by Iacopo Bruno
“Becky, you sound like you hope that kitten dies!”
I let my eyes follow a rowboat crossing to the Illinois side of the Mississippi. One place on the river the rower was in Missouri, and the next he was a whole state over. I wondered if he could feel the moment when he was someplace different or if it felt the same and he had to remind himself of the change.
“Amy Lawrence, I didn’t mean it like that. I would never say, ‘Let’s kill a kitten,’ but if a deceased one is coming to be available, it would be foolish not to take advantage of its spirit-repelling powers. You won’t be helping it along or anything.” Besides, I thought, feeling ornery, it’s just a kitten. Not a brother or a mama.
Amy nodded, her cheeks pink and eyes shiny with unshed tears for the sick kitten. “You’re right, I guess.”
“Good. Just keep an eye out or a dog might eat it. Think you can put that kitten in a bag and keep it, if it dies?”
“I . . . I reckon I could.”
“Good.” I clapped her on the shoulder. “We’ll do just fine at the cemetery tonight, and then we’ll win that bet, and then I’ll buy you a dress with my share of the winnings.”
Amy had torn her dress on a branch during our exploring, and she was about as good at sewing as I was. I told her to give the dress to Mrs. Sprague to fix, but she said she was too embarrassed (“explorer” not being a real Christian game for young girls to play) and didn’t want to lie about how the fabric got torn.
That’s a beautiful and dangerous thing to have in a best friend, one that’s not inclined to lie. Daddy would probably plunk honesty in the category of being responsible and grown-up, but telling the plain truth didn’t suit my lifestyle much. I’d been gradually convincing Amy that most lies were right nice, because you were telling people what they wanted to hear, and what could be wrong with making people happy? She liked that reasoning, and made me repeat it a few times to get it fixed in her head.
We worked our way through the food, Amy telling me how the cemetery was up past the picnic grounds and the old cave near Carver Hill, behind the Widow’s house a ways.
“Becky, you don’t think we’ll run into the Pritchard brothers, do you?” Amy asked.
Shaking my head, I hunted for a throwing stone. “Why would thieves and murderers hang around a graveyard? Nothing to steal and the people are already dead.” Finding a beauty, I launched the rock a good thirty feet, where it made a nice plop in the river. “No, they won’t come near there. But speaking about meanies and the picnic grounds, I got a little idea about Mr. Dobbins and the school picnic next month.” I reached for a slice of lemon cake.
She lit up, lifting the other slice. “What’s that?”
“It has a little to do with hair grease and a little to do with a stinkbug that I’ve been saving for Tom Sawyer . . .”
After lunch, I walked Amy to her house on the other side of town and headed back to Willow Street. I was nearly home, when, from the corner of my eye, I saw something jump off the Sawyer porch. Puffing breath and quick footsteps followed behind me. I turned and felt my stomach slip down to my toes.
“Hey!” Joe Harper caught up to me. “Where are you going? Mama clipped my nails, but I kept this one away from her, just for you.” He held up a finger and smiled at my scab. “Time to pay up.”
Chapter Six
An unexpectedly fearful happening at the cemetery
At eleven fifteen that night, I snuck out the back door with an extra set of Jon’s clothes flung over my shoulder, half an apple pie in my hands, and my marbles stuffed deep into my front overall pocket. I peered down the road, making good and sure that Tom Sawyer wasn’t watching from his porch for someone to tattle on. Crossing town only took five minutes because I was feeling extra spirited under the light of the full moon.
I let out three meows when I got to the Lawrence place and didn’t get a single response. Tried three more times, but Amy never meowed back, so I tossed a pebble at her bedroom window.
“I’m here,” Amy whispered, sticking her head out. “Just making sure Daddy’s good and asleep.”
“Brought you half a pie,” I whispered back. “Miss Ada made extra.” Maybe it would cheer her daddy up. I heard that misery loves company, but I suspected it would get along with pie, too. Also, I figured Amy was an inexperienced mischief-maker, and it didn’t hurt to balance the idea of bad-doing with a reward of something good-tasting. “Where do you want it?”
