Scavengers

by Rosalyn Wraight

  "I doubt that."

  "Why? It's a big house. Room for a big family."

  "Um ... Because it's an automated light. Nobody lives there. Nobody but Gram."

  Okay, I was indeed clueless. I knew something had been ‘wrong’ with her, but I could not fathom that she had taken a plunge off the deep end. I asked what she meant, several times, but she would say nothing expect that I would lose all faith in her if I knew. After nearly having to head down her throat to retrieve the words I needed to hear, she finally said, “I never sold the house, Kate. It's the same as the day she died. Except there's an urn on the mantle now."

  I was speechless. I remembered asking her a hundred times if there was anything I could do to help with the ‘business-side’ of Gram's dying: to help get the house ready to sell, to help pack her things, to...

  "You told me it was taken care of, Claudia. I took that to mean you sold it."

  "I did take care of it. I hired the guy next door to take care of it. I send him a check every month.

  He takes care of it. He put in automatic lights and an alarm. I did take care of it, just not how I had planned to. I just couldn't walk in there. I still can't walk in there, and yet I can't walk away from it. I can't have it just be gone. Isn't that insane?"

  In the darkness of the little cemetery, I tried so hard to see what was in her eyes. They were empty of all but moonlight.

  "So now you know, and now you've lost all faith in me, and you'll leave. Right. I knew it would come to this. I just knew.” She started crying, the cold kind.

  Weep to have that which it fears to lose.

  "Well, one thing I know for sure about you, is that you don't like to be wrong, but it gives me great pleasure to tell you that you are wrong. I won't listen to crap like that, Claudia. I'm not leaving, even though you're doing your awful best to get me to. I won't go. And somewhere inside you know it, too. Otherwise, you wouldn't be pulling away from me. You'd just stand there and wait for me to go. You wouldn't have to move away to make distance. So I'm telling you what you already know: I won't go."

  "One day you will."

  "Yeah, one day I may not have a choice, just like your mom and dad, just like Gram. But do you think that beating me over the head for still being here is really the way to go? How about frickin’

  asking me for help? How about telling me you're scared—you're hurt—you're mad—you don't want to be frickin’ abandoned ever again? But no, you've got to be Ms. Self-Reliance, the badass manager who keeps everybody in line. Don't you think maybe it might make me feel good to be on the needed end for a change? You'd move mountains for me, but you'd give me a spoon to do the same for you—probably a frickin’ slotted spoon at that."

  "And Barbie Doll size,” she acknowledged, and much to my utter surprise and joy, she laughed.

  See, there was trust—and she knew it. I could say all these things, and she still listened; she still laughed at the things that indeed were funny about this “us."

  "But you need to make up your mind,” she said, and I expected another foretelling of my leaving.

  “One minute you want me to move the muck. Now you want me to move mountains. Which will it be?"

  "You sure you want to know?"

  "Yes."

  "And you'll go along with whichever one I pick?"

  "Yes,” she replied, but her face was beginning to scrunch with doubt.

  "No matter what?"

  She clenched her teeth and uttered a very difficult “Yes."

  "Okay. Then I say we screw the muck and we screw the mountain. I want the hill."

  "The hill?"

  "Come here,” I said, and when she neared I held her close. “I wantus to move the hill. You can have the big mama earthmover and boss all us peons around. I don't care. I'll take the Barbie-size slotted spoon, but I want us—together—to move that hill."

  She was crying in my arms. Maybe it was a lifetime of tears that fell, maybe just new ones. I didn't know for sure, but I did know that I felt her surrender—to the horrid feelings, and to me.

  I gently moved her away from me and looked her in the eyes. “We've got two flowers left, honey.

  We're standing here honoring kids who are no longer here but are still important. We have two flowers left. I'll take the S: Sarah for my Sutter. You take K and make it a Kitterman for a Kitterman. Up that hill, honey.” I pointed to her grandmother's house. “Up that hill."

  "Sarah Kitterman.” She said her name as though it was a healing poison. “I don't think I can."

  "I know thatwe can. We can move mountains, remember? We can walk in muck. We can move this hill. I swear we can; otherwise, I wouldn't ask."

  She leaned into me, almost collapsing. Then I felt her head start moving up and down, slowly at first, and then it pulled away from me to became a definite nod. I kissed her.

  "Hey, guys,” I called, trying to be respectful of where we were. When I sensed that all heads had turned toward us, I said, “We're almost done but we need to take care of something important.

  Would you guys be sweethearts and wait for us?"

  "Is this a trick to head us off at the pass?” someone called back, and I had absolutely no desire to determine who had that much nerve.

  "No! I swear!” I defended. “We're supposed to write our own finishing time on the sticker, so do it. The sticker time wins this one, not who gets back first. You can have our damn sticker if you don't believe us."

  "Of course, we'll wait for you, Kate,” Holly yelled. “And I'll personally knock the block off anyone who won't.” The woman had spoken.

  "Thank you, Holly."

