell Jeeter the truth,” she said firmly.
I stopped next to a headstone shaped like a giant tree stump, trying to comprehend. “You mean you think I should come right out with it?” I asked. My voice skipped an octave or two. “Admit to stealing the key?”
“Uh-huh.” Her face softened as she turned back to me. “Listen, Linc. There’s a good chance you’ll get caught if you try to sneak it back into that closet. And Jeeter’s your really good friend, isn’t he? Tell him what you just told me, and he’ll understand.”
I sagged against the tree stump for a second, gloomily examining the carved bark and knotholes. She was right, of course. I had to tell Jeeter what I’d done.
Delaney laughed at my dreary expression. “Come on.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. “You can think about that later. Right now you need to come meet Mama. She says if I don’t introduce you two soon, she’s gonna invite herself over to your house for dinner.”
“Uh-oh,” I grumbled as I fell into step beside her. “I hope she likes Rice Krispies.”
Delaney’s mother was waiting with the engine running. She rolled the car window down when she saw us coming. I did a quick check of the parking lot. The only other vehicle was Jeeter’s old truck, so at least I knew Kilgore was out of the way for now.
Mrs. Baldwin’s eyes were the same light green as Delaney’s, and she had an accent too, but with twice the twang. “I’ve heard of a lot of meeting places, y’all,” she said as we stood at her win
dow. “The movies. The mall. But never a cemetery. In the rain.”
Delaney looked embarrassed. “This isn’t a date, Mama,” she scolded. “I told you, we’re just working on our projects for school.”
“I know, honey. I’m only teasing,” Mrs. Baldwin said, reaching out to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “Get in the car now. You’re cold.
“And, Linc,” she added, giving the front of her coat a pat where it touched the steering wheel, “once this baby arrives, you’ll have to come to our house to eat my applesauce cake. Like I told Del, something’s not right about serving dessert in a graveyard.”
I smiled and promised to visit whenever she was ready. Mrs. Baldwin must have had her heater running on full blast, because her cheeks were flushed and a cloud of warmth was radiating around her. As she rolled up the window and I watched their car pull away, I could feel the spell break over my long afternoon with Delaney. I stood in the gray light of the parking lot, wishing I was riding off in that snug car too, heading far away from the graveyard and my lonely house on Claiborne Street.
When I came through the door of the cemetery office, Jeeter was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. Something about a backhoe part he’d ordered that had never arrived. He held up one finger, signaling me that he was almost done. I decided it would be best to break the ice first before dropping my bombshell about the key. So when Jeeter hung up the phone, I began by giving an account of my strange encounter with the sunflower lady. I described it all—how scared she had looked and how she had roared off in her station wagon. I didn’t notice Jeeter had barely said a word until I was done. “So what do you think?” I prompted him after a few seconds of quiet had passed. “Why’d she run off like that?”
He gave an uncomfortable little shrug, and I tried to make a joke to get him going. “Maybe she saw Captain Kilgore hiding in the bushes with his musket.” But Jeeter didn’t laugh. He stared back at me with his eyes as big as bottle caps. Then he blinked a few times and made a weird face.
“What is it, Jeeter? What’s wrong?”
Something moved behind me. The sound was barely a rustle. Soft and sneaky. I slowly turned and there was Kilgore, leaning against the doorway of the key closet, where he must have been hiding and listening all along.
KILGORE WAS HOLDING A SCREWDRIVER. For a long time he didn’t say anything. He just kept smirking at me and whapping the steel blade against his palm, over and over.
“Captain Kilgore, huh?” he said at last. His smirk crept into an ugly little smile. “So you and Gene over there must have been having yourselves a real good time making jokes about the old boss behind his back. That right?”
Gene? I had never heard anyone use that name before. When I had asked Jeeter about his real name once, he told me he had been Jeeter ever since his grandmother had come up with the nickname when he was a little boy and it had stuck. Kilgore must have known it would rub Jeeter the wrong way. But of course he needed to show he had complete control, even over his employee’s name.
Jeeter wasn’t reacting, though. He seemed to have turned to stone in his swivel chair.
“What’s wrong?” Kilgore said to me. “Aren’t you gonna answer? You were chatting up a storm a minute ago. And what about you, Gene?” he wheedled. “You’re awful quiet over there. What happened? You’re not gonna speak up for your little buddy Lincoln this time?”
Kilgore feigned astonishment. “And here I thought you fellas were supposed to be such good friends.” He sauntered past me, leaving behind a whiff of stale ashtray. “I mean, what was it you were saying the other day, Gene? Oh, now I remember. One of Oakland’s best neighbors. Isn’t that what you called him?”
Kilgore waited, staring down at the top of Jeeter’s head. “Huh?” he taunted. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“That’s what I said,” Jeeter finally replied in a hollow voice.
I closed my eyes for a dizzy second. Jeeter’s biding his time, I told myself, waiting for the right moment to fight back.
Kilgore tapped the blade of the screwdriver against the edge of Jeeter’s desk. “And as I recall it, you also called him a great kid. Well, let me tell you something, Gene. I’m starting to question your judgment. What kind of great kid skips school to harass an old woman just trying to pay her respects in peace?”
