by Elise Broach
“Everybody has a job but me,” Jack said anxiously. “What should I do?”
“Nothing!” Simon said. “Just try not to get in trouble for the weekend. Can you do that?”
Jack’s lower lip quivered. He plopped down on the carpet and glared at his sneakers.
“Jack—” Simon began, and Henry was about to intervene, but Delilah got there first.
She knelt next to Jack. “I know what you can do. You can make a list of things for us to take up the mountain. Kind of like a survival kit. And then we’ll fill up a backpack at my house on Monday.”
Jack brightened, then said glumly, “But I can’t write all that.”
“You can draw pictures,” Delilah suggested.
“Okay,” Jack agreed. “I can do that!” He reached in the open drawer and took one of the pieces of paper that had Henry Cormody emblazoned across the top.
“Good,” Simon announced, snapping the lid of the metal box and putting it back in the desk drawer. “Let’s get to work.” He bounded up the basement stairs with Henry, Delilah, and Jack close on his heels.
* * *
Henry spent the afternoon with the volume of Arizona history from the library open across his lap, thumbing through the thin pages. There was only a short chapter on Superstition Mountain, and it was mostly focused on warfare between the Spanish and the Indians. The Spanish had explored the mountain looking for gold up until the mid-1850s. There was a rumor about a gold mine, discovered by the Spaniard Miguel Peralta, and a purported battle with the Apaches that was called the Peralta Massacre because it left so many Spanish dead. But the book said both the gold mine and the battle were “unconfirmed,” and had become “one of the many legends about Superstition Mountain and its colorful, mysterious past.” According to the book, the disappearances began in the late 1800s, and with the exception of Adolph Ruth and a few prospectors, they were again considered “unconfirmed.” The three Texas boys weren’t mentioned at all.
Henry thought back to the blindingly white skulls perched on the ledge of rock. It seemed so long ago that they’d found them. He scooted the heavy book off his lap and wandered into his mother’s study. She was at her drawing table, leaning over a large sheet of paper, deftly shading a small disk of bone.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A kneecap. Patella,” she added, her pencil making soft scratching noises across the page. “Don’t they have beautiful names? This is the fibula, and here’s the tibia.” Her pencil traced the contours of two long bones on one side of the paper.
“Mom?”
She didn’t look up. “What is it, Hen?”
“You’ve drawn skulls, right?”
“Of course. Those can be hard.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to get the proportions exactly right. We all have an instinctive sense of what a human face should look like, you know? Even when it’s just bones, not a face, everybody has a sense of where the eyes, nose, and mouth should be … how they should fit in relation to each other. With other bones, people don’t have a clue.”
Henry slumped on the floor, watching her hand on the page. He took a breath and asked carefully, feigning indifference, “Have you ever drawn a skull that had a dent in it?”
“Sure,” his mother said. “That’s a common kind of skull fracture. It’s called a Ping-Pong fracture.”
“Really? Why is it called that?”
Mrs. Barker stopped drawing, her hand hovering over the page. “Hmmm … I don’t know. Maybe because those fractures are usually the size of a Ping-Pong ball? Or maybe it’s because the surface of the skull caves in the way a Ping-Pong ball does when it gets dented. I bet that’s it.”
“How do you get a Ping-Pong fracture?” Henry asked.
Mrs. Barker turned back to the paper and started sketching again. “Any number of ways. Bumping into something sharp. Falling and hitting your head. Getting banged on the head with something.”
Henry nodded slowly. He pictured the skull on the cliff, with its shallow indentation. What had happened to that boy? Had he fallen and bumped his head? Or did somebody hit him on the head and kill him?
He stood up suddenly.
“What, nothing more about skulls?” Mrs. Barker asked.
“Nope,” Henry said. One good thing about his mother—she found bones so interesting herself that it would never have occurred to her to wonder why he was asking so many questions.
