The Secrets of Lily Graves

by Strohmeyer, Sarah

  The crimson polish was chipped and the police had cut all her pointed nails to nubs. My arm throbbed in memory.

  “Think you can handle this?” Boo asked gently.

  “Sure,” I said, getting out the blow-dryer. “Do you want to do hair or makeup?”

  Boo chose makeup—Mary Kay cosmetics, since she couldn’t stand the morticians’ gunk—while I did Erin’s hair, blowing it dry, setting it, and brushing out the copper curls. We worked silently in unison, performing an ancient ritual that Graveses have done for generations.

  When everything was sprayed into place, I brought out the polish remover, wiped off the crimson, and filed what was left of her ragged nails into blunt harmlessness. Then I painted them an insipid pink.

  Boo massaged almond-scented lotion over Erin’s skin to keep it dewy-soft. We tacked on underwear and a bra before slicing open the back and arms of a delicate white cashmere turtleneck sweater the Donohues brought to cover their daughter’s body. Then we did the same to the black skirt, pinning it to her preserved flesh so it stayed secure. Boo unclasped a string of pearls—apparently a sixteenth-birthday gift—and gently draped them around Erin’s neck. A matching pair of studs went next, and finally she was finished.

  Erin looked as if she was simply taking a nap when we closed her casket and rolled her away for storage until the viewing on Thursday.

  Matt never could understand why I found prepping bodies so satisfying. I wished he was there now, to see.

  “How you holding up?” Boo asked as we sanitized the prep room, sterilizing the instruments and scrubbing down all the surfaces with disinfectant. “Your mom says the cops want a DNA test. You okay with that?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I spritzed bleach over the steel table. Cleanup: my least favorite duty.

  “Probably not.” Boo peeled off her latex gloves, stepped on the garbage can pedal to open the lid, and tossed them in. “For what it’s worth, Oma and I are both of the opinion that you should have a lawyer present.”

  I stopped washing, incredulous that my aunt and grandmother thought it was this serious. “Don’t tell me you two think I murdered Erin.”

  “Puh-leeze. But you know this is Potsdam RFD, and the cops here have the IQ of doughnuts.” Boo rested her elbows on the table, right where I’d disinfected. “The thing is, your mom has to stay in the good graces of the police in order to keep getting the transport referrals.”

  “And a date for New Year’s Eve.”

  Boo diplomatically ignored my reference to Perfect Bob. “All I can say is that if your dad were alive, he’d insist on legal representation for you. Period.”

  Boo was my father’s baby sister, so named because she’d been a “boo-boo” baby, born when Oma was forty-seven and, as Oma herself often said, “frankly, just too tired to give a damn.” In fact, at age thirty, my aunt was closer to me than to Mom—in more ways than one.

  “Thanks, auntie.”

  She tapped my nose with her finger. “Just try to hang in there, Lily. This too shall pass.”

  Before I went to bed, I went from door to door, window to window, locking each one in our ground-floor apartment, which was attached to the funeral home section of our mansion. There was only one window I couldn’t completely secure. It was the one in my room, facing the garden, the one Matt had tapped the night he asked me if he should break up with Erin.

  That was the window I watched until I was eventually overcome by sleep.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  SIX

  Matt did visit me that night, in a way.

  I dreamed it was last summer and he and I were hanging out in the cemetery. There was brilliant sunshine all around us and I was so incredibly happy that Erin was alive, I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to stay in the past when my only worries were whether I was destined to graduate from high school unkissed—or if Matt would break the curse.

  Matt had been an enigma to me before he called me out of the blue last July, totally panicked. Being the assistant football coach, his father had delivered an ultimatum: retake the US History final from junior year and pass, or spend the last semester of high school football on the bench.

  His parents wouldn’t let Erin tutor him because she was his girlfriend and they thought he wouldn’t get any work done with her across the table. I, on other hand, wasn’t even a friend, and since I’d aced the class and was the class freak to boot, the Housers considered me an ideal choice. Safe. Sexless. Smart.

