Sydney Mackenzie Knocks 'Em Dead

by Cindy Callaghan

  He flipped inside and outside switches until he had all the lights turned off. “They usually fix themselves . . . eventually.”

  Then he looked at me with my arms folded across my midsection. “Are you gonna be warm enough?”

  I said, “I don’t think I’ll be warm enough until July.” And I put on my new hat and scarf.

  “Well, all the dead make it extra cold here at Lay to Rest.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. In Fangs for You spirits sucked the warmth out of the air. Maybe I could ask Elliott about the thuds.

  “I’m kidding,” Elliott said. “Geez. I got you with that one.”

  I let out a weak laugh, because I didn’t think it was funny, and followed him out the back. When he wasn’t looking, I exhaled and examined the white puff of my breath.

  Elliott stopped and opened his arms wide. “Welcome to the graveyard. My job is to keep the grounds maintained. But I go one step further and really make them snappy. Do you see how I trimmed the evergreens over there so that people can walk the path without worrying the boughs will hit them on the head?”

  Whose job is it to manage the ghosts? “Uh-huh.”

  “I took those trimmed branches and pruned them into nice little sprigs, which I tied together with a light wire. See the swags of green garland draped from the mausoleum roofs? It adds a little color.”

  Elliott was the Martha Stewart of cemeteries. “Exactly what is a mausoleum? I mean, what’s inside those buildings?” Cemetery knowledge was going to be important to my rise in popularity.

  “They’re buildings in which people can be encased instead of being buried.” He weaved among a row of structures, and I followed. “Families own these to house several ancestors in one place.”

  “Oh.” Majorly creepy Magoo.

  “There are sixty rows of graves. Each row is fifty graves long and two deep. That’s how we refer to their locations. For example this is row twelve, grave number ten. The bottom grave is called B, the top is A. So this plot is 12-10A.”

  “What do you mean ‘two deep’?”

  “That means that a couple, like a married couple, can buy one grave plot, but both corpses can be buried in it, one on top of another, for all eternity.”

  I shivered. It seemed Elliott liked talking about corpses and dead bodies. Maybe he could tell I was getting uncomfortable, because he explained the rest more basically. “One is buried seven feet deep, and the other three and a half feet deep. It saves space and it saves people money.”

  “How many people”—I didn’t know what word to use—“are buried here?”

  “We have about twenty-five hundred souls on our property, and room for at least three thousand more. There’s plenty of room for many years to come. Your parents have made a good investment. I wish I could’ve bought her myself.”

  Part of me wished he had bought her and I could be back in California. Another part of me was glad he hadn’t, because Lay to Rest was giving me a chance to be the Gigi. A chance I wouldn’t have had in California. “And how old is this place?”

  “Many of the original records have been lost, but the oldest headstone she has is from 1602. You know, lots of history here. I sometimes wonder about all the stories this place could tell. That’s over a hundred and seventy years before the Declaration of Independence was signed.” He smiled proudly.

  “Wow.” It was pretty amazing.

  From where Elliott and I now stood at the top of the hill, I could see into the entire cove. Little houses and streets were plotted among a layer of gray slush. It seemed like the most insignificant place in the world, but not to Elliott, and not to Roz and Jim and Uncle Ted and Johanna. And, I guess, not to me.

  There was one house that stood out because it was bigger and farther away from everything else. “Who lives there?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Dolan. Let’s just say she doesn’t go out much.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s not popular around these parts,” he said.

  “How come?”

  “People think her family is cursed.”

  My throat dropped into my chest, and my belly flipped. “Cursed?”

  “Her ancestors were witches, they say.”

  For a second I thought I’d have to live in a town without a curse of a witch. Phew.

  The witch-curse thing didn’t faze Elliott because he just continued bragging about the town. “Buttermilk River Cove is a great place. Some people say John Hancock may have stopped here on his way to sign the Declaration of Independence.”

  “Neat.”

