Creepers

by Joanne Dahme

  “What?” I asked warily.When she got that crazed look in her eyes, I knew that any idea could become a plan.

  She pulled out a chair and joined me at the kitchen table. Her back was to the ivy. I scowled at the leaves drooping against the bay windowpanes. The heat must be getting to the ivy, too.

  “Don’t frown that way. It’s unattractive,” she admonished me. “Anyway, the editor of The Murmur Mercury,” she added when she saw my eyebrows shoot up in a question, “asked me to do a story on urban sprawl. Do you know what that is?”

  I did not answer right away, as I was still swallowing a giant gulp of tea. “Yes,” I finally replied, enduring her impatient stare. “It’s when developers build homes far from cities, usually on farmland or other open areas.We learned about it in school last year.” I thought about my eighth-grade teacher who was passionate about all things green. “Mr. Clark was a real environmentalist. He and his friend tied themselves to a bulldozer or something one time.” My classmates and I thought that Mr. Clark was a nut.

  “Good for Mr. Clark!” my mom practically cheered. “Anyway, I found myself interviewing this developer about the fifty or so homes he hopes to build right outside of Murmur’s downtown.” She stared at me to draw a reaction.

  I could not help but think that at least there would be some more people around here. “Where does he want to build the homes?” I asked to appease her.

  “On a portion of the remaining cemetery. It’s over two hundred acres. The developer claims that there is no room left for new burials, and he’s willing to pay a nice price to relocate the existing remains.” She slapped her palm on the table. “No one will care, he insisted. Can you believe that?” Her face was now as red as mine.

  I suddenly saw the vines of ivy swaying outside in the wind. I tried to recall even the slightest breeze when I was weeding. Someone will care . . . a lot.

  We were waiting for Dad on the front steps when he pulled into the driveway in his pickup. The candy-apple-colored pickup was new with the house. Dad said we needed one now that we lived in New England. Mom told me that all little boys want a pickup truck, and if they never get one, it’s like dying with an unrequited love hanging over their heads. Mom gave the pickup a mean stare. Suddenly the truck symbolized builders and the sprawl left in their wake.

  “Whoa,” Dad said, pulling the truck in front of the steps. “Did I do something that serious?” His tie was off and the truck’s windows were down. His red hair was standing on end.

  “Nice look, Dad,” was all I could say before Mom was up and standing by the driver’s side door.

  “Tom, did you know that there is a developer interested in buying up some of the cemetery and building houses on it?” Her arms were crossed over her chest as if she dared him not to know.

  “You’re kidding.” His tone was serious to match my mom’s. His “Mom antennae” were usually well tuned. “Is that the story you were assigned? I got your message at work but it wasn’t clear.”

  Mom nodded. “Yes.We have to figure out how to fight this.”

  My dad glanced at me to see if I was upset, but I just shrugged.

  “Jen, let me park this thing and change out of these clothes and we’ll talk. I’ll throw some burgers on the grill, okay?” He flashed her his best boyish smile.

  “All right,” she agreed. She patted him playfully on the cheek before he pulled around to the “wall of the east wing” of the house to park in the back by the shed.

  “Shall we go in and wash up?” she asked, putting her arm around my shoulder. “I hope you don’t think your mom is crazy.”

  “Well,” I started jokingly, but I was interrupted by a voice calling from the end of the driveway.

  “Courtney! Mrs. O’Brien!” It was Margaret and Mr. Geyer walking along the road toward the cemetery. Brochures were tucked under Mr. Geyer’s arm. I had not seen them give one tour yet, I realized.

  “Mr. Geyer! Wait!” my mom called, her voice hitting a pitch it only reaches when she’s excited. “I must talk to you!”

  Mr. Geyer’s eyebrows were raised in surprise as my mom jogged down the driveway. I trotted right behind her. Margaret smiled as if truly glad to see us. “Let me hold the brochures for you, Dad,” she offered as she slipped them from his side.

  My mom looked at Mr. Geyer as if she had hit the lottery. “Forgive me for shouting, but I couldn’t let you get away.” She laughed. She was just as suddenly serious.“I need to ask you if you know anything about a developer who wants to build homes on parcels of the cemetery, that is, once he purchases the property and relocates the remains.”