  He offered to pay me twenty bucks a session and I figured, What the heck? Easy money. Besides, I had nothing better to do than organize Boo’s supply cabinet and clean the parlors. So I said yes.

  To my mind, Matt was one of those dumb jocks who had just enough brains to take advantage of his hotness. He was tall and built, with a carefree way of strutting that conveyed a sense of superiority. In the off-season, he let his brown hair grow long, falling right below his jawline. Sometimes it appeared stringy, although that might have been more from his attempt to achieve a certain look rather than poor hygiene, because otherwise he was fairly put together.

  His style ran to Chucks that were hardly smudged and bright white T-shirts under a meticulously maintained orange-and-black Potsdam Panthers letter jacket with his chosen number—7—in homage to legendary Pittsburgh Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger.

  Matt had rarely bothered to acknowledge my presence, except when I came to honors history in full Morticia Addams regalia, and then he’d give me a long, lingering stare while Erin prudishly pursed her lips and sniggered.

  How he’d gotten into honors history was a mystery in itself, though that might have explained the failing grade. He usually slouched in the back with one leg extended, half asleep, while next to him Erin with her array of pens (color-coded for cross-reference) sat up straight, prefacing her comments with “I just feel” or “In my opinion.”

  He rarely spoke unless the brownnosers were trying to score points, in which case he’d exclaim in a bad British accent, “Excellent argument, sir!” or “Yes, yes. Well stated. Touché!” This was usually followed by hearty applause and suppressed laughter from the rest of us.

  But there was one incident that always made me wonder if there was more to Matt than his Friday Night Lights exterior. It happened sophomore year when Sara and I were innocently eating our lunch in the Potsdam High cafeteria along with our mutual friend Tam.

  Tam was not a small person. All her life she’d struggled with her weight. But she was supersmart and really sweet. I’d never heard her say a mean thing about anyone, ever. Which why it was so incredibly jerklike of Jackson to snatch up Tam’s Diet Coke that day and make fun of her for drinking it to offset the calories of a coconut-and-chocolate Magic Bar.

  “Oh, yeah, like this is going to help,” he scoffed, holding up the soda for everyone to see. “Forget it, girl. You’ll always be an F.U.B.”

  Fat. Ugly. Bitch.

  Tam just froze, the Magic Bar halfway to her mouth. It was so over-the-top that I was tempted to let him have it myself, when in stepped Matt.

  “Dude, like you’re one to talk.” He yanked up Jackson’s shirt to reveal a surprisingly flaccid gut and gave it a loud slap.

  Everyone laughed. Even Tam smiled as Jackson pulled down his shirt and told Matt where to shove it.

  Matt patted her shoulder. “Ignore my friend. He’s just jealous because his mommy didn’t put a cookie in his lunch today.”

  Jackson socked him in the arm.

  “Ouch?” Matt said, questioningly. “Was that supposed to hurt? Because I didn’t even feel it.”

  “Not sure if you can handle a real one,” Jackson said, pretending to make a fist.

  I eyed Kemple, who was craning his neck to see what was going on. “Watch it, guys. You’re about to get busted.”

  “Graves!” Matt shouted, as if just noticing my presence. �
�How nice to see you out of the coffin. Is it a full moon? Or were you in need of fresh blood?”

  “Actually, I was running a little low on stupid. But you two took care of that.”

  Matt hesitated a beat, gave me a curious look, and then broke into a grin. “Glad we could accommodate.” He bowed low and pushed Jackson toward the Tragically Normals’ table.

  I watched him sit next to Erin and kiss her on the cheek. She caught me staring and shot me a look that would haunt me forever.

  I had arrived at the Potsdam Public Library for our first study session to find Matt slumped at a wooden table by the teen fiction, gazing out the window toward the railroad track that ran along the river. He was in his usual white shirt, and his arms were tan and firm, probably from lifting bales of hay down at the Farm ’n’ Feed.

