by Marcy McKay
“Get up. You need to see a doctor.”
“No doctors. I just need to find Mama and get back to normal.”
“Some normal.”
I watch the sky layered behind him—purple, then blue, that blends into a gray rising through the air. The sun to the far left says I’ve got a little over one more day to score one grand. Panic quivers through me. I survived the Street Killer, but without that cash, I’m Diablo dead.
O’Dell says, “Want to explain this?”
Turning, I’m surprised to see the silver cross lying on its side by Miz Elsie’s grave. It’s glittery in the morning light. I’d forgotten all about that thing, but it saw what happened to me. The Street Killer didn’t steal it or my sign. He just wanted me dead.
I look straight into O’Dell’s pale blue eyes. “I don’t know how it got here.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously. I don’t know who beat me up. I don’t know how that got here. I don’t know a thing.”
He nods at me, but his eyes cut away.
This quiet weighs heavy on me. Even my pinky toe doesn’t trust this guy. Especially since he wouldn’t help me look for Mama yesterday, but I need to pump him for info. and make myself prop up on my elbows. “Do you know Jesus Martinez?”
“No. Why?”
“He’s called Diablo. He’s the leader of the Barrio Brothers in Paradise.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of them. They’re bad news.”
I explain about Diablo and his shovel, but leave out the part where I think he’s the wailing wind.
O’Dell sits back on his haunches, then spits out more tobacco juice, but not at me like usual. “Hmmm. Maybe that’s why Uncle Butch called the police last night.”
“What’s a 10-88? The cop radio said there was a 10-88 in the chapel.”
“How’d you hear—forget it. I don’t want to know.” He whips out his cell phone and starts pushing buttons.
This 10-88 makes me think of No-Brains all over again. How hard he watched me last night. The secret stuff he seems to know about me, like Mama’s picture. I shiver just thinking about juvie.
O’Dell says, “According to this, a 10-88 means suspicious activity. The groundskeepers think something’s up around here.”
“Like what?”
“It all started recently, but I don’t know, feeling like we’re being watched, graves being disturbed, hearing strange noises at night.”
That last part hangs between us, so I take a chance at what he knows. “Like the wind?”
He sits up more and his voice tumbles out faster. “You’ve heard it, too? That awful howling?”
“Yeah. It’s spooky.”
“No joke.”
We grin at each other. I wonder if he’s as glad as me to know it’s not just our imaginations. I’m not crazy after all. O’Dell points at my ripped shirt and snorts. “Nice pancakes, by the way.”
My cheeks flare hot. These torn clothes flash my nothing boobies everywhere. So much for thinking O’Dell was better. He’s still king of the Butt Munches. I try to take off my coat to turn my shirt around, but it hurts too much. I can hardly raise my arms I’m so sore.
He’s not who I’m maddest at right now. None of this would’ve happened, from the Street Killer on down if Mama hadn’t sneaked off in the middle of the night to do whatever with whoever. I don’t care if it was Valentine’s Day.
Shame. On. Her.
O’Dell tugs at my jacket. “Let me help you.”
“No.” I lock my elbows by my side. “I can do it myself.”
Like I told Midnight Man, I don’t need nothing from nobody. I’m thinking maybe that includes Mama, too. I’m serious—forget everyone. They all hurt me in one way, or the other.
Each time I try to lift up my arms, pain socks me from all sides. Me and O’Dell sort of do a tug-of-war with my clothes ’til he says, “Hells bells, I won’t look. I swear.”
I huff, but let him try. He eases off my coat first, starting from the collar down. I’ll say this, O’Dell goes super slow, and for once, he does what he says—shuts his eyes as he turns around my shirt. My whole body torments me. Mr. Lincoln is getting a serious talking-to if he calls this good luck.
Afterwards, he picks me up in one fell swoop and carries me to his piece-of-crap truck parked nearby.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Taking you for a ride.”
“Where?”
“To look for your mom and that Diablo dude.”
“Put me down.”