  For a moment, Mr. Geyer said nothing. Margaret glanced at the cemetery and then back at our house.

  “We did hear that,” Margaret answered for him. The smile was gone from her face.

  “Well, we heard the rumors,” Mr. Geyer corrected. “We prayed they were not true. This cemetery is precious. It must not be disturbed again.” He pronounced this like a church minister addressing his distracted congregants.

  My mom seemed captivated by his eyes. They seemed to float behind his lenses, as if disconnected from his body.

  “I agree,” she finally replied.

  “Then we’ll need your help,” he said. All the humor was gone from his voice. It must have been ninety degrees out, and yet I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

  “Well, actually, I have an idea,” my mom said, as if challenged. “I’m doing a story on it for our weekly paper, so it would be a conflict of interest for me to get personally involved.” Her speech tumbled rapid-fire as it does when she is excited and does not want anyone to interrupt her. “But you know this cemetery better than anyone. If you want to gain attention about its plight, perhaps a protest could be arranged. Then I can cover the story for the paper. You’ll need to rally the people of Murmur to fight for its protection.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Margaret agreed.

  Mr. Geyer turned to my mom and I could almost see his demeanor soften.

  “An interesting proposition, Mrs. O’Brien,” he agreed, the chill gone from his voice.

  “Do you have any ideas?” my mom asked hopefully.

  “Perhaps.” He nodded, a bit distractedly. “But don’t worry. I’ll come up with something newsworthy, I promise you.”

  “Great.” My mom beamed. “I’ll need to interview you, too, as the cemetery’s expert. And I’ll want you to start calling me Jenny,” she insisted.

  “Certainly.” Mr. Geyer suddenly seemed very calm.

  “Can we pick a time to talk tomorrow? My article is due by Wednesday. Will that give you enough time to brainstorm a plan?”

  “It will have to be enough time.” Mr. Geyer smiled patiently. “Time waits for no man.”

  I looked at the cemetery and tried to picture winding tree-lined streets with nice big houses and lots of people. Would it really be that bad? Then I remembered Prudence. If Prudence was still lost from the first move, how many others might be displaced?

  “Exactly,” Margaret said, turning to me, although I am sure that I had not voiced my thoughts out loud.

  MARGARET, MR. GEYER, AND I WERE SITTING BY Prudence’s grave. Despite the high August temperatures there was a nice breeze, which made the sitting bearable. Today Margaret’s hair was pulled back in a single thick braid, taut against her face, making it look almost shrunken. She had the witch’s emerald eyes.

  Margaret had brought along another copy from a page of Christian’s journal, to inspire us in planning our cemetery protest.

  The witch stood on my threshold today. She looked from my raw hands to the ivy that I had just finished carving on my door. Ivy swirled in concentric circles between the knocker and knob as if caught up in the wind.

  “I saw you from the road,” she explained.

  Her green eyes seemed to penetrate my soul.

  “She hasn’t come home yet,” I accused. I was ashamed that she saw me this way. She was a witch, but she was also a woman.


  “You must be patient, sir. It’s only been a few days. Nature does not heed our hourglass.”

  “Leave me alone,” I begged. “Unless you have another spell that can speed the hands of time.”

  She shook her head. “No one is that powerful. God would not permit it. We must work within His laws.”

  I wanted to push her away. I almost raised a hand to her. Her black hair blew in a cloud about her head, as if my thoughts agitated the wind, but she turned away on her own.

  “Impatience only breeds fury and fury fire” she warned as she walked back to the road and her horse.

  “Why only one page?” I asked. I was hooked. I wanted to hear more.

  She was pleased by the question and placed her hand over mine. “I just picked an excerpt that I thought was appropriate for today. I’m afraid of leaving the house with even one. What if it got damaged or lost?” Her face was beseeching. Her question seemed sincere.

  I looked at the skeleton head, the bats, the angels, and the ivy decorating Prudence’s tombstone and nodded. I understood. Every clue to Prudence’s whereabouts was precious.