  I plunked my tote bag of notebooks on the table. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad. Anyway, thanks for doing this.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a twenty while giving my lace minidress the once-over. “Still in your funeral garb despite the heat?”

  “It’s never too hot and humid for black.”

  “Uh-huh. And what, pray tell, is that thing?” he asked, pointing to my neck.

  I fingered the necklace I’d found in a secondhand store, a really cool cameo of Persephone on an intricate gold chain. “She’s the goddess of death.”

  “Of course.”

  That’s when I figured we’d better get down to business before things turned nasty. I decided to start with the Puritans; if a strange religious cult of floating functioning alcoholics didn’t capture his interest, nothing would.

  However, ten minutes into our session, while I attempted to explain the historical precedent of the Mayflower Compact, he was already doodling a boat on his otherwise spotless white notebook page. I gave up and turned over my notes, highlighting which ones were important for the exam. Then I sat back and watched him copy.

  He was left-handed.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked.

  “No need for alarm, but, statistically, left-handers have a lifespan that’s two to nine years shorter than right-handers.”

  Matt flipped the page and squinted at my section on the Plymouth colony. “Is that true?”

  “Maybe. Accidents, lower immunity, something having to do with the brain. Makes sense, I suppose.” I’d wanted to make him squirm, but he was so nonchalant, I found myself slipping into lame humor. “Either that or you guys keep poking yourselves in the eyes with scissors.”

  He didn’t crack a smile, just kept copying my stuff. “Death is your thing, isn’t it? That’s why you like history, because everyone’s dead.”

  “Damn straight,” I said. “The dead are awesome. They don’t give you back talk or interrupt. They never leave you hanging, and they’re the best listeners ever. You got a problem? Talk it over with the dead.”

  A train approached in the evening glow, chugging up the track. A few figures were perched on top, legs dangling over the cars. Freight-hoppers. I’d seen them jump aboard before, running next to the train as it climbed the slight incline, grabbing a side ladder, and then, in one swift, heart-stopping moment, leaping from the ground onto the car, praying that a foot didn’t get caught under the wheels.

  Aaron Plunkett, a stoner dropout a few years ahead of us in school, used to regularly freight-hop out of Potsdam until he tried it while high, tripped on his shoelaces, and got sucked underneath. I can recall the wail of the sirens erupting around fifth period and everyone rushing to see, word spreading like wildfire that someone had gotten cut in two, a guy with frizzy blond hair who matched Aaron’s description.

  Later, Sara and I had gone down to the tracks to check out the dark-maroon bloodstains on the tarcoated wooden ties. They’re still there to this day.

  “James was left-handed,” Matt said.

  I blinked and returned to the present. “Who’s James?”

  “My twin.” Matt went back to my notes. “You’d like him. He’s dead.”

  Matt turned out to be the Caesar of slacker students: He came. He copied. He left.

  He was never late, but he never stayed a minute past eight, either. He did the assigned reading and dutifully answered the questions at the end of each chapter, but didn’t brim with academic enthusiasm. And when Erin called or texted, as she tended to do constantly despite our regular study schedule, Matt would glance at the text and put the phone on mute.

  This drove me crazy. Not Erin’s texting—though that was definitely annoying—but Matt’s refusal to enjoy any aspect of learning. Every once in a while I’d see a spark and get excited, like when he drew parallels between America’s westward push and Karl Marx’s theory that capitalism needed to expand in order to survive. (And we hadn’t even covered Communist theory yet.) Once he correctly explained the vast differences between the Republican party of Lincoln’s era and its current incarnation.

  I was impressed.

  Then, just when I was sure we were about to experience an Annie Sullivan/Helen Keller breakthrough, the well went dry and Matt reverted to his old self.

  “Is this going to be on the exam?” he’d ask. “Because I don’t see the point of going over something if it’s not.”

  Sigh.

  I even tried getting him out of the library to the cemetery, where I hoped secluded privacy amid a lush green setting might serve as inspiration. All it inspired was vague rambling and seemingly pointless conjectures.