He doesn’t, so I whack his shoulders to stop, but he just laughs. I don’t so much decide to give him another chance as he just takes it. I say, “Your pickup doesn’t look safe at all.”
“It’s not.” He swings open the rusty door and tosses me on the seat like a ball. More misery jolts through me.
I’ve never been inside here. It smells like stale beer and fast food that sends my stomach growling. There’s tons of To-Go sacks, cups and trash on the floor. A spring sticks up from the middle of the seat.
He walks back to Miz Elsie’s grave and picks up the chapel cross. For a split second, the sunlight catches the silver just right and it blinds me, like the dazzling whiteness did last night. Maybe my brain is tumored, ’cause I swear the Warrior Angel looks jostled from here, but when I peer closer, he’s just fine.
O’Dell leans in from his side of the truck and buckles in the stupid cross between us, his gaze slicing through me the whole time. “We should take this back before it magically vanishes again. Don’t want to piss off Uncle Butch.”
I ignore him. Mama would not be pleased I’m letting O’Dell help me like this, but that seems to be the best reason to do it right now. If she can break all the rules, then me, too. I don’t even try to push down my mad at her. She’s not the only one who can be a two-timer. My insides burn. She’s turning into a crap-sandwich mama like Bird.
O’Dell starts the engine. It sputters and coughs, then roars to life. After he cranks up the heat, the warmth blasts and starts thawing out my body. That both helps and hurts the stinging. I still can’t believe I survived the Street Killer. I’d have been a goner if—whatever hadn’t saved me.
O’Dell says, “Are you going to tell me how you lost your shoe?”
“Nope.”
“What about the rest of yesterday?”
My glare answers for me.
“Didn’t think so.” He revs the truck and we take off down the road like we’re all buddy-buddy.
Through my outside mirror, I take one last look at the Warrior Angel and swear his head looks cocked a little different. Maybe my brain is tumored.
The radio plays as the cemetery still wakes up all around us. Everything looks calmer today. The trees don’t blow at all. Streaks of sunlight explode through the clouds to shine on certain graves, like Burger Heaven is playing favorites. Nothing new there. You can’t have Somebodies in this world without us Nobodies.
I don’t want ’em to, but my eyes still scan the grounds for Mama out of habit. It’s just so I can chew her out. I watch for Diablo and the Street Killer, too, even though I’m not sure if they’re one and the same.
O’Dell leans over to open the glove compartment, then pitches me a brown paper sack. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
“Then save it for later.”
Inside the bag, there’s a ham sandwich, pretzels, an apple and a chocolate-chip cookie. There’s a handwritten note I can read: LOVE YOU! MOM
Ewww. How could anyone love him?
I sink my teeth into the sandwich; the ham, the cheese and the mustard dance together in my mouth. She even cut off the crust. I want to chew extra slow to really enjoy my food, but that first bite sets off my belly. I can’t gobble it up fast enough. I taste his mom’s love in every bite.
Mama never made me a lunch like this. Yeah, she scrounges up food for us, or we eat at the shelter, but not real meals like I bet Miz Jesus does. She’s probably home ma
king waffles for her three perfect kids right now. I won’t even feel guilty anymore about pretending she’s my mom. I let myself picture just the two of us in a little, white house with red shutters and a dog named Sugar.
O’Dell drives by the Vanderhausen Mausoleum near Mama’s hurl. The door looks cracked open. I doubt he cleaned up the mess on his way in, so I say, “Way to clean up the puke back there.”
“I’m a groundskeeper. Vomit isn’t in my job description.”
“It’s on the ground, so that still counts.”
We pass Ronald Freedmont’s giant grave. He died from a heart attack three years ago. His wife planted that mint bush beside him and comes here every week to yell at him. If he was half as bad in real life as she says, then he sounds a lot like Mr. Jesus.
“Earth to Copper,” O’Dell says.
“What?”
“I said, one of my brothers may wear the same size shoe as you. I’ll check tonight and maybe bring you a pair tomorrow.”
I don’t know how to take niceness from O’Dell, so I just stare out the window and keep my mouth shut. He’s just fifteen, so I don’t know why he’s not in school.