  Mr. Geyer was walking along one of the gravel paths with a notebook, jotting as he paused and peered at various tombstones.Wispy white clouds raked the blue sky behind him. The hearty sycamores and willows that had grown on this land from tiny seeds seemed to stand at attention. Their leaves barely stirred. Mr. Geyer seemed incongruous in this pastoral scene in his jeans and plaid shirt.Then again, he looked out of place wherever he was. I was beginning to recognize his limited wardrobe already.

  “It’s teasing, isn’t it, Courtney?” He glanced at Margaret, who was crouching now and plucking at the weeds daring to sprout around Prudence’s plot. “When I found Christian’s journal at the historical society, I stayed up all night reading it. I was entranced.” His eyes were focused on my face, but when he turned slightly, his glasses appeared like fun-house mirrors. Talk about entrancing. I looked back to Margaret.

  “The story is so sad. Even the little bit of it I’ve heard,” I murmured. I wanted to ask to borrow the journal, but an historical society would never trust it with a kid. I would have to wait for the pages that Margaret would share with me.

  Margaret stood slowly and began to brush the dirt from her hands. “It is sad, especially because we know how it ends, but I brought this page to get us thinking. Dad said we needed a theme.” She brought the page close to her face, as if she missed something.

  “How about . . .” she began. “‘Impatience only breeds fury and fury fire’?” she suggested.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Sounds kind of threatening,” I offered. “I don’t think we want to scare people.” I glanced around us. The cemetery was deserted. Who was there to scare?

  Mr. Geyer came up beside me. “I think you’re right, Courtney. Perhaps we should think about ‘Nature does not heed our hourglass.’”

  Now it was Margaret who squinted in doubt. “And what’s the message there?” She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “That nature has its own schedule, and thus its own design.” Mr. Geyer’s chin was raised in contemplation as he spoke.

  “I think I need to know exactly what we are planning before I can pick a theme,” I confessed. A sudden breeze played gently with the ends of my hair. It felt like the affectionate hands of a friend.

  “Maybe we should just tell them about Prudence,” I blurted. “Her story sure got me hooked.”

  Margaret and Mr. Geyer both sort of cocked their heads at me.

  “Tell them what?” Mr. Geyer asked guardedly. I felt those big eyes of his scrutinizing every inch of my face.

  “Uhhh . . .” Suddenly I felt like I was taking a test. “About her missing coffin. How the first time they relocated the cemetery, they lost people’s remains to make room for the farm.” My voice got stronger as the idea made perfect sense to me. “There may still be people in town who have ancestors buried here. Nobody wants their ancestors going missing.” I shrugged when they both continued to stare.

  Margaret stood by Prudence’s grave and then suddenly crouched, as if waiting to hear Prudence whisper her opinion. Mr. Geyer opened his notebook and began flipping the pages. What is with these two? They seemed unconvinced.

  “Who knows?” I braved, only slightly daunted by the vexing silence. “Maybe we can get the cemetery registered as an historic site. My teacher at home tried that, but he was a little too nerdy and people wouldn’t pay attention to him.” I was looking at Mr. Geyer’s black socks as I said this.

  “Margaret can tell them, and I’ll help.” People would listen to Margaret. She at least looked normal and was incredibly well spoken. Adults would listen to her. I knew this instinctively.

  Margaret stood and reached for my hand. For a girl my age, she had some old-fashioned habits, like this hand-grabbing thing right out of Little Women.

  “I think that’s a terrific idea.” Her usually pale face was flushed. She was breathing fast. “We have the photos and the newspaper clippings about the relocation.We just need to show some proof that Prudence is missing.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “I thought you had her grave dug up.”

  Margaret’s green eyes opened wide. “Courtney, we said we dug up some information. We’re not allowed to dig up a grave, but perhaps in this case. . . .” she added wistfully. Her gaze darted to Mr. Geyer’s face. She gave him a look that said, Well?

  “Then can we use the information that you already found?” Well what? I was confused. Why is everything such a riddle with them?