  I turned back to Claudia and asked her to give me a moment. I hightailed it over to Laura and Holly. “Hide me from Claudia,” I said. When they did, I hit Kris and Ginny's cell number on my speed dial and said, “I saw you down the road. Everything is okay. Go home."

  I ran back to Claudia, offered my hand, and we were off on a scavenger hunt of our own.

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  Chapter 9

  Somehow moving the hill felt more like moving a mountain. I had not realized what a steep slope we would encounter. Maybe it was better that way, as it certainly exemplified what Claudia had to overcome in order to drag herself up there—to face her biggest fear. Hand in hand, tree to tree, we plugged on, pulling ourselves to the top.

  When we had reached the summit, we both sat to catch our breath. The city on the far side of the river reflected itself on the water, and the moon kept an eye on us. Once our breathing returned to normal, we stood. Claudia took my hand and led me up the few steps to the back porch. We sat in the rickety porch swing and just stared into the night sky. I put my arm around her, and so softly, she whimpered. I thought of the children below us, and I hoped that at sometime in their short lives they had known love—even a mere glimpse of it. Yes, it was what made abandonment such an evil thing, but it also made the feel of someone in your arms utterly sublime and safe. I wanted Claudia to feel safe. I wanted her to know that I was there, and that I would be there as long as this life allowed me to be, but the irony in that, is that I also had to accept the fact that one day we would be painfully parted. That was future; this was now. I did not want her to weep to have me, but just to have me.

  "Honey,” I said. “I love you. I am sorry about your mom and dad. I am sorry about Gram. I am sorry that you hurt, and I hope that you can trust me with all that stuff that makes you not feel in charge. You're a strong woman, but it's okay to not be strong sometimes.” I held her closer.

  “Even if it's just to give me something to do or so I don't look like the wimp all the time."

  "Well, let's start by putting it this way: I don't know how to do that. Will you help me learn?"

  "You're a stubborn one. What if it takes twenty, thirty more years?"

  "Then promise you won't leave me.Please don't leave me."

  She sobbed uncontrollably now. Our guardian angels had brought her back to me. No, Kris was righ
t: She would not be taken. She came back to me by her own free will. I vowed to her that I would not let her go again. I apologized, genuinely, for missing that moment when she turned away from me, for not knowing enough to summon her home and make her feel safe.

  We held each other for a while, and I knew that below us a group of women waited. Impatiently probably, but they waited.

  "This is a damn big house, hon,” I remarked. “Room enough for a big family. Why don't we live here?"

  "We have a house. You wouldn't ... we couldn't ... Could we? I always felt so safe here.” Then the “big family” phrase I had used hit her upside the head like a two-by-four. “Big family!” she yelled.

  "Well, we can talk about it. A couple of adopted kids maybe. Those Old English sheepdogs you always wanted. Hell, I'd settle for a gaggle of geese."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  Ah, there was that smile.

  "I'll think about that. I like the sound of it. But you know ... there is a group of cranky women waiting for us down there.” She downturned her thumb. “One more thing, and then we can go."

  She walked to the back door and lifted the alarm panel's cover. “Your birthday,” she said as she punched in the code. She timidly opened the door, clutched my hand, and we walked into the place that I hoped would make her feel safe again. With the flashlight showing us the way, we entered the living room. She approached the fireplace, pulled our last two carnations from the wrapper, and laid them crisscross in front of the blue urn.

  "Sutter and Kitterman, Gram,” she said. She kissed the urn, bowed her head momentarily, and then tearfully added, “I'll be back, Gram. I promise.” She turned to leave, but stopped. She twisted her head around and said, “I'm sorry, Gram."

  With that, we left and made the treacherous descent back to Granton Home. From that day until the very last, it would hold a special place in my heart.

  "Thanks, kids,” I said as we passed.

  "Yeah, thanks."

  When we finally hit the street, the predictable uproar began in full force. Yes, we knew they had waited forever. Yes, we knew we had lost. Yes, our sticker now bore the losing time of eleven forty-seven. No, we really didn't give a shit.

  Several minutes later we pulled in front of Kris & Ginny's. I needed to find Kris. I needed to thank her for what she knew enough, cared enough to do. Claudia would not weep to have someone anymore because she could weep for those she didn't have. That seemed a paradox, and yet, I knew it was true. Kris would help me understand.

  Our hostesses, however, apparently had other plans. A big hand-printed sign hung on the garage door:Sorry, ladies. It's late. We went to bed. Get your next clue from the mailbox.

  Everyone's jaw hit the driveway, and we just stared in disbelief.

  "The nerve!” “The wenches!” B-words. F-bombs. Horn honking. Knocking. Shushing neighbors.

  The hunt under flowerpots for a spare key. Begging a meowing Muse in the front window to unlock the door. Stomping feet. Yelling. Screaming. Shushing neighbors.

  And then surrender came: taking the clue from the mailbox and leaving our florist's wrapper stuck in the ugly Eiffel Tower squirrel feeder on the front lawn.

