by Jess Rinker
“I know. None of us want to. But there’s only so much we can do.”
I move the pillow and look at him. “Can’t you and Mom get better jobs? Run a fishing business like Uncle Randy?”
He smiles. “You know it’s not that simple here. There aren’t a lot of options for jobs.”
“Then we’ll all get jobs. Frankie can lie about her age and be a lifeguard, I can work with Mrs. Taylor at the museum, and Jolene can…”
“Frankie’s not going to be a lifeguard until she’s fifteen. Jolene’s too little to have a job. And so are you. But I appreciate your ambition.” Dad smiles, but it doesn’t cheer me up at all.
“Grandpa would be so mad if he knew you were doing this.”
“He’d be disappointed, yes. But he knew this was a possibility. We talked about it before he died and it’s been the backup plan for several months. Your mother and I had hoped we might be able to squeak through, but we’ve sat down with Uncle Randy and we’ve all come to the conclusion that selling is the best way to go for the whole family. Mr. Throop will get his share and we will all move forward.”
“But it’s not fair that our cousins don’t have to move, too.” The words seem stuck in my throat. “And there’s not enough time.”
“Not enough time for what, sweetheart?” Dad asks.
But I don’t tell him about the map Grandpa left us. He’d never understand why it was so important to me.
“We’re all going to be okay, you’ll see,” he says. “It’ll be a big change, but if anyone can handle it, it’s you, Savvy, my little tiger shark.” He smooths my hair out of my face and pulls me to his chest for a huge Dad-hug. It does make me feel better, but what would really make me feel better is if I knew what Grandpa had been thinking when he was still alive. If he knew this was a possibility and still left us the map, then he knew we could solve it quickly.
I’ve got to work faster.
It’s the only way to keep the Queen Mary from going down.
13
The First Duel
By the weekend we still haven’t found anything that connects to the elbow riddle despite working on it every day after school. On Sunday, Mom asks us to help haul the boxes off to Mrs. Taylor at the historical society. She’s gotten everything packed that she thinks the museum might like. Everything in my body feels as tightly packed as Grandpa’s boxed-up books. I’m dreading it, but she says we all need to pitch in together. Frankie and I tie our boards together and load two boxes on them and Mom pulls a big wooden wagon. Jolene skips behind all of us, holding on to Py’s leash, getting out of doing the work, as usual.
On the way across town we pass families on bicycles heading to the beach, and families visiting shops near the harbor at Silver Lake, mostly visitors. Eventually, we take a turn down a little side street. A loud honk from a boat out in the bay echoes across the water—we can see it through the few trees. Uncle Randy and Peter wave from the deck. I’m the only one who doesn’t wave back.
Mom and Frankie say hello to everyone we know, which, other than the vacationers, is everyone. I don’t feel like talking, though. One of the high school teachers who works with Dad stops Mom and talks for a little while about Grandpa. Jolene holds on to Py’s leash and picks flowers on the side of the road while they talk. “My condolences to your family,” the woman says, and gives us all hugs.
“Thank you,” Mom says, and once the lady is gone, Jolene asks, “What’s ‘condolences’?”
“It means she’s sorry for our loss.”
“I have condolences, too,” Jolene says.
“I know you do, baby.” Mom bends down and picks three of the red-and-yellow daisies that grow all over our sandy yard and the sides of streets. “It’s nice to know people cared about Grandpa so much, isn’t it?” She puts one flower behind each of our ears like she used to when we were little, when she’d pull us in the wagon before Frankie learned how to skateboard. “I’ve always loved this pretty little flower. I bet our new home will have them too,” she says. She kisses each of us, picks up the handle of the wagon, and says nothing more until we reach the museum. She sounds like she’s already left Ocracoke.
Mrs. Taylor is so excited when we come in. “This is such a privilege,” she says. “You could have chosen any bigger museum to house all of these incredible historical documents.”
“Grandpa Cornelius loved to work here, Evelyn. His things belong to Ocracoke,” Mom says. I don’t like the way she says it. It sounds so final. We’re leaving his things behind and we’re leaving the village. We belong to Ocracoke too. Doesn’t she understand that?