  He reached under his cloak into a pocket and pulled out a rag with which he wiped bird poop off a tombstone. “We get a lot of birds on account of the birdhouses and feeders I’ve nailed along that row of tall oaks. Do you see them?”

  I couldn’t miss them; they’d been painted bright red.

  “I think people like to see birds flying when they visit. Their chirping is comforting to them, I think.”

  “I like birds.” I knew it sounded stupid, but I didn’t have anything else nice to offer. John Hancock was boring, it was cold, and I was still preoccupied by the cursed witch.

  Our expedition complete, Elliott surveyed the whole property we’d just walked. “Yup,” he said. “She is really special.”

  “She does seem special,” I agreed. I just had to start believing it. The wind blew and a twig snapped underfoot, making me jump.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine.” Before I could like Lay to Rest I’d have to get past the fact that it scared the bejesus out of me.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said, seeming to know what I was thinking. “Give it some time.”

  He held the back door open for me, and after four tries he found the light switch that worked.

  “What’s in there?” I asked about a door.

  “That goes down to the cold room. That’s where bodies used to be stored before burials. Your dad has big plans to transform that room.” At that, the lights went out. “Oh, stop that,” he said to no one in particular, and he flipped the switch back on.

  “What was that?”

  “Like I said, that happens sometimes, but I have to admit, it’s never been this bad.” Then he said, “Let’s see if Joyce can get us some hot cocoa.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” I said.

  Joyce stood in the kitchen–meeting room, which was dark despite several candles. She stirred a tall wooden spoon in circles inside a big black pot. The steam wrapped around her like ribbons of dense fog. “Cocoa?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “And how about a toasted muffin?”

  “That sounds great.”

  Joyce sliced a muffin in half and spread creamy white butter on either half and plopped them, butter side down, on a griddle. I expected a sizzle, but the griddle wasn’t hot.

  She laughed awkwardly and sent an eye message to Elliott.

  “I know,” he said. “It just started yesterday.”

  She eyed him again, sending another message.

  “It will go away. Don’t worry—”

  “Don’t worry about what?” I asked. “That Jim isn’t handy? I’ve known that for a long time.”

  She smiled, looking at Elliott, not me. Then she asked him, “Be a dear and hand me those mugs.”

  She ladled the hot liquid into the mugs. “Here we go. Two cocoas, hold the eye of newt.”

  I laughed awkwardly. She was kidding, obviously. Right?

  I sipped cautiously. “Yum.”

  “It’s made with buttermilk,” she said with a wink. “That’s my secret.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I said.

  “It’s okay. Nothing is a secret around here. It’s a small town . . . everybody knows everything.”

  When it was ready, I bit into a toasty, crispy, buttery corn muffin. It was fantastic.

  “What does your father have planned for the basement?” Joyce asked. A breeze flew through the kitchen, causi
ng the candle flames to quiver.

  “I heard him say a yoga or game room.”

  Elliott said, “It will need a lot of demo work before renovations can begin.”

  The dim kitchen light began to blink—on, off, on, off.

  “Just a snafu with the wiring,” Elliott said.

  Joyce said, “We both know it has nothing to do with wiring.”

  * chapter nine *

  VISITORS

  I DIDN’T GET TO ASK what Joyce meant about the wiring because we interrupted by a knock.

  I moved through the Victorian to the front door. I opened it to see a large, plump man with sideburns the shape of Texas.

  “Well, hello there. You must be Sydney,” he said with a deep, low voice. “I’m Mr. Margreither.”

  I recognized the name from hearing my parents talk about him. He was the mayor of Buttermilk River Cove. “Hello, Mayor Margreither.”

  “I just stopped by to introduce myself in the flesh and blood. No more phone and e-mail. Are your folks here?”

  I heard the vacuum running, telling me Roz was upstairs, and I heard hammering, which probably meant Jim was working on the roof again. I hoped he didn’t hammer himself to the shingles. “Sure. Come in.”

