Haint Misbehavin'

by Maureen Hardegree

“And I don’t believe you,” I said, noting the clearing up ahead, probably where the cemetery was.

  That’s when my foot found a big hole. My flashlight and the leash flew out of my hands. Pain shot up my leg as the rest of my body thudded onto the leaf-littered ground.

  “Roquefort! Here, girl!”

  Roquefort barked somewhere off in the distance as I gingerly probed my ankle and the lower half of my leg. No bones protruding. That was good.

  “Come back you stupid dog!”

  I knew the ankle was sprained at the least. But I’d come this far, I wasn’t turning back now. Amy needed her parents. I needed her gone.

  Rustling in the woods sounded to my left as I teetered up on one foot.

  Growling, that didn’t sound like my beagle, came from somewhere near the rustling. Every follicle on my head raised its hair, most likely due to the hives erupting underneath them. I felt them popping all over my face. “Roquefort?”

  The growling grew louder as did the rustling in the undergrowth. I hobbled to a tree I couldn’t climb and hid behind it, hugging the rough bark like it would make me invisible. I gathered the nerve to peek.

  A not so little raccoon emerged from the underbrush.

  My heart raced. Adorable as raccoons look on animal planet, the real thing is a little scary. And in case you were wondering, no, rabies wasn’t on my summer to do list.

  That’s when my stupid beagle bounded out of the darkness, dragging her leash behind her. She chased off the raccoon, then circled back and knocked me over. She proceeded to lick my face, leaving behind the unmistakably stinky scent of dog breath. I’d probably get a rash from her saliva.

  I grabbed hold of her choke collar and with the leash firmly in hand, I maneuvered my weight up onto my good leg, then tried out my injured one. I hobbled over to my flashlight shining up on this ginormous Tulip Poplar, then spotted my map and tried to determine how far up the path I’d gone. I heard a car drive by in the distance. Then a rumble of thunder. Just what I needed. I swear I wish the meteorologists could get it right just once. Ten percent, my big toe!

  I had to find the cemetery and get home before the rain, which might just skirt around me if I was lucky. But I hadn’t been lucky so far, so I wasn’t counting on it.

  I limped my way into the clearing, sweeping my intermittently bright flashlight left to right. Grass was up to my knees.

  Speaking of knees, I fell to mine right about then as my foot sunk into a second hole, which I discovered was the corner of a grave when I raised my elbows on the freshly flattened weeds and came face to face with a headstone. Not Amy’s. But the engraving did say Malcolm.

  If I hadn’t known the family plot existed, I’d definitely have missed it. Some of the oldest markers had fallen over or maybe someone had knocked them down. Others had sunk. The only part of the rusted metal fence left was covered by what looked and smelled like honeysuckle vines. I nearly stepped on the twin marble angels that may have been markers for Amy’s brothers.

  I flashed the light over the stones, most of which were dark with vines. It looked like some of the oldest stones were under the canopy of the woods. A tall Civil War obelisk rose above the rest.

  Amy had told me that when she was a girl, she and her mom would go to the churchyard and tend her mama’s family’s graves, they were Smiths. They’d pull up weeds, bring fresh flowers, wash the grime and mildew from the headstones.

  I estimated where Amy’s grave would be based on the little angels and the crumbled brick coping that divided off a subset of the Malcolm family. But I was wrong; the name said “Harmon Malcolm.” Amy’s dad. I had to be close, though.

  I flashed the light as I walked around the coping again. “Come on, Roquefort. Hunt Amy’s grave for me.”

  Roquefort wasn’t listening. She was too busy licking her paws.

  Fearing ticks, I bent down to rustle the grasses to see if there was a stone down lower than the mostly knee high oblong slabs with carving only starting to wear. I crawled down the two rows, then noticed that there was some extra space at the bottom of the second row, where someone could put a casket sideways if they’d wanted to.

  Jackpot. There it was. I could clearly see the name Amy chiseled in the rock. Everything else that had come before her name, and there was something, was covered by some vines that seemed to be imbedded in the cool granite.

  The placement was odd, but that didn’t mean her family hated her.