The sun beams brighter. Eternal Peace doesn’t seem creepy like it did last night. The warmth inside the truck wraps around me closer. Next, we pass David Marshall. He’s the broken tree stump that’s been here since 1912. He died in a buggy accident. Mama thinks there was booze involved. I never drink. Can’t say the same for Mama, Corn Dog, Bird, One-Leg Larry, Mr. Jesus, or the Barrio Brothers. Half of Paradise stays on a bender.
O’Dell parks in front of the chapel, but leaves the engine and heater running. He unbuckles the cross between us. “Be right back.”
I don’t watch my cash ticket disappear. It probably wasn’t real silver anyway and would’ve been impossible to carry to Paradise to sell. I stare outside to the Ashworth family by that pine tree. They’ve got someone new there. I can read her first name, too—Ann. She’s got fresh dirt and a headstone shaped like a dome, but I don’t know her story. Mama never told me.
I’m finding out she did that more and more. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the seat and listen to the engine hum. The quiet invites the Street Killer to replay my attack, so I sit up and look around instead.
As O’Dell leaves the chapel, he locks the doors behind him.
How will I get cash now? I’m screwed. My palms break into a sweat and my heart beats faster.
He spits tobacco on the ground, then climbs back inside the truck. “You know, you wouldn’t be hurt now if you’d left yesterday like I told you.”
“It would’ve happened sooner if I had.”
“Would not.”
“Would too, and I want our sleeping bags back.”
“What?”
“You stole ’em.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
He turns up the radio louder. I’m tired of arguing and listen to the song singing about a cowboy trying to get to Amarillo by morning. He sounds like me ’cause everything he’s got is just what he’s got on. I’m still mad at Mama and have every right to be, but I still need to squeeze O’Dell for more info.
I try to use my ‘no-big deal’ voice. “You know that show, The Lord’s Power Hour?”
“What a crock.” He turns down the radio.
“Right. Would your uncle know if the man preacher ever worked here?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Mama mentioned once about seeing Sanborne’s picture in the chapel.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, back by the closet.”
“You mean, the closet you didn’t see last night?”
Busted. A slow smile spreads over my face. “Exactly.”
We drive along happier now. It’s an easy kind of quiet. A thought pops inside me from nowhere. Going at it alone yesterday got me slashed, shoeless and attacked. O’Dell is still a total Butt Munch, but he’s helped today and even fed me. Maybe it’s my full belly, but I decide to give him even more of a chance. “Want to hear something funny about that preacher?”
“Always.”
I tell him about finding Mr. Jesus naked in our motel room yesterday, smoking and drinking with that Mexican girl.
O’Dell howls with laughter. “Classic. What a hypocrite. I can’t wait to tell my mom.”
“She’s a fan?”
“Huge.”
“What about your dad?”
He grips the steering wheel tighter and shakes his head once—no. I don’t what the story is there, but I let it go and set his apple in between us for him to eat later.
On the north side of the cemetery, we pass fewer trees, bushes and above-ground graves. The UNKNOWN NEGRO’s got a fresh grave beside him. I didn’t realize he had a new neighbor last night, but it was super dark and I rushed by to check out that 10-88.
Maybe Diablo is burying bodies in different spots so it’s less noticeable. I’ll check here later and should stop by the Vanderhausen Mausoleum, too. It’s hard to remember everything with my scrambled brain.
As we pull up to the Mexican Section, my gut wrenches remembering Diablo’s shadow creeping through the dark. How he dropped to his knees and wailed his sorrow into the wind. His pain almost shook the cemetery. I know how much it hurt me.
I point to the middle, by the cross-shaped grave. “That’s where I saw Diablo.”
“Let’s take a look.”
O’Dell parks the truck and we both get out. There’s definitely a breeze today, but nothing like that wailing wind. As we walk, we spot three graves in this area with fresher dirt, not brand-new like Mrs. Ashworth’s or the UNKNOWN NEGRO’S neighbor, but still buried recently: Celina Montoya, Luis Soto and Maria Flores.