“All right, I’m finished for the day,” his mother said, leaning back in her chair just as Simon and Jack appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, Mom, if you’re done, could we use the computer?” Simon asked.
“Till dinner? Please?” Jack added.
Mrs. Barker wavered. “What for?”
“We’re trying to figure out what kind of coins are in Uncle Hank’s collection,” Simon replied. That sounded so legitimate, Henry realized, because it happened to be true.
“Well, I guess,” Mrs. Barker conceded. “But just until dinner, and no messing around with any of my files, or your father’s, okay?” As she left the room, she added, “I don’t know how much luck you’ll have—the internet was down earlier today.”
“Thanks,” Simon said. He tugged the coin out of his pocket and held it up to Henry and Jack. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s find out where this is from.”
They all crowded around their mother’s computer, and Simon navigated quickly to the internet.
“How can you look it up if you don’t know where it’s from?” Jack demanded. It was a fair enough question, Henry thought—like looking up a word in the dictionary to figure out how to spell it, which teachers were always telling you to do, ignoring the fact that if you didn’t already know how to spell it, it was very difficult to look it up.
“Watch,” Simon said. “I’ll Google the words on this side.” Squinting at the tarnished surface of the coin, he typed “hispan et ind” and “coin” into the search area and hit the return key.
The computer ground and whirred for several seconds, then a long list of matches appeared. Near the top were “Spanish Silver Milled Coinage” and “Spanish Dollar.”
“Wow, you found it!” Henry cried. “It’s from Spain!”
Simon shrugged modestly.
“Now let’s see if we can find this exact coin. I can’t see the date on it, can you?” He handed the coin to Henry. Henry took it over to the lamp on Mrs. Barker’s drawing table and scrutinized it beneath the white blaze of light.
“One … eight … something … four.” He turned excitedly to his brothers. “It’s really old! At least a hundred fifty years, don’t you think? Maybe more.”
“Ooooh, is it worth a lot of money?” Jack asked. “Is it real silver?”
“It’s definitely real silver. That’s what they used back then,” Simon said. “Hey, here are pictures. Is it one of these?”
Henry carried the coin back to the computer and held it in the glow of the screen, next to a column of photos showing silver coins on black backgrounds. The coins were similar, with the profile of a severe-looking man on one side and an elaborate design on the reverse, a shield with a crown over it, flanked on either side by columns. Henry scanned the photos. The coins in the picture were crisper and cleaner; the one in his hand was so faded and dark.
“Wait,” he said, pressing his index finger against the screen. “What about that one? It’s the same, isn’t it?”
Simon took the coin and held it next to the image, comparing them, then flipped it over. “Good job—that’s it.” He bumped fists with Henry.
“Who’s the lady with the ponytail?” Jack wanted to know.
“It’s not a lady, it’s a man,” Simon told him. “Back in the old days, the men had long hair like that.”
“Like Henry used to have,” Jack said, turning to Henry and adding helpfully, “when everybody thought you were a girl.”
Henry frowned. “Nobody would have thought these guys were girls.” They looked t
oo brave and noble, long hair or not.
“Nope,” Simon agreed. “They were kings.” He peered at the screen more closely. “And anyway, I don’t think it’s a ponytail. It looks like a ribbon. Listen, this is what it says on the coin in English.” He pointed to the caption below the picture of the coin and read, “‘Ferdinand the Seventh, by the Grace of God.’ That’s on the front, and ‘King of Spain and the Indies’ on the back. That must be what ‘Hispan et Ind’ stands for: Spain and the Indies.”
A Spanish king! Henry squinted at the man’s profile.
“Does it say how much it’s worth?” Jack asked, bouncing impatiently.
“Let’s see.” Simon typed “Spanish dollar what’s it worth” in the search area and tapped the return key. He scanned the results and then said, “That’s weird. Even though it’s so old, it’s not worth much money. Here’s one from 1802, probably older than ours, in much better condition, and its only value is forty bucks.” Simon sighed in disappointment. “That coin collection is nothing special.”