“Kitchen table’s fine, door’s open. I’ll be right there.”
By then I’d been inside the house enough to see that an eleven-year-old girl without a mama or a Miss Ada to help had a time cleaning up after a daddy who has friends over to play cards. There were piles of crumbs in the counter corners, a few old spills on the kitchen floor that hadn’t quite been wiped away, and a heap of tools and paint buckets by the back door, as though somebody had considered fixing something at one point but never got around to it. Amy said they’d had to burn all her mama’s clothing because of her sickness, and her daddy’d gone crazy with grief and burned most everything else that belonged to Mrs. Lawrence. There wasn’t much sign that Amy’s mama had ever existed.
I walked around the kitchen thinking maybe Mr. Lawrence never got a talk about how being grown-up means you have to be responsible and clean up crumby counters and not set fire to things just because you’re sad. In fact, being in that house made me realize that Amy and I were justified in making a little mischief, since we both had parents who didn’t have the energy to care about much at all, let alone us.
I hadn’t seen much of Mr. Lawrence when I’d visited Amy, but I could smell his whiskey and sense his heartache. Mama had the same sorrow about her, and it made me wonder if she and Mr. Lawrence couldn’t have a nice chat over coffee.
I ran my hands over the paint buckets and tools. Sadness was a heavy thing. I had it bad right when Jon died, and could barely walk down the stairs. The pressure on my back and heart and mind was something awful. But the marbles helped. And the promise we shared.
Footfalls sounded by the staircase and Amy appeared, holding a finger to her lips. “He’s snoring pretty good, but we should be quiet. That pie looks good.”
Amy changed into Jon’s overalls quickly and we were soon tramping through the woods behind the school. Past the picnic grounds, past the town kissing oak, past the old cave and into another patch of woods that surrounded St. Petersburg Cemetery. We followed a small trail around the back.
A cold spell had come through that twilight, and the sky was filling with clouds. The mist that hung over the river must have drifted inland a good ways because fog floated between the tombstones. It was pretty darn dark, but every time the clouds moved, a peep of haunted moon gave us a little light to see by. Not enough, though, so I went ahead and lit the lantern we’d taken from Amy’s place.
“It’s a ghostly night,” Amy whispered.
“It sure is,” I whispered back. “You know, Amy, I bet that’s not fog at all, but spirits.”
“I don’t believe I like spirits much,” she said, her voice quavering. “Tell ’em to go away, can’t you?”
I dug in my pocket and handed her a piece of cloth I’d borrowed from the rag pile. “Tuck that into your shirt front.”
“What for?”
I tucked my rag in and tugged to make sure it’d stay. “In case of evil spirits. They’ll take one look at us and skeedaddle, thinking we’re about to eat something at a picnic. Nobody goes to a picnic at night, so the spirits’ll think it’s daytime and head back to their waiting spots.”
Amy looked doubtful, but pushed the cloth under her shirt. “Really?”
My, but I hate a doubter. “Really.” It couldn’t hurt, anyway.
She twitched beside me, knocking my side with her shaky hands. “I don’t know if I like this particular adventure, Becky. You sure we have to wait until midnight?” Her face was pale in the moonlight.
“We sure do,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Now, where’s t
hat Robert Willis buried?”
We moved from grave to grave, holding the light up against the stones and reading the names and dates of life and death underneath. I only saw a few where the number of years from birth to death was under twenty, and only one that was Jon’s forever age of seventeen. For a second, I imagined it was him under our feet and felt a sudden chill. It was a powerful kind of shivery, standing there on top of dead men and women.
“What time is it?” Amy sounded worried and I didn’t blame her. There weren’t too many gravestones left, and we still hadn’t found Mr. Willis.
I checked the pocket watch I’d taken from Daddy’s office. “Old Reliable says we’ve still got ten minutes. I’ll keep an eye on the time and—say! Here it is.” I pointed to the stone next to us. “Looks like he died just last year.”
