If I could live through telling Creelman everything I knew about the accident, I was sure that whatever was inside Trevor Tower’s locker could not be as big an ordeal as I had imagined.
“We should complete a week of observations,” Merrilee advised. “Each of us will make notes about what’s happening in this hallway at various times throughout the day, and then we’ll compare notes. That way we’ll be able to pick the quietest time to break in.”
“What do you think is in there?” Pascal asked. He took a bold step forward and sniffed. “It doesn’t smell.”
“Step away from that locker!” Merrilee whispered harshly. “We don’t want to cause any suspicion. Everyone, walk away. We’ve never had this conversation.”
She turned on her heels and marched down the hallway, back the way we had come.
Pascal and I shrugged, then headed to our classroom.
It was threatening rain when we showed up for cemetery duty the next Wednesday afternoon. The dark clouds hung low, and in the distance, lightning struck. The first plops of rain hit the grave markers surrounding us.
“I bet we’ll be in the library today,” I predicted, as the three of us stood waiting by the gate.
Sure enough, Loyola whistled from the front steps of the library, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over her head to protect against the weather.
“The Brigade’s in here,” she yelled, hastily waving us over.
We left the cemetery, but I fell behind when I stopped to look left, right, left, and then left, right and left again before crossing the street. I caught up to the others on the library stairs. They still hadn’t noticed my extra-cautious habit of checking for traffic.
Once inside, we made our way past the stacks to the research area at the back of the library. The Brigade were already sitting at the tables when we arrived. They were leafing through piles of books they had collected. Three blue plastic bins were stacked on the floor beside Creelman.
We slid into some seats across from them.
“Today’s lesson is going to build on what you already know about symbolism and how epitaphs have changed over time. To do that, you’ll be designing your own gravestone,” Creelman announced.
“Now we’re talking!” Pascal exclaimed. He reached for a blue bin.
I was also excited. Design work was something I could always throw myself into. Words combined with pictures and whatnot! I nearly whooped!
“Not yet,” Creelman said, glowering at Pascal. He moved the bin out of Pascal’s reach with a push of his foot.
Pascal settled back in his chair.
The rain had picked up force and was now spraying against the stained glass. We had escaped indoors just in time.
“In order to design your own gravestone, you’ll need to do some research. Find out what other cultures and religions like to put on their grave markers so that you can make informed choices. For example, there are specific ways that the military respect their fallen soldiers. And there are specific occupations like ship-building and fire-fighting that have their own emblems.”
“Emblems? You mean songs? How do you put songs on a gravestone?” Pascal asked.
“What’s that, now?” Creelman asked, his scowl deepening if that was possible.
“He’s confusing emblem with anthem,” Merrilee jumped in. She turned to Pascal. “An emblem is like a crest or a coat of arms. An anthem is what you sing before hockey games.”
“Got it,” Pascal said. He faced Creelman, waiting to pounce with another question.
Creelman cleared his throat and continued at his steady pace, but started fiddling with a pencil. It looked like he was desperate for a cigarette.
“Our earliest gravestones used to be about warning the rest of us that death was certain or that time on earth was fleeting. Here lies the body of … with pictures of coffins or crossbones or shovels. Not very cheery. Then attitudes changed, and gravestones started to include symbols of hope and life after death. Lots of winged cherubs. The dead were thought to be asleep. Later, gravestones featured urns and weeping willow trees, which were symbols for the grievers who were left behind, and not so much about the dead. Nowadays, you’ll see gravestones that tell us something about who the buried person was. Symbols include hobbies or pets or whatever else that person held special in life.”
“Maybe I’ll include symbols of my favorite band or what I like to eat,” Pascal said.
Creelman did not respond to Pascal directly, but he did not pound on the table either, even though he looked as if he might have wanted to. Instead, he plowed on with his directions.
“Remember, a gravestone, through words and art, tells the world who you were and how you want to be remembered. Most important, keep this in mind. Your choices are permanent.” He pounded the table. “Per-man-ent! They’re etched in stone. You can’t change a gravestone like you can change a t-shirt,” Creelman warned, and he gave me a level stare.
I looked down at the t-shirt I was wearing that day. It read, If you don’t make mistakes, you’re not really trying.
“So, look through these books before you begin. And when you’re ready, take one of the bins. Inside you’ll find a large roll of paper, felt markers and colored pencils. There’s tracing paper if you want to copy a design from a book, and glue and scissors. You’ll also find alphabet stencils so that you can write out your epitaph.”
Creelman turned to me and his face softened. I almost didn’t recognize him, except that he had had that same look when he was staring out the window back in the cafe.
“Give careful thought to your epitaph. These will be your famous last words. You need to choose something that will withstand the ravages of time.”
A dark silence rolled in like a fog, and when I glanced again at Creelman, he was busy rearranging his face into his usual scowl.