Mrs. Taylor clasps her hands together. “It’s a history nerd’s dream come true. I will be exceptionally careful with everything.”
We unload the boxes onto the floor for Mrs. Taylor, and she gingerly opens one and begins to lift things inside to see what they are. She picks up an old book, gasping nearly every time she turns a page, and even smelling a lot of them. “There’s nothing like old, well-loved books,” she says. Mom smiles. Even Frankie smiles. Jolene twirls around with the dog. I want to hit someone.
“Well, the girls and I have to get going, but you know who to ask if you have any questions about anything,” Mom says. She holds Jolene’s shoulders and guides her and Py out. Frankie says goodbye and follows.
“Mom, I’m going to stay and help Mrs. Taylor sort through the boxes,” I say.
“Savvy, I’m sure she doesn’t need your help right this minute,” Mom says, motioning for me to follow.
“Oh, actually it would be quite nice to have Savannah help, if you can spare her,” Mrs. Taylor says. “She can help rearrange some of the books in the upstairs library to make room.” She smiles at me. She has more wrinkles around her eyes than Mom, but she has a really friendly smile. Even her wrinkles smile.
“All right, then. I think that would be very nice,” Mom says. “God knows the girl can hardly sit still. Maybe this will give her some focus.”
“Thanks, Mom, I think,” I say. Mom kisses my forehead.
“Be good,” she says.
When she and my sisters leave, Mrs. Taylor and I sit on the floor and start pulling things out of the boxes. I tell her what each and every book, paper, map, and notepad is, whether I actually know what they are or not. It all sounds smart coming out of my mouth. I am good at talking, after all. And I don’t think she minds.
“You were very close to your grandpa, weren’t you, Savannah?” Mrs. Taylor asks.
That kind of makes all of my words stop, so I nod.
“I can tell,” she says. “You know his work so well.”
“He wanted me and my sisters to keep it all,” I say, trying to not sound angry because Mrs. Taylor is so nice and it’s not her fault we’re getting rid of everything.
“Then why in the world did you bring it all here?” she asks, placing her hand on my arm.
“Because my parents say they can’t pay for the house by themselves so we have to move and can’t bring it all with us.”
“Oh darlin’, I had no idea.” Mrs. Taylor sits back and wraps her arms around her knees. She stares at me. My eyes sting. I make myself busy going through the next box and explain that this set of maps was from the 1800s and …
“You know, Savannah, sometimes folks are successful in keeping their home if they can get it listed as a historical property. That’s how this house became a museum. In fact, it was moved here to make sure it could be saved.”
“How do you get a house listed like that?” I ask.
“Homes that are really old, or on property that’s famous for some reason, can be protected by the government. Your home, after the lighthouse, is the oldest building in the village. Years ago I tried to convince your grandfather to get it registered but he didn’t want anyone’s hands near his work, especially not the government, which I understood, but now…”
“Everything inside it is even older than the house,” I say. “It’s like its own museum already.”
Mr
s. Taylor holds a finger up and presses her lips together. “Now that’s something to consider. It should all be preserved. It’s going to be a lot of research and I’ll have to talk to your parents about it.” She folds up one of the now-emptied boxes. “But enough about that. I’ll take care of everything. For now, let’s continue to catalog these things so that nothing is lost.”
“Okay.”
We manage to clear out all the boxes and bring everything up to the third-floor library. Mrs. Taylor and I make room on several shelves for Grandpa’s books and journals. She says eventually she will go through everything very carefully and document every last page, but for now everything is safe and sound in the library. And we can visit and go through it whenever we want since we’re family. I like that idea.
The little bell downstairs rings when someone walks in the door. Mrs. Taylor excuses herself while I fold up the remaining boxes. I can hear her say good morning to someone as I walk down to say goodbye.
“You would not believe the collection that just came in,” she says.
“Is that so?” The man’s deep voice is familiar. He’s not from town and I recognize it immediately.