  Joyce walked up behind me. “Why hello, Mayor Margreither. I’m sure you’re looking for the Mackenzies. I’ll get them for you.”

  “Thank you, Joyce. It’s a pleasure to see you.” Then Mayor Margreither asked me, “How are you finding Buttermilk River Cove?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Have you made any friends?”

  “My first day of school isn’t officially until tomorrow, but I went in today and met a bunch of the kids,” I said.

  Two figures walked up the sidewalk toward the house. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Here comes the queen of Buttermilk River Cove Middle School herself.”

  I wanted to correct him and explain that it was an elementary and middle school in one building designed for extras from the Wizard of Oz’s Munchkinland, but I didn’t. Melanie Healey and a woman I assumed was her mother came up the driveway. “Oh, Mayor Margreither! What a lovely surprise to see you here!” Mrs. Healey exclaimed.

  Mayor Margreither said, “Hello, Jennifer. Hello, Melanie.”

  Joyce returned with Roz and Jim, then left to make coffee. Mrs. Healey handed Roz a package in which she said there was a fresh duck, a gift to welcome us to Buttermilk River Cove. I wasn’t certain, but I thought I saw a webbed foot sticking out of the bag. Ew.

  Roz thanked Mrs. Healey holding the bag as far away from her as possible, then said to me, “Why don’t you show your friend around? You’re Melanie, right?”

  “Mel,” Mel corrected Roz.

  “Sure,” I said. “Come on, Mel.”

  I figured that making a good impression was very important. I showed her the percolator and griddle, then the office, which I’d not been in yet.

  Melanie let out a loud sigh. I was boring her.

  Then we entered a big room with a fireplace. The windows on each side were covered by long, heavy, dark drapes.

  Melanie asked. “Is this where you keep the coffins?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Mel’s eyes glossed over.

  I thought. “Um, I think this is known as the Last Chance Room. It’s the last time people get to see someone’s body before it goes into the ground.” I carefully watched her expression. “Deep, deep into the earth in a locked box forever . . . and ever.”

  “Yeah?” She wanted to hear more.

  “Actually, this room got its name when John Hancock—you know he was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence?—well, he had died and he was supposed to be buried here. His wife came in and lifted the lid of his casket to give him one last kiss before he was buried for all eternity. And when she touched his lips, he moved.”

  “He did?”

  I was on a roll. “Yeah.”

  “And then what happened?”

  I thought of a scene from White Beach. “He kissed her back—a big passionate kiss. Then he sat up and wrapped his arms around her. I think she climbed in the coffin with him and they kissed for, like, a really long time.” (The part about the coffin wasn’t from White Beach.)

  She nodded. “Wow, cool.”

  “Yeah, totally cool. So you see if he didn’t get that last chance, we might still be a colony of England, right?”

  She hung on every word.

  “This room is super important to American history.”

  Mel’s eyes begged for more details, which I offered.

  “From then on all the dead bodies hang out in this room for a certain amount of time, like a day or eight hours, before being buried, just to make sure that the person isn’t going to come back to life.” Mel was totally buying it. Maybe we could get froyo together one day. If Buttermilk River Cove had froyo, that is.

  Mel said, “That’s a good story, Mac. I hadn’t heard that one before, and I thought I knew everything about Buttermilk River Cove.”

  I smiled at her.

  I was going to make this the coolest cemetery ever.

  * chapter ten *

  THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

  WHETHER YOU LIVED IN CALIFORNIA or Delaware, the real test of popularity was in the same place—the school cafeteria. I was nervous to enter the caf the first day of school. I really wished Leigh were here.

  I remembered my movie preview where everybody wanted me to sit at their table. Today I just hoped one person, preferably a non-booger-eater, would invite me to sit with them.

  I saw One and Two right away. They were sitting with a bunch of other first graders. They chugged chocolate milk out of little boxes and burped the “Star-Spangled Banner.” They were the hit of the table. The Dumb-Os were “in” already.