“We’ll be back to check your work.”
And to no one’s surprise, the Brigade marched out of the library into the downpour.
As I watched them leave, I thought back to the book of epitaphs that Creelman had lent me. I had been reading it every night, mostly when I woke up from my nightmares. I had come across a few sayings that would be great for my t-shirt collection, and I remembered one epitaph in particular that I thought I wouldn’t mind seeing on my own gravestone.
Still, I had no idea about the symbols that I might like to use. I reached for the nearest pile and began to leaf through one of the books.
“I’m looking for joyful symbols,” Merrilee remarked as she flipped through the pages of her chosen book. “I want mine to be about celebrating life.”
Joyful symbols? Good grief! I was dead certain she would go for all the spooky ones to create a truly terrifying gravestone that would force people to take a wide circle as they passed by. But I didn’t say a word. I realized that I was never going to figure out Merrilee, and I wasn’t about to die trying.
“I’m going to go for a superstar theme,” Pascal said. “When people walk by my gravestone, they’ll wish they had known me, and weep. What about you, Derek?”
“I think I’d like mine to be peaceful. I’d like to make people feel comforted.”
Merrilee stopped flipping pages. She looked directly at me with an intense stare.
“That’s really nice,” she said, but with no emotion whatsoever.
Then she went back to her books as if she had said nothing at all.
Was she being pleasant or spooky? It was baffling. I went back to my books.
As I flipped through the pages, I realized that there were symbols for absolutely everything imaginable. It turned out that if I wanted to go with peace and comfort, my symbol choices included a dove, a lighthouse and an anchor.
That was a nice discovery because those symbols reminded me of the yellow and blue cottage we rented every summer for our family vacation. It came with a small two-p
erson sailboat, and my dad had spent hours teaching me the ropes. I loved the feel of the wind pushing the sails, and how we could skim across the water so quickly. I loved the quietness of it all, and the excitement during gusts. I loved the musty smell of the life jackets and the cool spray on my face and the peanut butter and jam sandwiches my dad packed, which we ate when we reached the island with the lighthouse.
I grabbed a blue bin and opened it to take out the supplies. I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but I was pleased with how my design was coming together. It was the same feeling that I got with the t-shirts I made.
The three of us worked in silence. The only sound was the rain sweeping across the stained-glass windows. I thought back to our first day of cemetery duty, and I remembered how creeped-out I had been back then.
What had changed? It surprised me to realize that I had actually begun to look forward to Wednesday afternoons. Merrilee was right. It was nice to be working outdoors. And Pascal turned out to be pretty entertaining, sometimes asking questions that I would never dare to ask. The three of us did not have much in common, but here we were, working together, getting along.
I sat back and surveyed the pile of books on the table.
Could Creelman also have helped to make me feel better about cemeteries? Were his weekly lectures somehow lessening my fear of graveyards? And then I thought about it — reading weathered marble, figuring out carved symbols, mapping plots, cleaning stones, taking rubbings of epitaphs that we liked. Creelman had been showing us all along that cemeteries were much more about the living than they were about the dead.
“Done,” Merrilee announced.
She stood up to admire her drawing. Pascal and I joined her.
Merrilee’s gravestone featured a large harp surrounded by a wreath of acorns. Below that, two winged angels knelt facing each other while drinking tea. Her epitaph read, Life is for the living.
“Nice,” both Pascal and I said at the same time, and I realized that Merrilee had also been taking in Creelman’s message.
Pascal and I continued to work on our gravestones while Merrilee disappeared among the stacks, then made her way to the library’s front desk to talk to Loyola about the latest book she had read. Her voice and Loyola’s booming laughter wafted back to where we sat.
As I colored in my lighthouse, my mind wandered.
A popsicle. The sound of a lawnmower. An orange rubber ball.
The smell of grass. The sun. Laughter.
Dennis. The stained pavement. A carved stone lamb.
“Derek?”
I looked up.
“You okay?” Pascal asked.
It took a few seconds to realize where I was. I looked at my work. I had been coloring the beacon of the lighthouse for who knows how long.
“Sure,” I said, trying to look casual by stretching my arms. “I’m going to get a drink of water.”
I made my way to the fountain by the front desk and took a long cool drink.
“Hey, Derek,” Merrilee said when she spotted me. “Come check this out.”
She was pointing to Loyola’s bulletin board of lost-and-found bookmarks. How many people came back for their lost items, I wondered. Not many judging from the way the items were cluttered and spilling over the sides.
Then I spotted a folded piece of paper with Loyola’s name on it.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the paper.
Loyola unpinned and unfolded the paper. It had been the front cover of an essay she had written. She read the title out loud.
“‘How I Did Not Spend My Summer Vacation.’”
I noted that the fold marks had almost worn through. I could also see that someone had written a comment underneath the title, but I couldn’t read it upside down.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Loyola cleared her throat, blushing slightly.