Henry bristled. “Yes, it is! It belonged to Uncle Hank. That makes it special. And the coins are still really old, from a whole other country. Anyway,” he added, “they might tell us something about the mountain.”
“Yeah,” Jack cried, leaning against Simon’s shoulder to get closer to the screen. “And forty dollars is A LOT! Where does it say that?”
Simon squirmed free. “Jack—”
“Boys!” Their mother’s voice drifted down the hallway. “Would one of you please set the table for dinner?”
“It’s Jack’s turn,” Simon answered.
Henry expected Jack to protest, but he merely seemed annoyed. “Don’t look at stuff without me,” he warned.
Simon obligingly closed the windows on the computer and slipped the coin back into his pocket. “I wonder how Uncle Hank got a Spanish coin.”
“Maybe he found it on the mountain,” Henry said thoughtfully. Skulls, coins, treasure … what else was up there? He wondered.
CHAPTER 20
NECESSITIES AND SUPPLIES
THEY SPENT THE WEEKEND lying low, as Simon called it. They played darts in the basement; they helped their dad weed the walk; they found an old rope from a tire swing and strung it between two trees about a foot off the ground so they could play tightrope walkers, and then snake pit, and then river of piranhas. It was just like any other weekend. Part of Henry felt relieved. It was nice to be normal for a while, doing normal things, not finding skeletons or talking to crazy people or stumbling through graveyards that had a tombstone with your own last name on it. Every time he thought about the mountain—about going up the mountain again, back to the canyon—a chill crept through him.
But the other part of Henry knew this was the test. Could he live up to Uncle Hank’s name or not? Was he brave enough to go up the mountain and bring back the skulls? He wanted to believe he was that brave inside, and the only reason nobody knew it was there hadn’t been a chance to prove it yet … sort of the way the old lamp in the book Aladdin and the Magic Lamp lay around for centuries with a genie inside, but nobody knew it because they hadn’t happened to pick it up and dust it off. Was it possible that Henry could have lived his whole life without a chance to discover his inner fearlessness? He wanted to think so, but secretly had his doubts.
On Sunday afternoon, he was contemplating this and other not-so-happy thoughts while his father sat at the kitchen table paying bills.
“Is Uncle Hank buried at the cemetery?” Henry asked Mr. Barker.
“Why, no, Hen. He was cremated. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered,” Henry said, and then quickly, making it a more general inquiry, “Do you want to be cremated?”
As it turned out, Mr. Barker had a surprising amount to say on this subject. No, he did not want to be cremated. He found the “blazing inferno” too unnerving, though of course he would be unable to feel anything, being dead. Nor did he want to be buried, as a matter of fact, because he was claustrophobic and he didn’t like the idea of being underground covered by dirt. Mrs. Barker walked into the kitchen at this point and added, “Though of course you won’t know that or feel that, being dead.” Nor did Mr. Barker want to have his body donated to science—Mrs. Barker’s preference—because he didn’t want medical students standing around making fun of him.
“Honey, that’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Barker interjected. “They would never do that. You’re being paranoid.”
“No, I’m not. They DO do that. You’re forgetting that I had a friend who went to medical school—Carl Lisi—and he told me all about it.” He turned to Henry. “Now, what I’m really paranoid about is that your mother will decide to donate my body to science even though I don’t want her to. Do you hear that, Henry? Happy to have them transplant any useful organs, but I don’t want my body left at the mercy of a bunch of incompetent grad students.”
Mrs. Barker rolled her eyes. “Go ahead. Tell Henry what you want instead.”
Mr. Barker tilted back in his chair and stretched his arms expansively. “Well, this is what I have in mind: a nice mausoleum.”
Mausoleum. Henry liked the long, musical sound of the word. “What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s an above-ground tomb,” his father explained, “made out of stone. That’s fitting, right, Henry? Like a crypt, no windows, but big enough for the coffin to sit inside.”