“Yes, a local treasure hunter named Cornelius Dare. Once I get it organized, I’ll have an exhibit for the public.”
“Sounds most intriguing,” the man says, and I can already picture his green hat. Why is he pretending he doesn’t know Grandpa? Mrs. Taylor must not know he used to work with Grandpa. I come into the room to say goodbye and Mrs. Taylor hugs me as I stare at Throop. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. Of course it’s intriguing, I think. It’s Grandpa’s stuff and he better keep his hands off it.
I say that last part out loud. By accident.
Both of them look surprised.
“Savannah,” Mrs. Taylor says, nervously laughing. “I’m sure Mr. Throop would never do anything to harm historical artifacts.”
“Of course not,” Mr. Throop says. “Evelyn, you wouldn’t have happened to get a copy of that document I requested last week, did you?”
“Oh yes, we did! One moment, it’s on my desk upstairs. Let me go grab it.” She runs up the steps and leaves me with Mr. Throop in the hallway. I have nothing more to say to him, so I make an annoyed sound and turn to go, but he grabs my arm.
“Hey!” I yank it away, quickly.
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Calm down, lass, I only wanted to say, before you left, that things will go much smoother from here if you let me handle it.”
“Handle what?” I ask.
“Your grandfather’s … affairs.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask him, even though I have a sinking feeling he’s talking about Blackbeard’s treasure.
He bends down to my level and puts his garlic-smelling face way too close to mine. “Whatever is in that map he left you.”
I stare at his dark, gray eyes and use my best lying voice. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Before he can say anything else, Mrs. Taylor’s footsteps are in the hall.
“Oh, Dunmore,” she says. “Tell Savannah…”
But I’m out the door before she can finish.
14
The Elbow Tree
I run the entire way home. All the way back around Silver Lake, down the sidewalk, and up my front porch, and then I burst in the door.
“Mom! Dad! Dunmore Throop is trying to steal Grandpa’s treasure!”
Everyone is gathered around an enormous pile of Grandpa’s clothes on the couch. All their heads jerk toward me.
“Savvy. Please,” Dad says. “Lower your voice.”
I run up to him and try to catch my breath. “You don’t understand. He told me … he knows about the map … he told me in the museum that he was going to get to Blackbeard’s treasure first. Well, he didn’t say exactly that but it was close. I can tell what he meant because he’s a sinister villain, a scallywag, a real bilge rat, I know it, and…”
“Darling,” Mom says as she folds a pair of pants. “Breathe.”
“What’s a bilge rat?” Jolene asks.
Frankie stares at me like she can’t believe what I’ve just done. I can’t believe it either, but I’m so desperate I let it slip.
“I thought we already discussed this. There is no buried treasure,” Dad says. “What map are you talking about?” He drapes a button-down shirt of Grandpa’s on the chair near me and I can smell Grandpa in it—salty air and his minty aftershave. For a second it makes me forget what I was yelling about. But only for a second. I run upstairs, grab the tube with the map, and run back down.
“Sav!” Jolene whispers. “It’s supposed to be secret.”
“No secrets,” Mom says. “I forbid it.”
I unroll the map and show them. “Grandpa showed me this a while ago and then he left it in the crow’s nest for us. I’m sure of it. I found it up there a few days before he…” I don’t say it. They know what I mean. “I think he knew someone had to take care of it. Finish his quest.”
Mom examines the map, gently running a finger over the crinkly paper. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “One of his best, don’t you think, Jack?”
Dad nods. He smiles at my sisters and me. “Grandpa left you a gorgeous gift. But it’s not real, Savvy.”
“Yes, it is, Dad,” Frankie finally chimes in. She runs upstairs and grabs the envelope from Mrs. Taylor.
“What’s with all the running?” Mom sighs, but she pulls her hair up into a bun and puts on her reading glasses. Frankie shows them the code and the poem. Mom and Dad look at each other for a long time, like they’re trying to figure something out.
