by K L Going
Her eyes lingered on the library, and she remembered the way she and Mom used to race up the library steps back home.
“First one to find a book gets to pick the bedtime story!”
Only there were no bedtime stories now, and Father didn’t even slow down as they passed. He pulled up in front of a small store on the opposite side of the road instead—one with rakes and a hay bale decorating the front window. Exactly the place Father would choose to stop.
“We need to go in for the key,” he said, shutting off the engine. “Just a quick visit.” The sign in the store window read CLAYTON’S FARM SUPPLIES.
Father went in and Evie followed reluctantly several feet behind him. Bells chimed loudly when they stepped inside, but no one answered them. In fact, there was no sign of anyone, which was just as well as far as Evie was concerned. Father craned his neck and stepped around one of the aisles.
“Do you think anyone’s here?” he asked. Just then a door in the back opened and a large woman bustled out. She stopped and studied Father carefully but didn’t seem to notice Evie hovering around the corner.
“Frank Adler?” she asked. “You look different from the day we closed on the house. Must be the beard.” She chuckled. “Glad to see you made it. I’ve got the key around here somewhere.”
She patted the pockets of a large apron.
“Good to see you again,” Father said, reaching behind him to pull Evie forward. “This is my daughter, Evie.”
The old woman froze.
“Your daughter?” she asked, her breath catching. “Her name is Eve?” She ignored Father’s puzzled look. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter. I assumed you were a bachelor like my brother.”
Evie rolled her eyes. That was typical of Father, to forget to mention her.
The woman clucked and shook her head. She was tall and sturdy and her long gray braid fell all the way to her waist. Evie wanted to dislike her because she was staring rudely, but for some reason she couldn’t. Then suddenly, like a burst balloon, the woman laughed, and it was a loud, boisterous laugh that filled the room.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I’m just so surprised!”
The truth was, she had a wonderful laugh—loud and ringing—and Evie couldn’t help feeling tingly, as if she’d met this woman before someplace and they’d sat together in front of a fireplace having hot cocoa with marshmallows.
I don’t care, Evie thought. I still won’t like her.
“The name’s Margaret,” the woman said. “Although you can call me Maggie, like everyone else.” She scooped Evie’s hand into hers and her touch felt warm and soft like Gram’s always felt, but Maggie didn’t look as old as Gram. At least, not exactly. Her hair was gray, but it whipped as she turned her head, and her eyes were young and sparkly. She smiled at Evie.
“Beautiful,” she said, as if making up her mind. Evie blushed. Then she frowned, keeping her arms crossed. She wasn’t beautiful. That much she knew for certain. She was skinny and plain, with legs far too long for a ten-year-old girl.
Still, something about the way the old woman said “beautiful,” so sure and final, made Evie wish she had a mirror, as if maybe she’d changed during the ride from Michigan to New York.
“I’ve been so excited for you to arrive,” Maggie said, turning back to Father. “If I’d known you had a daughter, I would have cleaned the house up a bit more, but to be honest I haven’t gone over there much since Rodney died.”
“Sorry for your loss,” Father said, shifting uncomfortably. Maggie just smiled again, and it was a sadder smile, but her eyes still twinkled.
“It’s all right,” Maggie said. “My brother lived a long life. He was ninety years old, you know. I suspect he’s more at peace now than he ever was while he lived. Poor old Rodney never had much luck.”
She sighed.
“I just wish he could have met you,” she said, looking straight at Evie. “Although I suppose he must have known you were coming?” She glanced at Father.
“I probably mentioned Evie when we spoke on the phone,” Father said, but he didn’t sound sure at all. Evie pulled at a loose string on her coat, twisting it until it snapped.
Maggie clucked again. “Well . . . regardless, you’re just what this town needs—people to till the soil again. Beaumont is going to have another heyday, you mark my words, and folks like us, folks with vision, why, we’ll be the ones here to see it. Now isn’t that right?”
Father nodded and shuffled his feet.
If Mom were here, she would have laughed and smiled and she and Maggie would have been best friends within the hour. Father only cleared his throat and Evie studied her torn sneakers. There was a long pause while Father tried to think of something new to say, and then he said something, but it was exactly the wrong thing.
“I see you’ve had a death in town. We drove past the funeral.”
This time Maggie’s smile faded completely.
“Yes,” she said after a long moment. “A young boy passed away. Very sad. He was just ten years old.”
Evie looked up. She hadn’t meant to say anything, but now she couldn’t help it.
“What did he die from?”
Maggie shook her head. “Leukemia. He died several days ago. Unfortunately they’ve got a frigid day for the funeral. We’ve been having a bad spat, you know. It’s unseasonably cold considering it’s not even November yet, but weather here tends toward the odd side. Something about being in the valley. The wind funnels through these mountains . . .”
Evie stopped listening. She thought of the pale face in the crowd of mourners. A boy about ten. But that boy had been alive. Only he hadn’t looked alive, had he?
“. . . isn’t that right, Evie?”
Father was asking her something, and Maggie was waiting expectantly for her to answer. When Evie didn’t respond, Maggie’s eyes widened.