“Now tell Henry how much that would cost,” Mrs. Barker said.
“Pshaw, what does the cost matter?” Mr. Barker winked at Henry. “I’m sure you’ll spare no expense for me when I’m gone. You’ll want to do it up right.”
Mrs. Barker groaned. “It would cost a fortune. And what a waste!”
“Oh, well, too bad,” Mr. Barker said philosophically. “It’s my dying wish. You’re my witness, Henry.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Mrs. Barker told Henry. “He’s kidding around.”
Mr. Barker pulled Henry close, and whispered, “Just don’t let her donate my body to science! I’m begging you.”
“I can hear that,” Mrs. Barker called over her shoulder as she left the room. “And it won’t be up to the boys, you know.…”
Mr. Barker raised his hands helplessly. “Rats! Foiled again.”
Henry crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them, thinking about the mountain. “A mausoleum does sound nice,” he said, and then, “Dad, are you scared of dying?”
“Yes,” his father answered promptly. “But your mother isn’t.”
“Why not?” Henry asked.
“Oh, you’ll have to ask her. Maybe because it’s natural. And because there’s always something left—we return to bones. And you know how she likes bones.”
Henry nodded. He stared at the glittering ring of droplets around the base of his father’s glass of iced tea.
“What’s the matter, sport?” his father asked. “You seem gloomy.”
“Nothing,” Henry said. “Just thinking.”
* * *
To Henry’s mounting dismay, the plan to spend the day at Delilah’s on Monday went off without a hitch.
“That is so nice of you boys, to help with their garden!” Mrs. Barker said. “It’s a very neighborly thing to do. And I get the impression that Delilah’s father isn’t around much, don’t you? So I bet they really appreciate it. Just make sure you dig exactly where Mrs. Dunworthy tells you to, okay?”
“We will, Mom,” Simon assured her while Henry looked guiltily at his shoes. He hated lying to their mother, but what other choice did they have? She would never agree to their plan. It was the only way to bring the skulls back where they could be identified. Henry squared his shoulders. It was the right thing to do, even if their mother didn’t know it yet.
Mrs. Barker continued, “And call to let me know how it’s going. Maybe I could come over to see the garden this afternoon. I’d like to meet Delilah’s mother. I feel bad that I haven’t introduced myself before now.”
“Oh,
I don’t think we’ll finish it today,” Simon said. “You should come tomorrow when it’s all done.”
“Okay,” Mrs. Barker agreed. “And it’s all right for you to stay there for lunch?”
“Delilah said it was fine,” Henry said carefully. That was technically true; Delilah had said it was fine with her mother for them to be there all day. Not that they were actually going to be there.
The boys were starting to leave when Jack cried, “I forgot my paper!” At first Henry didn’t realize what he meant, but then he remembered it was the list of supplies for their trip up the mountain. Jack dashed back to his bedroom and reappeared, waving it triumphantly in one hand.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Barker asked, reaching for it.
Henry froze. “Oh, it’s nothing—” Simon started to say, but their mother took the paper from Jack and studied it.
Nobody moved, and Jack’s eyes widened in horror.
“Jack, these are good drawings!” Mrs. Barker said, beaming at him. “And on Uncle Hank’s stationery too. It looks so official. So many little pictures—what’s this?”
Jack gulped. “Candy.”
“And this?”
“More candy.”
Mr. Barker, hurrying through the kitchen on his way to work, tousled Jack’s hair and laughed.
“And what about this?”
“Soda,” Jack explained.
“It’s like a menu. Or a grocery list,” their mother observed cheerfully, handing the paper back to Jack. “Okay, boys, good luck with the garden!”
As they hurried outside, she held the door for them and waved innocently from the stoop. Josie, by contrast, darted between her legs and under the bushes, watching them from the shadows with her skeptical golden eyes.
Henry felt a leaden mix of guilt and resolve as they rode away. He could hear Simon scolding Jack as they rounded the corner of Delilah’s street.