“Loyola, you are a gifted storyteller. Promise me that you’ll keep writing.”
“Nice comment,” I said. “Is it from a teacher?”
“Yes, back when I was in grade six at Queensview. The teacher was only there for a year, but he was the best one I ever had. I folded the cover into a bookmark and used it for years, until I almost wore it out. Now I just keep it posted here for safekeeping.” She folded and pinned the cover to her bulletin board.
“So, are you still writing?” I asked.
“I try, but with all my studying and part-time work here, I only have time to write in the margins, so to speak.”
I looked again at the bookmark she had re-pinned to the bulletin board. I studied the frayed fold marks.
“How many years ago were you at Queensview?” I asked, following a hunch.
“Let’s see. Seven.”
“Seven?”
I remembered what Ms. Albright told us. Trevor Tower sealed his time capsule seven years ago.
Seven years ago exactly.
“Then you must have known Trevor Tower.”
“Trevor Tower? Sure, I knew Trevor. But his family moved away right after grade six.”
I could feel Merrilee stiffen beside me.
“What can you tell us about him?” I asked. I could not believe my luck.
“Let me think. He loved bulldogs. He liked to fly kites. His parents were pilots, so he moved a lot. Oh, and his locker was chosen for the school’s time-capsule program.”
I stepped forward in excitement for my next question, but Merrilee secretly tugged the back of my shirt.
I halted and looked at Merrilee, confused.
“We should let Loyola get back to work,” she said, dead calm. “We don’t want to get her into trouble.”
“I’m done!” Pascal called from the back of the library.
We turned to see him waving us over to the table where he had been working.
We headed back.
“Why don’t you want Loyola to know about the secret codes?” I whispered just before we rejoined Pascal.
“No reason,” she said, “other than she’s practically a grown-up. And grown-ups always try to interfere whenever kids are trying to solve a mystery. Don’t you read?”
“You don’t trust her?” I asked, ignoring the insult, which I knew she threw out to try to distract me.
“I don’t even trust you,” she replied, but she smiled when she said it.
We stopped to admire Pascal’s gravestone, which he held up for better viewing. It featured a theater stage with tasseled curtains opening on each side and a string of star-shaped lights across the top. On stage, a lion stood on its hind legs wearing a cape and taking what appeared to be a final bow. Pascal’s epitaph read, No More Encores, and underneath he had drawn two trumpets that crossed each other.
“Your final performance,” Merrilee said.
“Very Hollywood,” I said.
“Exactly,” Pascal said proudly.
“Loyola knew Trevor Tower,” I blurted to Pascal. “They were both in the same class back in grade six at Queensview.”
“Oh no! You didn’t tell Loyola about the secret codes, did you?” Pascal accused. He turned to Merrilee but pointed to me. “Doesn’t he read?”
“Don’t worry. I pulled him away in time,” Merrilee said, and before I could defend myself, she sidled over to my drawing.
“Are you done?” she asked.
“Not quite,” I said, picking up my blue colored pencil. “I still have the ocean to fill in.”
I got to work while they watched.
I was happy with my design. A lighthouse flanked by two anchors shone a beacon of light toward the open sea. A dove flew away in the same direction as the beacon of light. My epitaph read, He set his sails against the gales and went wherever he wanted to go.
“You’re pointing to eternity,” Merrilee observed. “That’s lovely.”
&n
bsp; “Thanks,” I said, pretty sure that she was being sincere, not spooky.
I was even excited to show my work to Creelman.
When the Brigade returned to the library, they were dripping with rain. They silently studied our gravestones, arms clasped behind their backs as if they were cruising through an art gallery on opening night. Then, as usual, Creelman spoke for the three of them, only this time his words made us puff up like peacocks.
“Good job,” he announced.
The Brigade turned to go.
“See you next Wednesday,” Creelman growled, and they were off.
But we did not see Creelman the next Wednesday.
Instead, the morning after the library, Ms. Albright sent a note to Pascal, Merrilee and me as we sat in class. We left our desks to report to her office.
“Do you think it’s about Trevor Tower?” I nervously asked Merrilee and Pascal as we joined each other in the hallway. “Have we done something wrong?”
“We haven’t done anything wrong,” Merrilee said grimly. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Then what’s happening?” I asked. “This can’t be good.”
“No idea,” Merrilee said. “Everyone just keep calm.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence. The three of us said nothing as we formed a tense line in front of Ms. Albright’s desk.
My heart was pounding and my hands were sweating.
“I’m afraid I have some very sad news,” she said, removing her glasses and looking into our faces one at a time.
I swallowed as I dared to glance at Merrilee and Pascal.
Trevor Tower. It had to be something about Trevor Tower or his locker.
“It’s Mr. Creelman,” Ms. Albright continued. “He died at his home last night.”
Eight
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