by Marcy McKay
Back in the Mexican Section, I scope where I first saw Diablo. It’s hard to tell at night, but there doesn’t seem to be fresh, new dirt around any of these headstones. It’s like he was never here. I’ll need to walk the grounds in the morning.
The wind blusters around me and I brace myself for the wailing again. My skin prickles scared, but the painful cries never come.
That sound before must’ve been Diablo ’cause it’s gone now. I can’t believe he could be upset as much as me missing Mama. She’s dead. I feel it.
I just can’t find her to prove it.
The shadowy cross on the chapel roof stares down at me, and the naked rose bushes still stand guard with razor-sharp thorns. There aren’t any lights inside, or CAUTION tape outside, so no murder here. I don’t know what 10-88 is.
Unless the cops aren’t here yet.
Too late to turn back now. My heart knocks louder as I creep closer, the scared heating up my skin. I can’t believe my first time inside this chapel is alone at night. My lucky penny is so broken that Mr. Lincoln may never work again. I want to say I’m a brave and courageous soul, but can’t.
On the porch, I stare at the door handle like it’ll fry my fingers if I touch it. I’m trembling as I reach for the knob.
The door opens, no problem.
Instead of feeling relieved, I take a giant step back. Dread seeps over me. Something’s wrong here. It was locked when I checked it this morning, and the lazy groundskeepers always manage to lock up each night. I watch ’em do it.
“Hello?” I say to the empty space.
Silence.
Shivering, I peer into the almost blackness. One small light beams from overhead onto a silver cross on the table up front. It twinkles through the giant stained glass window behind there, a bazillion different colors hodgepodged together. Mama says there’s no picture to the window, but I always see a lady’s face close up, holding a baby. I think it looks sort of pretty and don’t understand why she doesn’t like it.
What’s evil about a mother and her child?
I grope along the wall to a light switch, then flip it on. This room’s about the same size as chunch, but way fancier. Jesus pictures hang on every wall, a piano sits in back, and they’ve got about a dozen wooden pews on either side with an aisle down the middle, instead of folding chairs like at the shelter.
This is no big deal. It’s creepy, all right, but—
I realize I’m standing on a trail of dirt. That can’t be normal. It leads to a closet in back.
Where do you find dirt?
The ground.
What takes dirt to and from the ground?
A shovel.
Who just had a shovel?
Diablo.
I shriek and hop to the side, but just land on more soil. I’m shaking as I whisper, “Mama? Are you here?”
Nothing.
The creepy quiet freaks me out more. It’s a different kind of bad than Diablo’s wailing wind, ’cause I’m trapped in this spooky silence.
I make myself follow the side trail toward the back closet. My sneakers crunch the dirt clods against the wooden floor. Each step takes me closer to where I don’t want to go. I try tell to myself I’m alone and safe, but my gut still thinks the Street Killer will grab me any second. There’s a 10-88 in here somewhere.
Most of this churchy stuff has little brass plaques on it: Jesus paintings, Mary statues, the piano. Halfway back, I pass a Jesus picture with a fancy gold-painted frame. It shows him holding a lamb, surrounded by kids in a green meadow.
I recognize the name right away. The Vanderhausens live in their own mausoleum in the Historic Section over by us. They throw their cash all over Eternal Peace ’cause they’re the biggest snobs of all. I keep sneaking back toward the closet.
Palms sweaty, thoughts racing, the pressure inside my head pounds worse. When I reach the closet, I stare at the handle awhile again before touching it.
Locked.
Good. I’m both glad and mad, ’cause I need answers. I jangle the door, but it stays closed tight. Beside it, there’s a group photo on the wall, with a plain, brown frame. It was taken in here ’cause I recognize that Jesus/lamb picture in the background. Six teenagers stand by it with a teacher. They’re all wearing jeans, matching blue T-shirts and grins. None of ’em are Mama.
I can’t read good enough to know what it all says, but I recognize the last name. I’ve seen it on TV:
Brother A.S. Sanborne
Mr. Jesus.
I’m staring at suspect #3.