“I didn’t skip!” I cried out before I could stop myself. “We didn’t have school today, and I wasn’t trying to bother that lady. We were only—”
“What more convincing do you need, Gene?” Kilgore continued. “Sure, maybe he was harmless enough when he was little. But now he’s just plain weird.” Jeeter was still sitting there like a zombie.
A foul mixture of shame and outrage bubbled up inside me. Kilgore was calling me weird? I was sick of people calling me that. And what about him? He was the one who got his kicks pretending he was living back in the Civil War, patrolling the graveyard like it was Gettysburg.
I took a step toward Kilgore. “Everything was fine in Oakland till you showed up!” I lashed out. “Talk about harassing people! It was your idea to put up that sign in Babyland, wasn’t it? You’re the one who took all those toys and presents off the graves.”
Kilgore made a scoffing sound in his throat as he finally swung around to face me. “Oh, man,” he said, wagging his head back and forth. “You’re even weirder than I thought.” Then, all at once, he was pointing the blade of his screwdriver at me like an accusing finger. “That’s it. I want you off this property right now.”
“You can’t kick me out,” I said in a shaky voice. “My dad’s buried here.”
“So what?” Kilgore spat out the two syllables like wads of tobacco. “You think that gives you special privileges to break the rules? Nuh-uh. I warned you when you brought dogs in here, and then again over at the Angel. Now you got three strikes, you’re out.”
I sidestepped around Kilgore and leaned over Jeeter’s desk, slapping my palms against the wood. “Jeeter?” I pleaded. “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you say something?”
He slowly lifted his gaze to meet mine. The sadness in Jeeter’s eyes shook me. I had never seen him look this tired, or this helpless. But his words shocked me even more. “Kilgore’s right,” he said. “Get out of here, Linc. Just go home.”
PIPE DOWN, MCNUTT. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to hear it right now?
Yeah, Winslow? So what? The boy’s gotta toughen up. He needs to stop all that sniveling and take it like a man.
C’mon, Nutty. Have a heart. A weirdo! That’s what they called him. Then the guy he trusts most in the world tells him to get lost for good? You’d be crying too.
Bah! You can’t trust anybody these days. He should know. Heck, I don’t trust you guys, and I’ve been lying next to you for thirty-two years. Thank God I got the spot on the end.
Aww, go back to sleep, you big stiff! Shoot, there he goes.…
I slammed the back door on their bickering voices and ran straight upstairs to the bathroom to douse my face with water. Just for a second I forced myself to stare back at my angry reflection in the mirror, my scalded cheeks and glassy eyes. “Stop sniveling,” I hissed at myself. “Take it like a man.”
Looking in the mirror was bad enough. But I felt even worse when I went to my bedroom and stared up at those Seven Summits towering over me. The smallest mountain on my wall was the Vinson Massif, only a couple thousand feet higher than Mount Rainier, the most challenging peak that Dad had climbed. But the Vinson was in Antarctica! What had I been thinking? I’d never get there.
I reached out and yanked my poster of the Vinson down from the wall. Once I had yanked the first one, it was easier to see the other six summits come crashing down. Soon the posters were spread out like tornado wreckage all around me, scattered across the dusty floor of my room. Still breathing hard, I gathered them into a messy pile. Then I shoved the whole stack under my bed.
Half an hour later Lottie came upstairs to tell me I had a telephone call. “Jeeter’s on the pho
ne for you,” she said as she poked her head through my doorway. “Didn’t you hear me calling?” Her gaze flicked from one blank wall to another. “Wait a minute, what happened to your posters?” I could see her eyeing a corner of Mount Kilimanjaro, still sticking out from under my bed.
I looked back down at the French book open on my desk, pretending to be engrossed with studying verb conjugations. “I got tired of them, that’s all.” I pushed myself up from my desk. “Listen, I can’t talk to Jeeter right now.”
I couldn’t believe it. Did he actually think he could make up for how he had turned on me with a stupid little phone call?
Lottie took a step into my room. “What do you mean, you can’t talk? Why not?”
“I don’t have time,” I said brusquely. “I’ve got a big French test tomorrow, plus I’m late to pick Spunky up for his run.” Then, before she could ask more questions, I swept past her and thumped down the stairs.
But Lottie was still waiting for an explanation when I came home from running the dogs. “Is there something going on with you and Jeeter?” she asked as she stood in the kitchen with one hand on her hip.
I knelt down to unclip C.B.’s leash, avoiding her penetrating gaze. “No, why? What’d he say?”
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. He said it was between you two.”
“Oh, he must have found out some new stuff about the Black Angel for me,” I lied, just the way I had rehearsed as I jogged the dogs back to Claiborne Street. I hung C.B.’s leash on the hook by the door. “I’ll go talk to him tomorrow. He probably didn’t tell you because he knows how much I want to do this project without asking you for help.”
I turned around, pasting an empty smile on my face. Lottie didn’t look too convinced. That’s when I should have come out with it—the whole pathetic story of how I had been banished from Oakland for good. But I hurried back up to my room instead, to my four blank walls and the dim quiet, where I could keep brooding and stewing in peace. I showed up at school the next morning feeling like a pot ready to boil over. When Mellecker called hello, I gave him a curt wave and continued to walk past his locker. But something—all that brewing anger, I suppose—made me wheel around and march back.