by Meg Cabot
But for some reason, I noticed that today, the waves were larger than usual. Maybe they, like me, sensed the unease in the air.
“Hey,” Bryce said, raising his eyebrows. “She’s right. It would make more sense if it was a boat. Why is it a coffin?”
“You know what?” Seth lifted his backpack. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. All I know is that it’s always been a coffin.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Bryce said thoughtfully. “Because Boat Night doesn’t have the same ring to it as Coffin Night, you know?”
They all laughed.
I didn’t know then that I was about to find out why it was a coffin. And if any of them had known what Coffin Night was really about, they definitely wouldn’t have been laughing.
The infernal hurricane that never rests
Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine;
Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.
DANTE ALIGHIERI, Inferno, Canto V
As I lowered myself out of Seth’s black F-150 — a birthday gift from his father, he’d explained casually as he drove me home — I spied Uncle Chris in the driveway, one of our wooden lawn chairs in his arms.
“Who’s that?” Farah asked curiously, as she crawled into the front seat I’d just vacated.
“My mom’s brother,” I said.
Uncle Chris had stopped what he was doing and was just standing there staring at us, his mouth slightly ajar, the big wooden chair in his arms, bright blue and green striped cushions and all.
It’s true Seth’s truck was quite a sight. No one in my neighborhood back in Connecticut — let alone the Westport Academy for Girls — had driven one quite like it. Seth had jacked up the body so it sat a solid foot or so from the wheels, the rims of which gleamed bright silver. The windows had all been tinted the same color black as the paint job, so you couldn’t see who was sitting inside unless the doors were open. Seth had music on — a band that sounded mostly like yelling to me — and the volume was turned up so high, the whole truck seemed to be pulsating.
But I didn’t get the feeling that’s why Uncle Chris was staring.
“Is that Alex’s dad?” Farah asked.
“Yes,” I said. Of course she was curious. Who wouldn’t be curious about a guy who’d been in jail for nearly the same amount of time she’d been alive? “Thanks for the ride.”
“So you have my number,” Seth said. “Call me after you find out what your mom says.” I guess I must have looked at him a little blankly, since he added, “You know. About the thing,” throwing me a meaningful look.
“Oh, right,” I said, shaking myself. “The thing. Sure.”
I slammed the door. Intellectually, I knew they’d still be able to see me through the tinted windows.
But psychologically, since I couldn’t see them anymore, I felt like they couldn’t see me.
And somehow, that felt good.
“Hi, Uncle Chris,” I said, walking towards him with my heavy book bag. Behind me, I heard the truck’s enormous wheels crunching on some loose bits of gravel in the driveway. The pulse of the music was already getting softer. “What are you doing?”
Alex’s dad hadn’t moved. He was still watching the truck. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Just some people from school,” I said. “They gave me a ride home.”
“I thought Alex was going to drive you to and from school,” he said.
“Oh, he had some other things to do after school today,” I said. It wasn’t necessarily a lie. “So I got a ride with some other people. What are you doing with that chair?”
“Moving it into the garage,” he said. “They just announced on the Weather Channel that there’s a hurricane watch. We’re in the cone.”
“The what?” I hadn’t heard anything about a hurricane. Well, I guess I had, but I hadn’t paid any attention because they hadn’t said it was coming our way. The sun was going down, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
“The cone is what they call the possible track of the hurricane, since storms can be very unpredictable,” Uncle Chris said. The weather was the interest with which Uncle Chris had chosen to become engaged upon his release from prison. “We’ll probably get hit with nothing but feeder bands — those are the thunderstorms that surround the outer eye of a storm. But they really don’t know yet with this one. We’re in the three-day cone of uncertainty.”
I stared at him, shocked that I’d been so wrapped up in my own concerns, I hadn’t figured this out for myself, especially considering the waves I’d just seen on the beach, not to mention the violence of last night’s storm. Hurricane season lasted from July until November, and it was only September. We were smack in the middle of it.
But in my case, storm season didn’t appear to be just literally but figuratively here, too, as I’d realized when I was following Farah and Seth to his truck after we’d finished at Island Queen, and my cell phone had begun to chirp. The number Richard Smith had scrawled on the flyers he’d given me showed up on my screen.
“Hello?” I’d said, answering it with a thumping heart.
“Miss Oliviera?” The gravelly voice sounded familiar.
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” I’d said. “Thank you so much for returning my call.”
No response.
“Um…” Seth and Farah, before climbing into Seth’s truck, had decided to have a private moment. Only it wasn’t so private, really, since everyone at the Island Queen could see them. They were completely making out against the truck. If this was what I was going to have to look forward to for the next week or so if these people were at my house constantly, building a coffin in my garage, I wasn’t sure it was going to be worth it, even for Alex. I, like Uncle Chris, should have chosen the weather as my hobby.
“So, would now be a good time to schedule that appointment you mentioned in your note?” I’d asked.
“Now would be an excellent time,” the cemetery sexton had said. “When would you be available, Miss Oliviera?”
“Um,” I’d said. I’d glanced back at Seth and Farah. Still kissing. I looked away again. “Now. Now would be very good for me. Would now be convenient for you?”