CHAPTER 16
I gasp. Sure enough, the preacher is a younger version of himself in this picture, though his fiery red hair is longer and wavier. You’d never know it was so curly now since he wears it so short, but that’s him all right. I saw him naked in our room today, with a woman who’s not his wife. Poor Miz Jesus.
I’m still not sure why the cops got called here for a 10-88. Both Diablo and Mr. Jesus have shown up at the cemetery tonight in one way or another. Two out of my three suspects. I don’t understand how they’re linked together, or why Mama got mixed up between ’em. At least No-Brains doesn’t know this is where we live.
Unless she told him.
That sours my stomach. He really does love Mama. He really did have her picture. He’s really keeping a big secret from me. Forget that 10-88. I’m out of here and hurry down the middle row with no dirt.
Through the darkness, the spotlight sparkles down on the cross up front. The shiny, silver glow makes me see the light and goose bumps me all over. Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s the answer to all my problems, or at least one of ’em.
Cash.
The whole chapel looks like a bank now. The Vanderhausens and so many other snobs try to outdo each other with all their expensive stuff. There should be something here worth a thousand bucks. That little Jesus statue in back looks high-priced, but it’d be too heavy to carry. That bible stand looks made out of wood and must weigh a ton.
The silver cross and two candlesticks on the front table may be my best bet. I hope they’re real and not painted fake. They’ve all got little dents tapped into ’em for decoration. I rush and grab a candlestick. It’s not light and feels metal, so I’m thinking it’s legit. When I thump the cross, it sounds hollow and makes a nice, clear ting sound, like a softer version of Diablo’s shovel.
Let’s see, two candlesticks are better than one cross, but bigger is better. I’ll take the cross first, then come back for the rest. I have no idea how I’ll carry this all to EZ Pawns tomorrow, but figure that out later. I don’t want to go back to Paradise, but will for cash.
I will for me and Mama. Scooting the cross off the table, it stands about shoulder-high to me, so I lug it between my legs toward the door. The graffiti in Paradise says God hates the poor.
That’s true, but tonight, he’s Santa Claus to me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been at it, but my sore arms shake as I ease the cross down to the dead grass to rest near the Vanderhausen Mausoleum. I can’t drag it ’cause that’ll dirty or dent it up and I need every penny for this thing. I keep my eyes peeled for that 10-88, but there’s nothing around.
The night closes in on me tighter. I catch a whiff of Mama’s puke. The moldy socks’ smell has faded, but still reeks. Stupid O’Dell should’ve cleaned up the mess by now. I’m sure my grandpa was a better groundskeeper than that Butt Munch.
That cemetery house is where Mama globbed onto my knees last night. She wailed, “I’ve got to chaaaaaaaaaaaange!”
If I’d known something bad was going to happen to her, I would’ve globbed right back and never let go. I let this nightmare start. I didn’t watch her good enough, so I need to fix this. The thought of what’s happened to Mama makes me sicker than that stench and hurry on home.
I’m almost crawling by the time me and the cross collapse in front of the Warrior Angel. The dark shadows of his wings are one of the few things that didn’t change today. I could kiss him fo
r that, but just want to go to sleep.
The wind howls again. My body tenses up for more wailing, but it just blows on through, proving one more time Diablo’s cries made those horrible sounds.
I slide my sign back inside the lilac bush beside Miz Elsie’s praying hands, then plop down to rest. She died in 1871 from childbirth and she wasn’t married, either. I don’t know if she gave away her monkey pie for free, or if she charged for it like she should. I wonder what happened to her baby.
Taking off my right glove, I run my hand over the chiseled letters on her grave. They feel sunken-in, like backwards Braille:
Miss Elsie Lee
A Precious Daughter
Rest in Peace
My mind travels back to a night that seems like forever ago. The wind didn’t wail then, but the air still had an extra bite that swore snow wasn’t far behind. The whole cemetery was locked up for the night. It was just me and Mama. You don’t need a house to make a home.
We’d finished rolling out our sleeping bags for bed when she tapped Miz Elsie’s grave. “You know your ABCs. Right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are these two?”