  I pulled some of the small leaves off easily with both hands, but some of it was really woody and hairy. It wouldn’t release. I tried a second time after pushing up my sleeves and fell backwards when I yanked, which didn’t help my ankle. A pinecone jabbed my back. I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

  As I approached it a third time, determined to get the stuff off so I could get my rubbing and go home, the old Girl Scout saying chimed in my head, “leaves of three, let it be.” This wasn’t poison ivy. I couldn’t be that stupid, right?

  I wasn’t itching as I examined the leaves. Some were large, dull green and notched but others weren’t notched at all. And from what I could recall the leaves in those pictures I’d studied were smaller, glossy and had some red on them. I was fine.

  Yanking again where one of the vines was firmly rooted to the soil, I succeeded. Dirt sprinkled my face. But all this work only led to one measly root and a tiny portion of the vine coming down. I could see the word daughter. Big help that was. The thunder sounded again. Closer.

  Dang it! I couldn’t stay. I’d have to come back unless . . .

  Roquefort barked and sniffed the vine, wagging her tail. “You’re right, girl, this was a total waste of time.”

  “I could have told you that,” Amy said, reappearing as I hoped she would.

  “Can you help me get these vines off?” I asked. “Pretty please?”

  Amy gave the vine-covered headstone the once over, then crossed her arms over her chest. “Nope.”

  “Why not? I’ve seen what you can do to a grapevine. Whatever this is should be a piece of cake.”

  “Don’t care if’n it’s easy or not. I ain’t helping you ‘cause I don’t want to. Besides, you gotta go. It’s gonna rain.”

  “Why don’t you want me to see the stone?” I insisted. “Do you know what it says?”

  “No, and I don’t wanna. Come on, Heather. If’n you get wet, you might catch yourself a death of cold and then you won’t be able to go to the swimming hole to see Drew.”

  My haint might no longer be of this world, but she understood my “currency.”

  As I trudged home, my tender ankle throbbing, I saw the first flash of what I prayed was heat lightning because real lightning meant a real storm, and a real storm meant I’d get wet.

  “See,” Amy said. “I told you rain was coming.”

  Eight one thousands later, a thunder boom shook the ground.

  Roquefort whined and looked back at me with woeful beagle eyes.

  “Hey, if I had a way to get home faster, I’d take it, dog.”

  Then I smelled it. Rain. Heard it, too, plinking toward me.

  Warm, fat drops plopped on my face, my arms, taunting me. And then the deluge fell, soaking me. The thick denim jeans I’d been so proud to have thought to wear when I entered the briar patch absorbed the rain and grew heavier with every sopping, aching step I took.

  Roquefort, not a dog who liked getting even her feet wet, much less having a bath in the tub, cried.

  My flashlight petered out to a weak glow as I reached the windy base of Red Tip Road. The steep hill and narrow asphalt shoulder gleamed slick in the rain. Maybe Roquefort would pull me up the road like she’d yanked me down it. That would only be fair, especially when a person had a tender ankle and could hardly see due to the water streaming down her face.

  But what did my stupid dog do? She lay down on the shoulder of the road and wouldn’t budge.

  I yanked, and I yanked. She didn’t seem to care that we could be hit by some car careening out of c
ontrol. She wouldn’t even pick her head up for the doggie biscuit I fished from my wet pocket. Yeah, it was a bit moist.

  So I had to carry the stinky beast. And let me say right now, the only thing worse than wet dog is wet, stinky dog that won’t walk.

  “You know, you could help,” I said to Amy.

  “Car!” she shouted, and I limped off into the rapidly filling ditch that paralleled the road.

  I hoped, no, dreamed that the vehicle was an SUV with tinted glass and that Drew was inside. He’d see me and stop, offer me a ride home. When he noticed the limp, he’d scold me for not telling him that I twisted my ankle. He’d scoop me up into his arms and—

  A huge splash of water drenched my already doused face and hair. I sputtered and watched the tail lights of a truck with big tires recede into the rain. The spray of puddle water added the nuance of motor oil to the wet dog fragrance permeating my body. No way could this night get any worse than it already was.