  Back in the car, Claudia dispensed with the expected and fitting rant about the two battle-axes who were still messing with us even while they slumbered. Her green eyes were red and puffy, and she rested her head on the back of the bucket seat.

  "Just hang in there, hon,” I said. “If they think it's too late to stay up, they're not going to want us back in the middle of the night to raise another raucous. My guess is that this last one will be short and sweet."

  "Care to place a wager on that?” she asked, tilting her head toward me, a look of disbelief upraising her brow. “My guess is they won't be satisfied until we are pulverized—which feels pretty close."

  If she had seen Kris in the garage—the concern for me, and more so, the concern for her—the guess would have been a different one. I could not imagine them leaving crumbs along the path for her if that path had simply led to yet another, or maybe to the edge of the cliff. No. They would still have her best interests in mind.

  "No” went from my mind and to my tongue. “Short and sweet."

  Huddled together to gather the light from above, we read the final clue.

  Violets, burgers, cards, trust, sticks, dames, and kids: We now reflect.

  With yawns, sighs, slow, slow blinks: Is that utter fatigue we detect?

  But it is far, far from over—not the time to lose your edge.

  Where there is smoke there is fire, the old sayings allege.

  From whence you came the patroness of paris gave her say.

  Victor or not: It matters if you winand how you play.

  Pony up or belly up—alert to the finish line until the bell chimes grub. Get: sanguinary humdinger brine.

  "See! I told you! ‘Far, far from over,'” she roared. “Remember—just keep remembering that we vowed to pay them back."

  "Oh, trust me, after this...” I was indeed exasperated. “Who the hell is the ‘patroness of paris'?"

  Without awaiting an answer—mainly because I knew she didn't have one—I started the car and sped off down the street.

  "Where are we going? Did you figure out the clue already?"

  "No. I'm going back to Road Swill."

  "You want coffee at a time like this?"

  "No. Free Internet,” I declared. “Googles are a girl's best friend."

  Now that coffee was on my mind, though, it did sound like a good and needed thing. I hit the drive-thru and made Claudia scream the customary order from the passenger side, while I thumbed “patroness of paris” into the little text box. Before I could hit “search,” though, Claudia told me to take my foot off the brake. She maneuvered us to the window. Simultaneously, I hit

  “search” and the brakes, and with the exuberance of a child on Christmas morning, I screamed

  “Genevieve” at the top of my lungs.

  The barista stuck her head out of the little window. “Excuse me."

  "Ginny!” I gleefully informed her. “Ginny is the patroness of Paris!” Then it dawned on me that this woman had no clue—literally. “Sorry,” I added. “I just figured something out. Sorry.” I faked an apologetic smile.

  Claudia laughed at me, and whether it came via humiliation or not, I liked it.

  "Okay ... ‘from whence we came’ ... their house. What did Ginny say? What did she say?” I knew we were so close.

  "Um ... She explained the game to us. But that would be stupid to remind us of that at the end, wouldn't it?"

  "What about the end then? What the hell did she say about the end?"

  "Ah, the winners pay for brunch for everyone. ‘Grub!’ They have to ‘pony up'!"

  "Drixel's Terrace, then. That's the finish line. So we have to stay alert all frickin’ night at Drixel's? Are they nuts?"

  "You have to ask?” she challenged and then took our cups from the barista. “Come on, Earl!

  Gimme some love."

  "I still don't get the smoke and fire thing, though, but it sure makes me want a cigarette."

  I moved of away from the barista's window and pulled over, out of the way, which seemed rather unnecessary in a vacant lot. I opened the door, swinging my legs out and lighting a cigarette.

  “Have your way with Earl. I'll be right back,” I said.

  I stood outside in the brisk night air and spied another look at the moon, making sure she was still keeping an eye on us. I took a few long and desperate drags from my smoke, and then I popped the trunk so I could steal the blanket from ever-planning Claudia's winter survival kit. I went back to the front, squished the cigarette under my foot, and placed the blanket over that nasty kidney-stealer of a parking brake. When Claudia asked what I was doing, I informed her that it was for her, that she could rest on my lap while I got us to Drixel's. I knew she would not argue.

  The drive to Drixel's took us out of town, to a r
esort area about fifteen miles from the city. At the outskirts of Haley Springs stood one of those signs so common to resort areas:Population Winter: 50, Summer: 5,000. I figured that since it was early May that it was fifty-two. Fifty-three if you counted Earl. Fifty-two again if you subtracted Claudia, who no longer resided in this world but instead roamed the back roads of slumberland.

  I followed several signs that pointed me to Drixel's Terrace. Eventually, I made our way down its seemingly endless drive and pulled up alongside the three other cars I had been expecting. Heads turned left and right, as we acknowledged one another. Then came the shrugs and the looks of uncertainty. Then came the looks that informed each person that no one among us had any clue what the hell we were supposed to do there all night.