“See!” I yell. “Don’t you see? He wanted us to find the treasure because he got too old to keep looking. He couldn’t get to it and he knew we could. Now we can’t move or Throop will get it first!”
“Savannah, sit down,” Mom says.
“I don’t want to sit.”
Her eyebrow speaks. I pick up Grandpa’s shirt and sit in the chair. I wrap the soft, worn fabric around my hands to keep from fidgeting.
“We know you don’t want to move,” Mom says. “But you’re making this much harder on us than I think is fair. We don’t want to go either. The Queen Mary, the village, it’s been our home for so long. But sometimes you don’t have a choice and that’s where we’re at.”
I want to argue that that’s nice and all, but what does that have to do with the treasure?
Then Dad comes over to me and crouches down. “This is one of Grandpa’s games for you three, don’t you see? One last puzzle for you to solve even after he was gone, so that in a way he could stick around a little bit longer for you.” Tears form in the corners of Dad’s eyes. I start shaking my head but he holds my face in his hands and stops me. “Yes, Savvy, it’s a game. The man was a genius and his heart was full of love for you girls.”
Frankie’s crying now, very quietly, and I can hear her breathing slow as I stare at Dad, trying to change the words he’s said into something I actually want to believe. It doesn’t explain what Throop said to me. And in my head I chant to myself, It’s not true, It’s not true, It’s not true. But Dad is very convincing. What if he’s right?
“Why would Grandpa make us think it was real, then?” Frankie asks between sniffling. “He’d have said it was a game in the letter. He never lied to us.”
Frankie’s words give me hope. “Yes!” I say. “That’s true.”
Dad rubs the tears off his stubbly cheeks and stands up. With one arm around his middle and the other seeming to hold up his head, he sighs and turns to Mom. “What do you think, Anne?”
“I don’t know what to think. Just let them enjoy it, Jack.” She picks up another pair of Grandpa’s pants. “There’s no harm.”
They still don’t believe me. But I don’t say anything else. Nothing about the map as I roll it back up and slip it into the tube, and nothing about Throop, who I still think is after it. Frankie is totally right, whether Mom and Dad
want to believe it or not. Grandpa never lied.
“Girls, I’m going to get dinner started soon. Go wash your hands, please,” Mom says. Frankie takes Jolene’s hand and we all head upstairs without saying anything. After Frankie and I put away Grandpa’s things, we all gather in the bathroom. It’s small, but we squeeze in around the sink. I turn on the water so it sounds like we’re washing up and no one can hear us talk.
Jolene says, “Grandpa wouldn’t lie to us.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Frankie says. She looks at my reflection in the mirror. “Something doesn’t add up.”
“No, it doesn’t, because Dad is wrong,” I say. It doesn’t feel good saying that.
“Dad’s a teacher and he’s wrong,” Jolene says, like her little world has come crashing down.
“Yeah,” I say. “It happens sometimes. You’ll get used to it.” But I wasn’t sure even I was used to it yet. I still had a weird feeling, like an itch somewhere deep in my brain. I always believed Grandpa. And I also always believed Dad. But they couldn’t both be right.
I lean into the sink and stare at our reflections in the mirror. I hate to admit it, but the three of us look so much alike without trying: golden-brown skin from the sun, streaky blond hair, cutoff jean shorts. Though if Frankie gets any taller, her face will be out of sight and only her long hair will hang down in the reflection. Jolene is so pretty she stands out like a little angel, even wearing the eye patch. Then there’s me in the middle. Short hair. Snubby nose. Too many freckles. Average. The most piratey of us all.
I squint my eyes and squeeze my eyebrows together to look tougher. “Elbow, elbow, elbow, elbow,” I say to our mirror-selves. “What does it mean, Grandpa?”
We’re staring into the mirror like we’re waiting for our reflections to answer back when Jolene says, “That reminds me!” and makes me and Frankie jump. Then she runs off.
“What is she doing?” I ask Frankie.
“No idea.” She hands me the soap. “Stop making that face and wash your hands for real.”
“You wash your hands for real,” I say.