  Twenty minutes later, the rain tapered off to a steamy mist and I thought things were in fact looking up even though every movement of my arms and legs ached, not just my ankle. Roquefort and I were close. All I had to do was turn the corner and I’d be home. I could get these wet clothes off, towel dry, and slide into my nice, fluffy bed with semi-clean sheets that at least didn’t smell like dog.

  Roquefort must have sensed we were close, too. She struggled against me and dropped to the ground. I scrambled to keep hold of her leash as she strained forward, prancing around the corner, choking against the chain around her neck.

  Once I had her under control, I looked toward my house—the brightly lit brick colonial at the end of the cul-de-sac. At first glance, the lights made me think warm, home, yay! But then I noticed all the downstairs lights were on, which meant someone was awake, and that someone probably knew I wasn’t in bed.

  I had to come up with a reason to be out with the dog. I was walking her because she cried to go out and . . . I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I decided to take her for a walk . . . and it started raining, and this stupid jerk splashed a puddle on me when he was driving by. Ooh, that was good. Mixing a little real with the made up stuff made it so much more convincing.

  “You’re in big trouble,” Amy said, as I closed in on the mailbox at the end of our curved driveway.

  “No, duh!”

  I decided to make the most of my twisted ankle and limped in a more exaggerated manner. I hung my head, just in case someone was looking out the window.

  That’s why I didn’t see it until I was practically on top of it—Aunt Geneva’s vintage Honda Civic that at one time had been white and normal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For a moment, I just stopped and stared. No one else had a car like Aunt Geneva’s, and she liked it that way, said it was easier to find it in a parking lot. Um, yeah.

  She’d welded bits of scrap brass onto her car so that as it aged, it turned green and looked like metal lichen was growing on it. Whatever paint had been on the car had since peeled off or rusted. I wasn’t sure if the car was hideous or cool. But having her here could only mean one thing; Amy had to vamoose.

  “Hide,” I said.

  “She may sense me anyway.”

  My pulse sped. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t let fear win, though. “Well, then, stay outside in the vines. I don’t want her to know about you.”

  Another thought rocked me. I tried not to hyperventilate. “Is Aunt Geneva’s friend with her?”

  Amy shrugged. “You’ll know when you go inside.”

  “Yeah, I figured that much. What do I do?” I whispered as Amy did her invisible thing. “Amy!” I called in a slightly louder whisper.

  She didn’t answer.

  I wouldn’t panic. If I saw this ghost friend of Geneva’s, I’d just pretend I didn’t.

  Sweating, I tried to sneak in quietly, but my shoes squelched and stupid Roquefort ran to her water bowl and slopped it everywhere.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Dad asked, flipping on the overhead light so that one of the recessed lights shone in my eyes like a spotlight. Yup, he was cussing so I knew I was in big trouble. “You’re soaked.”

  “I refuse to speak without my attorney present,” I quipped, hoping to break his stern expression with some humor.

  “You think that’s funny? You think we’re playing a game here?” He asked, his arms folded over his inside-out white t-shirt. That wasn’t a good sign. Nor was Mom’s bedhead.

  “No, sir,” I said. “I was out walking the dog.” I jingled the leash for emphasis and met Dad’s unbelieving gaze. And that wasn’t a lie, technically.

  Roquefort looked up from her water bowl, panted for a few seconds, then stuck her nose in the empty food dish, and sniffled around. I could relate. I was hungry, too.

  “Should I get the dog some . . . ” My voice trailed off as Dad’s face flushed red and that vein in his temple pulsed.

  I stared down at the puddle I was making on the tile. I glanced over at the bowl of fruit on the island, where the ripe, brown-spotted bananas called out to me. I was hungry and tired. I just wanted to eat a banana, then go to sleep in my comfy bed.

  “Calm down, John. She’s okay,” Aunt Geneva said, entering the room. Her hair was a lighter shade of red than the last time I’d seen her. I’d call it Mango Sparkle. Her lips were an almost perfect match to the hair. Weird. Even though it was almost three a.m., she looked fresh. She pushed up the sleeves of her faded, extra-large man-sized denim shirt like she was getting ready to chisel a piece of stone. Not a stretch since she sculpted stone, too.