ROBERT HOMER WILLIS
1807–1859
BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND
I tapped the epitaph. “Hmm. He doesn’t sound so bad, here. You sure he did all that stealing while he had a family?”
“Oh, sure. Daddy talks foolishness now and again, but not Mama, and I remember her saying Robert Willis was nothing but an overgrown child, snatching things and lying about it.”
On that note, part of me wondered if an eleven-year-old would be sneaking protective dirt from my grave someday, on account of all the mischief I’d gotten up to.
Amy seemed to have the same thought. “Becky, did you steal that watch from your daddy?”
I swallowed at something stuck in my throat. “Borrowed it.”
“You reckon stealing from a widow will count against us going to Heaven and all?”
“I don’t think so,” I lied. Truthfully, stealing from widows had to be right up there with coveting your neighbor’s new fishing pole. Probably worse. “She’s a witch, so the stealing don’t count.” That sounded pretty good, but I wasn’t positive that witchiness cancelled out widowhood. “Quick, tell me something she’s done around town that’s proved she’s a witch.”
“Well,” Amy said slowly, “there’s the rumor about the Widow’s dog being open to her coming inside and possessing it. And she doesn’t go to church, except on Easter and Christmas . . .”
My own Mama hadn’t gone to church since we arrived in town, though Amy wouldn’t know that. She wasn’t always there either, on account of her daddy being sick some Sunday mornings. Hmm. “Well, people got to have good reason for thinking she’s a witch. She’s probably doing something witchy right now.”
Amy firmed up at the possibility. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” I said, gaining confidence in the idea. “She’s probably boiling something and chanting a bunch of spells.”
Amy nodded eagerly, then frowned. “Like the ones you know?”
“Amy Lawrence, those aren’t spells!” I paused to think. “They’re mostly about how to keep away evil, you know. Maybe some are about luck and getting things, but that don’t count.”
“Of course not! No, I know! I know.”
But she sounded suspiciously like someone who didn’t know, and I didn’t like it. I set the lantern next to the headstone. “Now, Amy, what I really want to talk about is the job we’re supposed to be doing. This dirt’ll help with the witch, but if that dog is possessed by demonly spirits, we’ll have to have something to hold him off, too. I’m thinking a big piece of bac—”
“Shh!” Amy’d gone pop-eyed. She grabbed the lantern and blew it out. With her head, she motioned to a patch of trees.
Sure enough, two lights bobbed in and out of the oak trees, disappearing and reappearing like a couple of fire-eyed devils winking at each other in the darkness. Removing her hand from my mouth, she grabbed my arm and pulled me behind the headstone of Robert Willis.
Peeking around the stone brought no comfort. “It’s getting closer,” I whispered.
“Is it evil spirits?” Amy shook beside me.
“Course not!” Part of me suspected it was evil spirits and we were about to be escorted somehow into the gates of Hell, but that’s not the sort of thing you share with your best friend, especially when you’ve convinced her to come to a cemetery at midnight to gather a sack of a bad man’s grave dirt.
The lights seemed to circle and zigzag until I realized they were following the same path we’d taken to get to the graveyard. I caught sight of a person-shaped silhouette against the trees before clouds covered the moon completely.
“Those’re no spirits, those’re people,” I said real soft.
“Let’s just go. Let’s get out of here.”
Gripping Amy’s arm, I pulled her close until her nose was scrunched against mine. “Think of that five dollars, Amy. If we don’t get this dirt, then the Widow Witch’ll get us for sure. We have to be smart about this. Now let’s just hush up.”
With that, we pressed ourselves closer to the headstone, our bodies hunched low and our heads still touching. Amy pinched me good when I scratched a skitter bite through my overall pants. My fingernails were making a rough scritching sound, so she was right to do that and I wasn’t too mad at her. Daddy says that’s how you know you’re real close to someone. You can get mad at each other like anything and still love each other like crazy.