“No school?” she said. “What will you do with yourself all day? Surely homeschooling can’t be better than being in a classroom full of kids your own age to work with?”
Evie wanted to tell her that homeschooling was the way they’d always done things. The way Mom had set things up. She didn’t care for a classroom full of kids her own age.
“I don’t need any school,” she said at last. “Father will teach me.”
Maggie put her hand on Evie’s head.
“Well,” she said, “maybe you and your father will change your minds come winter. Beaumont’s got a small school, but it’s a good one. Plus, we’ve got a wonderful library across the street where you could meet people. I suspect that a girl your age will want some friends.” She winked and something about her almost made Evie want to wink back, but Father reached over and took Evie’s hand, engulfing it in his large calloused one.
“We should go,” he said, but Evie was still thinking about the pale boy from the cemetery.
“That boy,” she said at last, “the one who died. What was his name?”
Maggie’s eyebrows arched.
“Eve,” she said, “you’ll be wanting live friends, I suspect.” She paused. “You’ll find folks in this town don’t like to speak of the dead much. Beaumont’s had more than its fair share of troubles.” She paused again. “But,” she said at last, taking out a small laminated card with a picture on it, “his name was Alex and this is his prayer card. The church gives them out so we’ll remember to pray for the family. You can keep it if you’d like.”
Evie took the card and studied the boy in the picture. It was hard to tell for sure, but Evie thought he looked like the boy she’d seen.
“Alex,” she whispered.
She wanted to ask more, like where he had lived and what his family was like, but Father was nodding and glancing outside toward the truck like it was time to go. “It’s a shame,” he said, but his voice sounded far away, like he wasn’t really thinking about the boy at all. “We should be getting on.”
Maggie nodded. “Why don’t I go over and show you around,” she sai
d, taking off her apron.
Father shook his head. “No need. I know where to find the place.”
“Are you sure?” Maggie asked. “I could help you clean up a bit.” She held the key out tentatively, and Father took it, thrusting it deep into his jacket pocket.
“We’ll be fine,” Father said in his “end of discussion” voice. “We don’t need any help.”
Evie glanced out the window at their truck, packed high with boxes that would soon need to be unpacked. She pulled her hand from Father’s grip and Maggie’s sharp eyes narrowed.
“I see . . . ,” she said. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. At least the funeral crowd will have cleared out by now.” She laughed again and nodded at Evie. “Hope you’re not frightened of cemeteries, my dear.”
Evie’s heart clenched tight. Cemeteries?
Father studied the floor and Maggie paused, looking back and forth between them.
“Didn’t you know?” she asked. Maggie took one look at Evie’s face and squeezed her shoulder tight. “Don’t worry, love,” she said. “I grew up in that house and I never saw a single ghost. And trust me, I was watching.”
Chapter Three
The House by the Cemetery
Evie’s heart pounded as they pulled into the driveway of the old house with the peeling paint and broken shutters. Her fists clenched tight with fury. They couldn’t live next to a cemetery. Couldn’t. It wasn’t even the right cemetery. Hot tears fought to escape, but she wouldn’t let them.
“Evie, I . . .” Father turned the engine off and studied the steering wheel. “I meant to tell you. It’s just . . . I wanted you to give this place a chance, and once we’re inside you’ll barely see the cemetery. We can pretend it isn’t even there.”
He waited for her response, and when she didn’t answer he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have told you.”
Mom would have told her. There was no doubt about that.
Evie crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate you,” she said. “I’m not getting out. Ever. Not if I have to live next to a cemetery in a rotten old house.”
Father’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and Evie almost wished he would yell at her, but he didn’t. He got out and emptied the front seat of their soda pop cans and extra snack bags instead.
“You’ll have to come inside sooner or later,” he said when he’d finished. “It’s too cold to stay out here for long.” Then he shut the truck door extra hard and walked up to the house. Evie watched him fumble with the key, then lean his shoulder in to give the door a push. He went inside without looking back once.
Maybe he’d even forget she was there.
Evie swiped at her nose with her sleeve, then she studied the old house. Two cracked steps led up to a long front porch with chipped pillars. There were scraggly, barren bushes along the edge and a spindly tree in the front yard that had probably once been a cherry tree. She could tell from the bark and the shape of the branches. There was an old willow on the side of the house, and then the orchard, so close she felt as if she could almost touch the nearest apple trees.
But it wasn’t the apple trees that finally drew Evie out of the truck. It wasn’t even the cold, which numbed her fingers and toes. It was her first glimpse inside.
Father had left the front door open, and just past it she could see a hallway with a picture hanging at the far end. Even from the truck she could see the painting clearly, framed between the banister and the wall. It was a portrait of an old man, hunched and wrinkled, but his blue eyes were bright and they seemed to stare straight at Evie. They were urgent, determined eyes, and something about them looked familiar. At first she thought it was because they looked like Maggie’s eyes, but they didn’t really. Yet they still looked like eyes she had seen before.