  Toes tapping to the beat of his ill-concealed anger, Dad focused on her. “Geneva, with all due respect, I don’t need your two cents right now.”

  “So why did you ask me to drive over here?”

  “I wasn’t the one who called,” Dad said and sent a pointed look toward my uncharacteristically quiet mother.

  I was almost grateful because not only was Aunt Geneva deflecting some of Dad’s anger, she must not have brought her friend. At least, I didn’t sense anyone with her. I craned my neck to see behind her into the family room. No ghost, as far as I could tell.

  “Your father asked you where you’ve been, Heather,” Mom said and handed me a towel. “If I were you, I’d tell him the truth.”

  “I did. I was out walking the dog.”

  “At night, in the rain?” Dad asked and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose like he couldn’t wait to hear my reason.

  “She wanted to go for a walk,” I said, lying now with all my imagination could muster, and watching Roquefort look up at Dad panting as if I hadn’t carried her most of the way home. “I heard her whining and scratching at the door when I came down to get some water, so I thought why not? I didn’t realize you’d all have a cow about it.”

  “Where’s the glass?” He asked.

  “What glass?”

  “Your water glass.”

  I glanced over at the smooth granite countertop free of glassware, near the equally empty sink. “Um, I guess I must have brought it up into my room when I went to put on my clothes and tennis shoes.” I had plenty of glasses in my room to choose from if they demanded evidence. I’m sort of notorious for forgetting to bring them back to the kitchen.

  Now for the bait and switch. “Mom, can you look at my ankle? That stupid dog pulled me into a hole. It’s really sore. I had to limp all the way home. That’s what took me so long.”

  Mom made a move toward me, earning a stern look from Dad. The whole for-God’s-sake-don’t-give-her-any-sympathy look.

  Mom countered with her patented she’s-our-child-and-she’s-hurt look.

  “Well, don’t stand on your ankle,” Aunt Geneva said. “Sit down.”

  I complied, sure that I had successfully detoured them. I tugged up the wet legs on my jeans, untied my soggy shoelaces and removed my wet socks and tennis shoes.

  Mom poked my twisted ankle, comparing it to the other one. “It’s a little
swollen,” she said, getting up to open the freezer door of our side-by-side. She returned with a bag of frozen peas and a long speech about family and making good choices. I tuned most of it out.

  Aunt Geneva was trying not to smile. She must have some dirt on Mom. I had to remember to ask her about it later.

  “Let’s get back to the so-called walk, shall we?” Dad said, now pacing the tile floor like an attorney prosecuting me.

  He didn’t care about my ankle. “Who were you meeting?”

  “I wasn’t meeting anyone,” I said facing his gaze without a twitch. I wasn’t lying about that. I had to make the most of my truthful statements.

  I heard someone quietly descending the back stairs. One of my sisters coming to listen, no doubt.

  “So you weren’t meeting a boy?”

  A short evil snort sounded from the part of the stairs hidden by drywall and the desk cabinetry. Audrey. And I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse.

  “No. Like I said, I was walking the dog.”

  “So why are you all scratched up?” Dad asked.

  Still maintaining eye contact, I explained, “The stupid dog ran into some briars and I had to go into them to get her out.”

  “Why didn’t you come back when it started raining?” Mom asked. They were double-teaming me now.

  “The storm came up fast. I got soaked, so I figured I might as well keep walking.”

  Audrey poked her head around the wall, then popped it back when Mom looked over to where I was looking.

  “Why the long sleeve shirt and jeans?” Dad asked.

  “I just grabbed stuff off the floor. I guess I wore this or was considering wearing this when Claire and I went to the movies.”

  Another snort from Audrey’s general vicinity.

  Unfortunately this time the reference to my sloppy habits didn’t throw Dad off.

  “You know what? We’re going to skip the rest of the questioning phase and move right on to your punishment. Your mother and I both know there’s more going on here than you’re admitting, and you’re choosing not to be forthcoming. So here’s the deal. Since you have such a fondness for walking the dog, you can walk Roquefort for an entire month, including while we’re at the beach.”