“Now would not be convenient for me,” he’d said in his grumpy voice. “But at six o’clock, when my office closes, I should be available. I trust you know where my office is.”
“I do,” I’d said, ignoring what was obviously a dig at me, since he knew how much time I spent at the cemetery. “I’ll be there at six.”
“Don’t be tardy,” he said. “I will leave at six o’clock if you aren’t there.”
Then he’d hung up on me.
I’d stared down at my phone, my eyes narrowed. I might look like a honey-eyed schoolgirl on the outside, in my skirt with its regulation four-inch-above-the-knee hem.
But I’ll rip those tassels off your shoes, old man. Just try Googling me.
Okay, well, in my fantasies, that could happen.
“Can’t be too careful with these storms,” Uncle Chris was going on in my driveway. “Depending on what track they take, they can skirt us or hit us dead-on. Usually nothing to worry about, but we wouldn’t want this nice patio furniture to end up in your pool, as much money as your mom spent on it. Seth One.”
“Excuse me?” I needed to hustle if I was going to make it to my appointment with Mr. Smith on time. After Island Queen, Seth and Farah had taken me out to Reef Key to give me a tour of their fathers’ spec development. I’d had to pretend to find it thrilling, shaking both Mr. Rector’s and Mr. Endicott’s hands and acting like I cared about the extremely dull things they were saying, which just sounded to me like blah, blah, blah, luxury resort atmosphere! Blah, blah, blah. Freedom of a private island. Blah, blah, blah. Tennis courts! Blah, blah, blah. Private seawater swimming lagoons. Along with the eight little words I’ve gotten used to hearing wherever I go: Maybe your father would be interested in investing.
I’d been relieved to escape with my usual “Sure, why don’
t you give him a call? Here’s his card.” I always keep one handy now for emergencies. I think Dad likes getting calls from people I give his cards to. He enjoys yelling on the phone as much as he does on TV.
Now Uncle Chris had begun moving towards the open garage door. “Seth One. That’s what it said on your friend’s license plate.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes. His name is Seth. You know, you don’t have to do this, Uncle Chris. I think Mom pays for a service to come around and board up whenever there’s supposed to be a hurricane —”
“Too early to board up yet. But if you’re not using the furniture, it never hurts to move it inside. You probably want a truck like that,” Uncle Chris said. He stacked the chair on top of several others he’d already placed inside the garage. He didn’t appear to be listening to me. “Like Seth One. Don’t you?”
“Uh,” I said. “No, not really. For one thing, I can’t drive. And for another, that kind of thing isn’t really my style.” That was putting it mildly.
Uncle Chris seemed to look at me — really look at me — for the first time.
“You can’t drive?” His expression was perplexed. “Why can’t you drive?”
“Well,” I said, walking into the garage and setting my book bag down. Why had Alex’s dad chosen now, of all times, to suddenly get talkative? “Because I don’t really do well on tests, remember?”
I saw his face fill with something I’d never seen in it before: emotion.
“I’ll help you pass the test, Piercey,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, with a laugh. “That’s okay, Uncle Chris.” He followed as I went back around to the front of the house to unchain my bike. “I’m fine. See? I’ve got a ride.”
“I’ll quiz you,” he said. “How does that sound? You come over to Grandma’s — or if you want, I’ll come over here — and I’ll quiz you. I’ll take you out driving, too, over in the parking lot at Searstown, by the Wendy’s. That’s where I learned — it wasn’t Searstown then, of course, because we didn’t have a Sears. But that’s all right. I didn’t have a chance to teach Alex, but, well, I’ll make sure you pass the test, Piercey. You just leave it to me.”
“That is so sweet of you to offer, Uncle Chris,” I said, smiling up at him as I moved my bike away from the porch railing. I wasn’t going to have time to change out of my skirt, I realized, which meant I was going to have to ride with one hand holding it to keep it from flying up. But I didn’t want to be “tardy.” “It’s not like other people haven’t tried. But I’m pretty horrible at it.” I didn’t really want to get into the time I’d run into the back of a UPS truck while trying not to hit a squirrel, and how loud my dad had yelled about my destroying the BMW he’d given me. “It’s probably better, all things considered, that I don’t operate any motor vehicles.”
“Don’t do that,” Uncle Chris said. “Don’t ever do that.”
I widened my eyes at him. “Excuse me?” I said.
“Don’t put yourself down,” he said. “I know what happened to you. I heard about it, even though I was away. Your mom kept in touch with me and sent me pictures of you, too. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? Well, it’s true.”
I stared at him. He was right. I hadn’t heard this.
“And when I heard about what happened to you — how you weren’t doing too good — I told your mom not to worry.” He smiled at me, the same sweet smile he always gave me.” ‘That one’s going to be okay,’ I told your mom. ‘You can see it in her eyes.’ Now, Alex? Alex I’m not so sure about. Sad to say about your own son, but…” He shrugged. “I worry about him.”
I knew exactly what he meant. I worried about Alex, too.