  I wandered around the caf checking to see if I got any strange looks at my new turtleneck, new scarf, or old boot-cut jeans. I didn’t. Although, maybe my black leather boots with an itty-bitty heel got some double takes.

  When I saw Mel and Johanna, they waved me over to sit with them.

  YES!

  “Hey,” I said.

  Mel was drawing on her sneakers with a permanent marker, the cap in her teeth. “Hey, Cemetery Girl. I had the heebie-jeebies all night after I left your house.”

  I hesitantly eased into a seat. Heebie-jeebies are bad, right? Had something changed and cemeteries weren’t cool anymore? “You did?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I love spooky stuff. Don’t you?”

  Phew!

  “Welcome to my life. All spooky, all the time,” I said. “I love it too.”

  Mel said, “I told everyone about the Last Chance Room and that story. They want to see it.”

  “Really? I mean, sure, that would be great. Any time. My crypt door is always open.”

  They laughed. (Maybe I was good at cemetery humor.)

  My stomach growled. Maybe some sushi or grilled Swiss with sun-dried tomato on rye would hit the spot. I asked, “Where’s the line?”

  “The milk line?” Mel indicated a row of short kids. “It’s over there.”

  “What about the food?” I asked.

  Mel and Johanna looked at me like I was a zombie. “We bring our own lunch,” Johanna said. “This isn’t like a lunch-au-rant.”

  Mel looked at me. “She means restaurant.”

  “How about a salad bar?” I asked.

  They shook their heads, confused.

  “Frozen yogurt machine?”

  Mel asked, “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shrugged. Mel tossed me a skinny pepperoni thing. I’d heard of Slim Jims but never actually had one. I tore the plastic and apprehensively took a bite. It was greasy and spicy and totally yummy. Leigh would die if she saw me eating a stick of processed meat.

  “Thanks,” I said, and before I knew it, I also had half of a chicken spread on English muffin sandwich and a fistful of Crunch ’n Munch from Johanna.

  Johanna asked, “Does your
house have a bell tower? I always thought that a hunchback who ate bugs lived in the attic. I think it was from some ghost story that my cousin told me one time. She told me that story and another one about the Dolans being cursed.”

  Mel said, “Everybody knows that one.”

  I rounded my back. “Nah. No hunchbacks, just me.”

  They all laughed again. I was a hit! Somehow in the backward land of Buttermilk River Cove, Delaware, the girl who lived at the cemetery in an old Victorian house with weird graveyard workers was in!

  Mel went back to drawing on her shoes. “So what do you do for fun, Mac?” she asked.

  “I like the beach in California. My friends and I spend a lot of time at the beach swimming, getting tans, even surfing.”

  I expected them to say, The Beach!, Surfing!, That’s so cool!, Tell us about it! Instead, Mel said, “You won’t find big waves here.”

  Then I said, “I used to be in school plays.”

  Johanna asked, “You’re an actress? That sounds like fun, huh, Mel?” Mel shrugged a little. “What kind of plays?”

  “I was supposed to be in Romeo and Juliet before I moved. It’s my dream to be in a movie someday. When is your next school play? I’d like to audition.”

  Mel snorted.

  “What?” I asked in response to the snort. “You don’t think I can get a part in the next school play?”

  “Oh, I think you could get the lead,” she spit out with a laugh.

  “Oh, thanks.” I didn’t know what was funny.

  Johanna covered up her amusement. “She thinks it’s funny that you think we have a school play.”

  “You don’t?”

  Johanna shook her head.

  “What about the drama department?” I asked. “Improv class?”

  Johanna shook her head again.

  Mel added, “We don’t have squat around here.”

  Johanna corrected her, “We have a hockey team. They won the Delaware State Championships in 1974.”

  No school play? “Hockey’s good. What else do you guys do around here?”

  They looked at one another and kind of shrugged. “We hang out at the Pizza Palace,” Mel said.

  Johanna added, “They have a club card. You get the ninth slice free.”