I went to her and touched the rock’s chilly letters. “I and N.”
“Exactly. If you add ’em together, they spell ‘in.’ Say it with me.”
“In,” we said together, grinning.
She wrapped her palm around mine, then smoothed our fingers over the rest of the stone like one hand. “You can’t read the most important part yet, but it says, ‘A precious daughter.’ That’s what you are to me, Copper Penny … a precious daughter.” She gave my forehead a tiny peck, but I felt so much happiness.
Stars danced above us as we held each other and waited for sleep to take us away that night. The last thing I remember her saying was, “You’re a brave and courageous soul.”
That was the best full-belly feeling. I didn’t ever want the sun to come up and kick us back out onto the streets.
The memory fades. I’m nothing without Mama. Tomorrow will be better ’cause I’ve found us some cash with this cross. I’ll get another shoe, find my family and get on with our lives.
Reaching up to the Warrior Angel, I pat his stone feet good night. Of course, he says nothing, but it’s okay. He’s still here, and that’s what matters most. The cross leaves a track in the dead grass as I drag it to Miz Elsie’s bush to hide in there. I’ll take both sleeping bags, so I can breathe in Mama all night. Her sweat smells sweet to me.
They’re gone.
Butt Munch O’Dell stole our sleeping bags. He said not to come back, and he meant it this time. How am I supposed to survive the cold tonight? I’m so mad I could cram these lilacs down his throat, then knock his balls up to his boogers.
Someone yanks my hair from behind. I scream and stumble. Scared shoots through me. At first, I think it’s O’Dell, but he’s skinnier and—
Is it the Street Killer? I scratch and claw at him, while his gloves grab at me. He reeks of cigars and booze, plus something else I know, but can’t think of. He twirls me around and punches my gut. All my air spills out.
Terror rushes in. I don’t want to be another body bag. I hear a loud flick in the dark I’ve already heard once today.
A switchblade. That’s definitely a Diablo move, but the ski mask isn’t. The Street Killer slaps me hard across the mouth. I shriek from a hidden place inside, but the night swallows my cries. Pain shatters my face. The moon’s hiding, so the darkness makes this worse. I swing and hit him somewhere, then hear him mutter under his boozy breath.
He backhands me again and I spin like a top, splattering blood across the ground. The plastic bag on my foot rustles. He growls out more garble I don’t catch. He’s an awful, awful man.
Falling against the Warrior Angel’s pillars, I grab at his legs to save me, but the Street Killer snatches my arm first and knocks me down. I’m lucky my head doesn’t crash into Miz Elsie’s grave. The ground freezes my back. I keep kicking like crazy, but nothing helps.
With one sharp tug, he rips open my jacket, tearing my zipper and shirt. Cold air slaps my skin. My body trembles. Puke shoots up my throat. Another shout shreds the darkness. I scratch at his itchy mask, trying to squirm away.
I’m almost free and he sort of falls off me, then he grabs my shoe and yanks me back.
“Stop!” I yell and shove him away.
He smashes me in the chin and my jaw bursts with pain. I’m crying. His elbow pins my neck and I stare into the switchblade. I’m so dead. I can’t push him off. He’s too strong.
The steely knife presses deeper against my throat. I start to leave my body. Another sob strangles me and I bawl to the Warrior Angel, to Mama, to anybody to save me.
My only answer is another fist in my face. I’m not sure who or where I am for a few seconds. Everything whirls crazy. This is the end. I even say goodbye to Mama, dead or alive. My heart breaks at the badness coming next. I hope he kills me quick.
From nowhere, a bright white light blinds me. A nearness whooshes by like an owl’s wing, but way bigger. Stronger, too. Its power startles me.
The Street Killer shrieks in pain as I hear him getting walloped. He tumbles off me into the dazzling whiteness, then I see a flash of gold.
I scramble against Miz Elsie’s grave, her letters pressed into my back: A Precious Daughter. I can’t stop shaking as I listen to their kicks, slaps and punches. I’m doubley-blinded between the night’s blackness and incredible white light, but the fight sounds extra bad. The Street Killer shrieks like a little girl. I flip-flop back and forth between thinking it’s Diablo, then not. Whoever he is, I hope they crush him since he tried to murder me.