Evie waited a long while, but every time she looked back the eyes were calling her. She wished Father would shut the door, but he didn’t, so finally she got out of the truck and moved carefully up the front steps. They creaked under her weight with an eerie whine.
I’ll only stay a minute, she thought.
Evie stood gingerly under the low overhang of the front porch and studied the painting. She stepped inside and . . .
“You made it. See? It’s not so bad in here.” Father came around the corner and Evie jumped, but he didn’t seem to notice. He reached out to trace the line of her cheek with one finger.
“I’m glad you came in,” Father said, studying her carefully. “You’re right. I should have told you about the cemetery. I just wanted you to see all the other great parts of this place without judging it first. It’s like something out of those books you and your mom always read, don’t you think?”
His face cracked into a smile, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. Evie remembered when Father had smiled like this all the time, but that was over three years ago, back before Mom got sick and he started working in Farmer Dolan’s orchard all the time. It was so long ago that she could hardly make it real anymore. Watching him now was like meeting someone on the street who you hadn’t realized was missing—you felt all the pleasure of seeing them and all the pain of missing them at once.
He was wrong about the books though. Evie and Mom hadn’t read stories about dusty old houses next to cemeteries. They’d read about beautiful gardens and magical lands with unicorns and castles. . . .
Suddenly she missed their life in Michigan so bad it hurt. She pictured their house—the shelves full of books, the brightly colored paintings on every wall, and the pottery wheel in the back studio, where Mom had been teaching her to mold clay. Every nook and cranny had held something interesting, and when Mom floated around in her long, flowing skirts and sandaled feet, it had been exactly where she belonged.
That was perfect. This house was cracked and worn, and there was no life to it whatsoever.
“I wish we’d stayed home,” Evie said.
Father’s smile faded.
“Well, we didn’t. At least this house is furnished and paid for and there aren’t a million reminders everywhere . . .”
Father ran his fingers through his thick hair. He closed his eyes, and Evie wondered if he would leave—maybe he’d go out to the orchard to work on the trees—but he didn’t. Instead he sighed and took her by the shoulders.
“Try to imagine what this place might look like once we’ve fixed it up,” he said, turning her in the direction of the large living room. “See this room?” There was furniture in it covered with sheets, and long windows with closed curtains.
“We’ll add a new coat of paint on the walls and you can decorate the trim. We’ll use some caulking to fill in those cracks, maybe clean up that fireplace and get the flue working, stack up some wood from outside . . .”
Father turned her across the hall toward the kitchen.
“We’ll patch up those cabinets. Table and chairs are sturdy enough from the looks of them. If the oven works, we’ll be making apple pies next fall—apple dumplings, apple cider . . . And outside, when the orchard comes back to life . . . Can’t you see it, Evie?”
The truth was, she almost could, but she could also see the cemetery from the kitchen window, and just then she was certain she saw a figure walking through the rows of gravestones.
“No,” she said, “I can’t.”
She slipped out of Father’s grasp and ran back through the front door.
“Evie!” Father called after her, but she ignored him. Instead she walked outside, looking for the lonely figure, but he was already moving in the opposite direction. She could clearly see that it was the boy again, his dark shape fading into the distance, then disappearing entirely through the trees. Evie stopped at the edge of the porch. Her arms hugged her shoulders, and she shivered, wishing with all her might to be home again.
“Evie, come back inside.”
Father stood in the doorway, but Evie didn’t move. She thought about the house with its cracked walls and dusty furniture. The h
ouse in New York, not Michigan. The house beside the cemetery that was not Mom’s cemetery. She could feel the tears welling up, stinging her eyes in the cold, and she listened to the hollow sound of the wind as it whipped down the mountains. She shook her head, tasting the salt in her mouth.
“Mom,” she whispered, “why couldn’t I have gone with you instead?”
Evie strained to hear a response in the mournful moan of the wind, but there was nothing. She wiped the tears away with her coat sleeve and stood still, waiting for answers she knew would never come.
Chapter Four
Tomorrow
For the rest of that week Evie waited for Father to get the phone hooked up and the TV turned on, or maybe to unpack something other than their clothes and sheets, but Father went out to the orchard every day as soon as the sun came up, and then he spent almost the whole day outside among the trees.
Back home Evie would have painted or read books or played with her friend Lawrence down the street, but here she stayed in bed until late and sat for long hours beside the kitchen window, fingering the prayer card Maggie had given her and watching for the strange boy to reappear. Sometimes he was already there when she came downstairs, and other times he emerged from the fog like an apparition, but he was always too far back to see clearly. Twice she almost went out to meet him but couldn’t gather her courage. It wasn’t that she thought he was a ghost, but the sight of him there, sitting among the graves every day, made the hairs on her neck rise.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow she would find out who he was, but tomorrow was always one day away. Instead she watched Father go out to the orchard each morning, bundled in his winter work clothes. Sometimes he stopped by her bedroom and leaned against the doorframe, peering in as she pretended to sleep.
Finally one morning Father sat on the side of Evie’s bed.
“I know you’re not sleeping,” he said. “Why don’t you come outside with me? You can’t stay in here forever, you know.”
