Here Lies Linc (7 page)

“So you were looking for me?” Jeeter asked hopefully.

For half a second I was tempted to say yes. But Jeeter wasn’t the kind of person you could tell lies to, even little white lies.

“I’m actually here for an assignment,” I admitted sheepishly. “For school.” And pretty soon I was pouring out the whole pathetic story—all about the field trip and Lottie and Mellecker and C.B. getting loose and the Adopt-a-Grave Project. Most guys would have interrupted after the first five minutes and made up some excuse about having to get back to hedge clipping or tree trimming or grave digging, but Jeeter was different. He just stood there and listened to me dump my troubles like heavy rocks at his feet, nodding and thinking hard in that Scarecrow way of his.

The next thing I knew, Jeeter was leading me a few graves down and a couple rows across to show me what he thought would be a perfect Adopt-a-Grave pick. “I always wondered about old Hannah here. She lived a good long life. And you said you needed details. That’s what I call dee-tails.” He pointed down at the impressive amount of information stacked up on the tombstone:

Hannah Marshall Dalton
Born at
Sheffield England
April 2 1822
Died Dec. 20 1909
Aged 87 yrs. 8 Mos.
18 Ds
.

“Yeah, that one’s pretty good,” I agreed. “She’s an immigrant. Immigrants are interesting. But I don’t know.…” A picture of Hannah Dalton popped into my mind. Nothing but a shriveled old lady in a rocker, sipping a cup of tea.

But Jeeter wasn’t a bit put off by my lack of enthusiasm. “Okay,” he said quickly, rubbing his palms together. “I got another idea. C’mon over this way.”

He headed across the paved driveway, swinging his loose arms back and forth as he strode along. I almost had to run to keep up with him. Then he stopped suddenly in front of a group of matching bleached-white headstones. “Civil War veterans,” he announced proudly. “Can’t get much better than that. Look. There’s Corporal Randolph Phinney. A member of the cavalry.”

“Uh-huh, those are good too, but …” I shot Jeeter an apologetic look.

“But what?”

“I bet you anything Mellecker and all the rest of the guys in the class are picking veterans. I’d kind of like to do something different.”

“Well, sure. You don’t want a heehaw like that thinking you copied him.”

I smiled at the thought of Mellecker with donkey ears and a bristly tail swishing at flies. Jeeter always had the best expressions.

He was ready to lead me over to another potential gravesite when I felt the leashes in my front pocket and remembered the dogs. I hadn’t seen them in a while. “Hey,” I said, glancing around. “I wonder where C.B. and Spunky went.”

“Who?”

“The dogs.… Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you. I got a job walking Mr. Krasny’s terrier. But lately we’ve been running more than walking.”

Jeeter’s head snapped up. “You let the dogs loose in
here
?”

“Well, I had to. My assignment’s due tomorrow, and Mr. Krasny gets upset if Spunky doesn’t get his walk.…”

I let my voice trail off. Jeeter was spinning around, searching the cemetery with a worried look in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Dogs aren’t allowed in here anymore, Linc, especially if they’re not on a leash.”

“But you and Mr. Nicknish always let—”

“Old Nick’s gone. Retired. We got a new boss a few weeks ago, and oh man, he can be ornery as a snake on a stick. Get this. He likes being called Warden instead of Superintendent, and the name sure suits him.” Jeeter glanced over his shoulder again. “So which way do you think those dogs went?”

I stood on my toes, trying to get a look over the hill, back toward Claiborne Street. “Uh, I’m not sure. I didn’t think they’d run off like this. But maybe C.B. found a rabbit or something.”

Jeeter pressed his hand on my shoulder. “Look, Linc, you gotta find them quick and hightail it out of here. I’ll run over
to the office and see if I can keep the warden occupied till you’re gone.”

“Okay,” I said with a nervous little gulp. Jeeter wasn’t exactly the anxious type. He would never act this way unless he had a good reason.

“C
.
B
.!” I
SQUAWKED
as I ran through the graveyard. “Spunk!” I knew the dogs might come if I whistled and called louder, but I didn’t want to bring the warden running too, in case he happened to be nearby.

I slowed down when I got near the gate at the end of my street, hoping that C.B. had led Spunky home for a rest in our yard. But there was no sign of them on the front porch or around back, so I stalked into the graveyard again, past Winslow, Dobbins, York & McNutt.

“C.B.!” I yelled a little louder.

What are you tryin’ to do? Raise the dead?
I heard Winslow croak.

Oh, leave him alone. He’s having a bad day
.

Ew-weeee, is he ever! Those mutts have probably been carted off to the pound by now. He might as well give up and go home
.

“Shut up,” I muttered before McNutt could chime in.