Just as fast as the brawl started, the night turns quiet, as quiet as the dead.
It’s like that for a few seconds of forever, then something giant swoops by again, like the wing of an angel. It’s as soft as a kiss to my cheek. The white light disappears and inky black surrounds me again.
It takes my eyes a while to adjust. A car passes by on the street and the headlights shine a few seconds at the Street Killer, knocked out cold on the ground. The car drives on and the night covers the cemetery like a ski mask again. He’s close enough for me to touch.
Dizzy and unsure, I try to run away, but stumble back against the Warrior Angel instead. My head rests against his feet expecting the normal stony cold, but they feel warm tonight, as warm and alive as me. Swaying, I spin to the ground next to the Street Killer.
Blackness.
CHAPTER 17
I wake up screaming from the same nightmare that haunts me every night. It’s dogged me for years. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
“Hells bells, are you okay?” she says.
Dead grass prickles my back as the dream slips away to torture me again tonight. A few birds chirp. Sunlight kisses my face. I stir, then stop. Pain crashes into me, especially my ribs and face. My fingers and toes feel frozen.
“Dammit, girl. Look at me.”
Why’s she so mad? I’m groggy and confused; she doesn’t sound like herself. I fling my eyes open and shout, “Mama?”
Butt Munch O’Dell kneels beside me in that ugly green jumper, his mouth stuffed with tobacco. He watches me in full frown.
Disappointment punches me, over and over, as I remember the Street Killer attacking me last night. My beating … his beating … angel wings and warm feet. What almost happened washes over me in a sickness.
I shoot straight into O’Dell’s arms, screaming, “Get rid of him!”
He nudges me away. “Who?”
Looking around, I don’t see the Street Killer at all. His switchblade is gone, too. My mind flashes back to that car shining on him in his ski mask, knocked out. I still smell him on my clothes—booze, cigars, plus something else. That last thought squirms in back of my brain like a rat I still can’t catch.
The Warrior Angel stares up at Burger Heaven as usual, so tall, so still and so not alive I almost think I dreamt the whole
thing. ’Cept there’s dried blood speckled over my clothes and the grass. Me and the Street Killer mixed together in dark, brown spots.
Terror clutches me harder and I do the same to O’Dell, the chilly morning air stinging my cuts and bruises. Diablo doesn’t usually work alone, but I did see him here for the first time last night, so it is possible. I try to zip my jacket, but he broke it.
The Butt Munch sets me aside. “What happened? You look like shit.”
“You are a shit.” I close my eyes to escape, but feel the Street Killer punch me, kick me, almost gut me all over again.
“What happened?” O’Dell says again, but softer.
“I couldn’t see … someone saved me before he—he … before it got worse.”
“Who?”
Not who, but what. I steal another peek at the Warrior Angel, his stony sword shining in the morning light. He’s wearing a skirt and go-go boots, but he’s no sissy—he’s got muscles on top of muscles on his chest and arms. His sword points up to Burger Heaven, ready for anything.
Last night brushes my memory again like I swear his wing did. It dizzies me to the ground and I groan. This cannot be happening—Mama still gone and me almost a stiffer.
“Hey.” O’Dell jiggles my chin. His hand isn’t like Miz Jesus and soft rose petals. His calluses feel all sandpapery. “Seriously, Copper, wake up. You might have a tumor or something. Tell me your name.”
“Copper.”
“Awesome.”
“You just said it, stupid.”
“Damn, you’re right. How many fingers am I holding?”
“None.” He frowns and I sigh. “Thumbs aren’t fingers, Butt Munch.”
“I see he didn’t beat the smart-ass out of you.” He spews out a stream of tobacco. The brown spit covers some of the blood. “What’s up with Egypt?”
“Wh-what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. You were babbling about it when I got here.”
“Must’ve been a dream,” I blush and mumble, though she’s the girl of my nightmares.