That’s how he and Jon were, I guess. They were always going back and forth about how Jon should be more serious about school and be a lawyer or something. How he should grow up and take responsibility and quit all his nonsense. I hated hearing that yelling, but they managed to get along perfect by the next day. Boys are like that, and girls hold grudges like they were cradling their own babies. That’s what Miss Ada says, anyway.
The clouds were rolling again and little hints of moonlight shone down on the graveyard.
“There’s two of them,” Amy whispered. “Two men.”
I pinched her hard, and her hand flew over her mouth. There, we were pinching-even. No need for a grudge at all. “Quiet! We’re supposed to be hushed up, so don’t talk,” I reminded her. “Say, what’s that in their hands?”
They’d paused at the opposite end of the graveyard and were having a powwow by low lantern light. One was taller than the other by a good hand’s length.
The taller one passed some object to the other man and then they began walking slowly through the rows, pausing to peer at the tombstones much like Amy and I had done.
“Psst! Amy, can you see what they’re holding?”
She didn’t say anything, so I poked her real light.
“Ow! You said not to talk, and now you’re talking. How am I supposed to—”
A voice rose and the lantern swung our way.
“Down,” I whispered. “Keep still.”
Footsteps sounded a few rows away from where we crouched. I was too busy hiding my head to think about peeking and hoped Amy wouldn’t look up either. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move.
After what seemed like hours, the men walked back to the far corner of the cemetery.
“This it?” asked a voice.
At least I think that’s what it said. It was hard to hear all ducked down. Lifting my head real slowly and making sure to stay tucked behind the tombstone, I tapped Amy until she jerked up too. I raised my eyebrows at her, asking if she recognized the voice, but she just breathed in and out. Maybe she couldn’t see my eyebrows. It was blacker than a cast-iron pot whenever the moon tucked itself behind the clouds.
“Get to digging then,” said one of them, throwing something onto the ground.
The other man dug for what seemed like forever. A gentle rain began to fall. The sound of shovel hitting dirt and the tall man barking orders was enough to allow us a whisper or two.
“They’re robbing that grave,” Amy said.
I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t barely see me. “Seems so. Just be quiet.”
“Hurry up,” the taller man growled. “That’s it. No, just leave it in there and open ’er up.”
I started to sweat, or maybe it was just the rain
soaking me. We were in a graveyard with two men who I was starting to suspect were the notorious Pritchards. The world felt blacker than black for a minute and I was certain my heart was going to burst through my chest, just so it could run off and find a better hiding spot. Good God in Heaven, if they found us spying on them, we’d be dead for certain! They’d even have a grave ready-dug for us. Not knowing if Amy knew who it was, I vowed not to bring it up. It’d just frighten her.
“All right, get to work on those things,” the same man ordered. “Get ’em out!”
Get what out? What were they stealing from a dead man?
There was a low groaning and the sound of exertion. After a time, I heard more talk from the tall one. The short man was too busy digging up grave dirt.
“. . . can’t do it now . . . business down in Trittsville . . . can’t mess with that sort of thing on a full moon . . . back to get it done . . . your place or the cave next week.”
Full moon? Why, those men were as superstitious as me. And what cave? There wasn’t but one cave in our area big enough to bother with, and that was the one near the school picnic grounds.
“Do they look good? You’re supposed to be the expert on . . .” The tall one seemed to be circling the smaller man, who was still waist deep in the grave. Lightning struck and I saw the silhouette of a long blade flash in the tall man’s hand. “—so I’ll just give you a little shaving to keep you loyal.”
Grave robbing was one thing, but seeing someone get mutilated was another. I didn’t care to see a man get his face sliced off. “Get ready to run, Amy.”
“What?”
I fixed my courage, sucked in a giant breath, and let out a solid scream. “Murder! Murder in the graveyard!” Yanking Amy up, I pushed her away from the path the men had taken to get to the cemetery. I figured we’d plunge into the bush for cover, risking whatever scratches were necessary to stay alive.
Amy wasn’t moving fast at all. Instead, she stumbled along between the gravestones, whimpering. I made a note to talk to her about not dawdling during emergency situations, if we made it through the night.