“And it’s not just because you’re a girl, either, or Deb’s daughter.” He shook his head. “Deb was never anything like you.”
“I know,” I said. I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. “They still have all the trophies she won for the school. The trophies both of you won. They’re on display in A-Wing.”
He looked bewildered. “What’s A-Wing?”
“It’s — never mind.” I guess he and Alex really didn’t talk much. “They redid the high school since you…went away.”
“They redid a lot of things since I went away,” he said. “But that’s not what I meant. Deb’s just…everything’s easy for her. Like winning those trophies. Everyone knew Deb was going to make it off this rock someday. No one thought I would. Except the way I did.” He laughed shortly. “Guess it just goes to show, the trophies you win in high school don’t necessarily mean much. So…” He looked away, off towards the pinkening clouds of sunset. “Don’t ever let them tell you that you’re too stupid to do something. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy for you, the way it was for your mom. Maybe you’re going to have to work for it a little harder than other people, which I know isn’t fair. But that doesn’t mean you should just give up. Because if you do that, then where will you be?” He looked at me and shrugged.
“Um,” I said. “On a bike?”
“Yeah,” he said. “On a bike.”
Except I was pretty sure the correct answer was Living with the lady who owns Knuts for Knitting after having just served a sixteen-year prison term.
Now I was starting to get what Dad meant about Uncle Chris going on a reign of terror and revenge now that he’d gotten out of jail. It was the whole “still waters run deep” thing. There was a lot more going on inside Uncle Chris’s head than I’d thought.
“So your mom said for me to tell you she’s running late; she had to go back to the office for a meeting,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Actually, I have a meeting, too —”
“Okay,” Uncle Chris said. “Well, I’m going to put the furniture in the back away. Unless you need a ride to your meeting or something…”
“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks.” I steered my bike towards the front gate. Noticing his downcast expression, I added, “But maybe tomorrow you could take me for a driving lesson.”
I saw how his face brightened, and I knew I’d said exactly the right thing.
“Great,” he said. “It’s always so good to see you, Piercey.”
If I’d known then how that evening was going to turn out, I might not have just smiled and waved back at him, then opened the gate and ridden off. I might have canceled my meeting with the cemetery sexton and stayed glued by Uncle Chris’s side for the rest of the night. To make sure the evil didn’t get him. This was supposed to be my new hobby.
But I didn’t know then how much the cone of uncertainty had narrowed, or that it was pointing directly at Isla Huesos.
“My son,” the courteous Master said to me,
“All those who perish in the wrath of God
Here meet together out of every land.”
DANTE ALIGHIERI, Inferno, Canto III
The office of the cemetery sexton, as he’d reminded me, closed promptly at six. It was way past that when I tapped on the door.
“You’re late,” Richard Smith grumbled when he threw it open. “But I wouldn’t have expected anything less. Come in.”
He stepped aside, allowing me to enter his immaculately neat office. Because the sun had already started sinking past the tree-tops, he’d turned on a small brass desk lamp, the only thing that seemed in keeping with the historical aspect of the Isla Huesos Cemetery, which a brass plaque by the door outside explained had been established over 150 years earlier, in 1847.
Which I suppose might have surprised most people, considering the fact that the office was housed in a quaint, whitewashed cottage complete with a picket fence, tin roof, front porch, windows with turquoise shutters, and original pine floors.
But inside, it was exactly the way I remembered from ten years earlier, though Richard Smith hadn’t been cemetery sexton then: all metal file cabinets and shelves containing badly photocopied applications for internment and construction permits for the sealing and setting of tombs.
That’s what cemetery sextons do, though. Supervise the burying of dead people. They’re not exactly supposed to be into decorating.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Richard Smith said grumpily, closing — and locking — the door behind me. “Sit down.”
He indicated one of several faux-leather chairs that sat in front of a large wooden desk. They were a little different from the ones I remembered from my last visit, but not by much. I hadn’t gotten to sit in any of them then. Grandma had sent me out before I got a chance. They were comfortable. But I still found myself wanting to fidget.
John had told me not to come back to the cemetery. It’s not safe for you here had been his exact words. Not unless you really do want to end up dead. Forever this time.
Well, I was back in the cemetery. Or at least the office of the cemetery sexton. Was I going to end up dead because of this visit?
I really didn’t think that would be fair.
Mr. Smith must have sensed my agitation, since he lowered himself into a creaking office chair behind the desk and got down to business with surprising quickness. Removing my necklace from a top drawer, he laid it upon the dark green desk pad in front of him.
“Recognize this?” he asked, peering at me over the rims of his glasses.
I’d tried to figure out on the ride over how I was going to handle this.
And I’d decided that, as when dealing with the police about Mr. Mueller, denial was probably the safest way to go.
But it was difficult — with the way the dark green leather pad seemed to show off all the necklace’s best features, the gleaming gold chain, the stormy gray stone. Did it look paler in the middle than usual, or was this a trick of the light? — not to just grab it and go. What could he do if I did? He couldn’t chase me. He was old. Older than the jeweler had been, even. He’d probably have a heart attack on his own, without John’s help.