O’Dell says, “None of these new ones are Martinez. Maybe one of them was a cousin, or a girlfriend.”
I nod, adding these graves to my already long list of To Do’s. Maria Flores died last week. She was just sixteen—same age as Mama when she left home, then had me. Sixteen is too young to die.
So is eleven.
O’Dell’s cell phone rings. He jumps and rips it from his side, then answers it, “Yes, sir?” He turns away like that’ll keep me from listening. I bet it’s his lardass uncle. “No, sir. I’m headed to work right now. Well, yeah, I am here on the northwest side checking a sprinkler, but—yes sir, I’ll be there in ten minutes. Hey, do you remember Reverend—”
O’Dell snaps the phone shut and his face reddens. “He hung up on me.”
His uncle is the biggest Butt Munch of all, so Eugene O’Dell can’t help it.
He hurries back to his pickup. “I’ve got to go. Where do you want me to take you?”
I almost say home, but catch myself first. “Back to the Warrior Angel.”
As O’Dell drops me off, I’m standing outside with my truck door open. I notice some dried blood on the brown grass by Miz Elsie’s praying hands. Me and O’Dell watch each other all retarded since neither of us knows what to say. This is the most we’ve ever hung out together. I should say thanks for everything today, but niceness isn’t what we do.
He says, “What time will you be back tonight?”
“Why?”
“In case I find something out, dumb-ass.”
“I’m not allowed here anymore. Remember?”
“Yeah, and since when have you done what you’re told?”
We laugh and I’m glad it feels normal again. I say, “It depends on what happens today.”
That shuts us both up. I almost can’t even think about another day in Paradise alone and hold onto his truck door tighter.
O’Dell bites into the apple I left for him, crunching as he talks, “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for your mom and will leave you a note here if I learn anything about gangbangers or horny preachers.”
I laugh, but don’t mention I might not be able to read it by myself. I start to go, then stop. “Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“This.” I w
ave my hand toward him and what he did for me.
He looks off, then glances back at me and shrugs. “Let’s just say, I owe you.”
“You owe me two sleeping bags.”
“I didn’t take your stupid—”
I laugh and slam his door shut, but see him chuckling as he speeds away. I shoot him the O’Dell finger and he does the same right back out the window.
That’s more like us. A warmth melts me just a little, more than his truck heater did. It might be a thank you, but I can’t start thinking all buddy-buddy about me and O’Dell. I’ve got enough weirdness in my life these days. More people, more problems. I should get my sign and go.
Heading to Miz Elsie’s lilac bush, I pass the Warrior Angel. His feet are eye-level to me. I touch ’em and they’re stone cold like they’re supposed to be. The carved vine leaves stick out around the base as usual, but one looks sort of cockeyed.
I stop. I was right. He is out-of-whack. My hand smoothes over the stony leaf and it shifts. I gasp, then move it up like a tiny swinging door.
It’s a small secret hole I never knew about, but guess I’m just now tall enough to see the statue straight on. I stare at the Warrior Angel like seeing him for the first time.
Maybe I am.
His face still doesn’t say a thing about last night, or Mama. He just keeps his eyes, hands and sword pointed straight towards Burger Heaven. This hidden hole is about the size of my fist. My fingers shake, but I reach inside.
I pull out a white envelope. It’s not sealed, so I open it (I would’ve anyway).
Inside, there’s a wad of cash and a bus schedule to California.
Mama saved us.
CHAPTER 18
I’ve never held this much money in my whole life. It’s our ticket out of here and to a better life in California. I drop to the ground to start counting, making stacks as I go: lots of twenties, tens, fives, several ones, and tons of change. My fingers fly as I face all the presidents up the same way. I can’t believe Mama never told me about this hiding spot, or that she was even doing this for us. ’Course, her track record keeps showing what all she’s done behind my back.
Sad and mad swell in my chest again. Tears climb up my throat, but I stop ’em. I need to take back every mean thought I’ve had about Mama lately. This envelope proves I’ve been on her mind the whole time. For all I know, Diablo came here that night and kidnapped her.