  He would lie in the grass with his shirt off, a hand resting casually on his bare, tanned washboard abs, eyes closed, and start going off about the most random things: whether squirrels have inner GPSs, and why, if the sun’s rays are strong enough to burn our rods and cones, we are able to exist in its radiation at all. If a nuclear war is likely in our lifetime. If guys can technically be called virgins. Whether or not the three-point shot in basketball was invented to help white players score. If it was true that parakeets could be poisoned by avocados.

  On rare occasions, he would brighten when he mentioned his baby nephew, the son of his older half sister, Susan, who lived in Illinois. Other than casual references to his father’s strict rules against partying, he didn’t talk about his parents much except to say that his mother worked at the DMV and liked to crochet, and that when his dad wasn’t coaching high school football, he did construction. They watched a lot of football on TV.

  He never spoke of James again, much to my disappointment.

  One day, we had just finished a session on Henry Ford and the automobile’s affect on American culture when I let it slip that I didn’t have my license. Matt sat on the tomb of Arthur Waxman in the blistering August heat as the cicadas buzzed and gaped in awe.

  “You don’t know how to drive?”

  I shrugged. “Not really.”

  “But you’re going to be a senior. What the . . . ?”

  There were plenty of lies at my disposal—the family car was a hearse that got lousy gas mileage and was hard to park, the environment could do with a little less air pollution, thank you, walking was good exercise, etc. Instead, I went with the truth.

  “I took driver’s ed and I have my permit, but my mother won’t let me use the car.” There. Done. “Now, we really should try to squeeze in . . .”

  “Your mother won’t let you?” Matt scoffed. “What are you, six?”

  Obviously, he was not going to be satisfied until I explained the situation. I closed my book and let him have it.

  “Look. When you work in the funeral business, you go to the scenes of a lot of car crashes,” I said, relishing the shock I was about to induce. “My mother has actually had to shovel people off the road. Shovel, Matt.” I made a shoveling motion. “As in scrape.”

  He remained impassive. “So?”

  Was he for real? Human remains splattered on the pavement were about the grossest thing ever. “The woman’s been traumatized. Do you have any idea what it’s like driving with her? She grips the door h
andle and smashes an invisible brake over and over. It’s impossible to rack up forty hours with her sitting next to me. We’d kill each other.”

  He ran a finger under his lower lip. “All right, starting next week, I’ll pick you up in my truck and we’ll clock some hours.”

  I was speechless. Then again, how else was I going to rack up the necessary hours demanded by the DMV? “I don’t suppose your truck is automatic.”

  He reeled in offense. “Do I look like a wuss?”

  “I can’t do it, then. I tried once with Boo’s Honda and nearly broke the clutch.”

  “I don’t care. You’ve got to learn standard,” he said, placing his hand on mine. “Every girl should.”

  His hand was warm and his fingers, I noticed, were long, like an artist’s. Matt didn’t seem to think anything of letting his hand linger there and I didn’t dare pull away.

  “Why girls?” I asked, acting as if guys like him held my hand every day.

  Matt’s gaze met mine. I’d never realized before how mesmerizing his eyes were, slightly almond-shaped and a deep brown, framed by surprisingly feminine lashes.

  “Because guys are dicks, that’s why. You don’t want to be leaving a party with some drunken asshat behind the wheel just because you can’t shift.”

  He had me at “guys are dicks.”

  Alas, even the most sensible plans can turn out to be failures. Three days later I was behind the wheel of Matt’s blue pickup truck in a deserted church parking lot, ready to explode. Driving sucked. Stick shift really sucked. Truck stick shift could go . . .

  “Swearing’s not necessary, Graves,” Matt said, smiling. “Cool down, and this time, as you raise your foot off the clutch, step on the gas in an even motion.”

  Hot, bothered, and totally frustrated by this stupid, stupid system, I blew a stray strand of hair off my sweaty cheek, gripped the steering wheel, and did my best to ease my foot off the clutch. But either I was releasing too soon or not gassing it fast enough, because the truck lurched, bucked violently, and stalled.