  “No, we cannot, Courtney.” Mr. Geyer had the same stern look on his face he took on last night with my mother. “The information I have, if published, could compromise my research. And I don’t want to mention Christian Geyer or the ivy in any way. Is that understood?”

  I must have been squinting at him, as if a complete stranger had suddenly taken over the body of Mr. Geyer. “I don’t want to, either,” I agreed, thinking of the ivy blazing trails along my basement walls. I probably sounded a bit offended.

  “Dad,” Margaret interrupted, “Courtney is just trying to help. She has a good idea. We can make this work.” Margaret’s chin was in the air again.

  It was amazing how she can soften him.The notebook dropped to his side and he scratched his head like he was thinking about a long-ago memory. “I’m sorry, Courtney. I care so much about this cemetery that it makes me fierce. I know you are our ally. Forgive my rudeness. I guess I’m feeling the pressure of this fight.”

  “I understand,” I said. And I did. For the past year, this research was their whole life. I turned to measure with my eyes the vast expanse of the cemetery, extending without limit from my vantage point. I tried to imagine houses with big yards and decks suddenly in this place. It was jarring. It felt sacrilegious.

  I turned back to smile in sympathy at Mr. Geyer and Margaret. I knew what they were feeling, but my smile disolved as I saw them staring in the direction of my house. Mr. Geyer’s brows were raised as if in surprise. Margaret’s mouth was slightly open.

  “What is it?” I asked nervously. It looked the same to me—an ivy-bound house surrounded by woods and cornfields.

  Mr. Geyer rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. “Nothing, Courtney. Just thinking about all the work that still needs to be done.”

  Margaret and I stood at the end of my driveway and caught the breeze of a passing car before we turned down the road. Mr. Geyer was left behind with my mother. He was probably sitting at the kitchen table now, those pots and pans suspended over his head, as my mom pulled out her yellow tablet for the interview. She liked to write big. Little notebooks were not her style.

  I had wanted to sit in on the interview. I knew my mom would ask good questions about the cemetery and Mr. Geyer’s role in its protection. Questions that I would never have thought about or dared to ask. Questions only an adult can ask another adult. But then again, my mom had no knowledge of the ivy or Christian
’s journal, and from what Mr. Geyer had told me in the cemetery just an hour ago, he was not going to tell her.

  Margaret and I were quiet as we walked along the bed of the drainage swale. It was already dry and hard, as if the August sun had sucked up all the moisture from the ground. I gazed up at the leafy canopy that periodically shaded our walk. Some of the trees were so large that their thicker branches arced across the road, allowing their shoots to brush softly against the swaying stalks of corn.

  “Courtney, my dad didn’t mean to be harsh,” Margaret said apologetically. She cocked her head, awaiting my reaction. Her green eyes were serious as she used the back of her hand to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. “He’s just worried about the cemetery. He knows your idea to teach people about the cemetery is a good one.That’s why he sent you and me home to begin working on the posters.”

  I gave Margaret one of my biggest smiles, the kind I give to Mom and Dad when they are acting like the world is coming to an end. I didn’t like Margaret looking pinched with worry. Maybe it was that tight braid of hers.

  “I know, Margaret. He was just being single-minded, the way grown-ups can get when they’ve got a problem,” I replied, pulling my damp T-shirt off my skin. I was looking forward to the permanent shade of the woods. I could see the dirt path that led to the Geyers’ house about five hundred yards farther down the road.

  Margaret emitted a musical little laugh. “Single-minded! That’s a very good description of him, Courtney. My dad would be the first to admit it.”

  “My mom can be, too. Actually, that could be a very good thing for the cemetery—two single-minded champions,” I declared proudly. I had recently finished The Once and Future King as part of my summer reading list. King Arthur believed that the mighty should protect the weak from evil. Who more than the dead would need someone fighting their cause for them? I realized with some excitement that we had a cause now, although I was not sure if we had the might.

  “I think we can do it,” Margaret said, as if she had read my mind again. She grabbed my arm to pull me toward the dirt path as a car whooshed by, unsettling the wildflowers that grew along the swale.The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as soon as the odor of pine needles perfumed the air.