The light was already turning, throwing stretchy shadows of trees and tombstones across the ground. Mr. Krasny would start getting worried soon. What if I had to go back and tell him I had lost Spunky? Another chill shivered through me as I searched the distance and the dark line of forest on the edge of the graveyard. What if the dogs had headed into Hickory Hill Park? The park spanned hundreds of brambly acres and trails. It would take me all night to track them down there.

But with all those rabbits and squirrels waiting to be chased, Hickory Hill was the obvious place to look. So I set off toward the shadowy fringe of trees, calling the dogs in a strained voice as I trotted along through row after row of graves. I was so distracted, checking over my shoulder to make sure the warden wasn’t on my trail, that I almost ran right into it—the columbarium wall, rising up in the dusk. I veered around and broke into a jog again. But a fresh stab of guilt made me turn back. I couldn’t run right by without at least checking on Dad’s stone.

At first I couldn’t find it. Lots more names had filled in during the last few years. I could hear myself huffing for breath as I searched the rows of compartments. Where was he? It wasn’t until I swallowed and forced myself to start back at the edge of the wall that I remembered—third row from the top, halfway across. Then I found him right away. “Lincoln Raintree Crenshaw,” I whispered as I stood gazing at the stone. I was tall enough now to reach up and touch it if I wanted.

I squeezed my eyes shut trying to recall the exact sound of my father’s voice, but it kept drifting in and out like a bad phone connection. Instead, all I could hear was Dad’s Elmer
Fudd impression in my head. He used to be good at all kinds of voices—Pepé Le Pew, the Three Stooges, Muhammad Ali. But his Elmer Fudd was the best. Dad would chase me around the house before bedtime—my least favorite time of the day—calling, “Come back, you wascally wabbit! Wockabye babe-eeee, in the tweeeeee-tops!”

I shook my head, smiling to myself as I stood there remembering, and for one crazy second it occurred to me:
Here’s the grave I should adopt
. Other than scraps of memories from when I was little, I barely knew anything about my father.

I was still standing there when I heard the whimper. I must have jumped a foot. “C.B.!” I cried, and whirled around in relief. Then I stopped. It was the dogs, all right. But a man with a crew cut and a jaggedy face stood behind them, hauling back on lengths of rope that he had tied onto their collars. He wore a short-sleeved work shirt buttoned up tight around his skinny neck.

The warden. I had no idea how he had managed to come so close without me noticing sooner. “You missing something?” he asked. His voice was cold and quiet.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Those are my dogs. I’ve been looking for them.”

I could hear C.B.’s toenails scratch against the stone paving as he tried to scrabble closer to greet me. I reached my hand out to take the dogs, but the warden didn’t budge. I dropped my arm to my side.

“Sure didn’t appear as though you were looking too hard just now,” he said. His eyes were glittery, and he had a
peculiar way of chewing on his words, like there was grit between his teeth. He looked me up and down. “Didn’t you read that big sign out front that says
NO DOGS ALLOWED
?”

“No, sir,” I fibbed. “I didn’t.” I let my gaze flick down to the writing sewn across his breast pocket:
R. KILGORE—OAKLAND CEMETERY
. Where was Jeeter? I stole a look past Kilgore’s shoulder, hoping I would see him come loping around the corner to rescue me at any second.

“You must think this is some kind of a park where you get to run your dogs and play fetch.”

I shook my head. “No, sir. I just—”

The dogs had worked themselves into a frenzy by now. I could see the whites of their scared eyes as they strained toward me, whining louder. “Listen, Mr. Kilgore. I’m really sorry. I won’t ever bring my dogs in here again. So … do you think I could just take them now and … leave?”

He glanced down at the embroidered writing above his pocket, and his lips curled up in a slow smile. “So you
can
read after all.”

I blinked back a little shock of surprise. I was used to fending off sarcastic comments from kids, but no adult had ever talked to me that way. What was it Jeeter had called him? Ornery as a snake on a stick? He wasn’t kidding.

“Here,” Kilgore finally said. “Take ’em.” I held my breath and stepped forward to grab the ropes. C.B. and Spunky were all over me in a second, a blur of paws and tongues and tails. Kilgore crossed his arms over his chest and watched without a word while I struggled to untangle myself and herd the dogs toward home. But he wasn’t done with me yet. We had made
it only a few yards when I heard his voice again behind me, still oddly quiet. “Where you think you’re going?” he asked, sounding amused.

I reined in the dogs and turned around. Maybe he only wanted his ropes back.

“I’m going home,” I said as I fished for the leashes in the pocket of my sweatshirt. “My house is right over—”

“I don’t care where you live,” he cut in. “You can’t cross the cemetery with those dogs. You’ll have to go through there.” He jerked his head toward the direction of the woods.

“You mean Hickory Hill?”

“Bingo.”

Was he crazy? It was getting dark, and going home through the park would take three times as long. Kilgore’s mouth twitched with laughter. “You better get a move on. You could lose your way in those woods around nightfall.”

What was the
deal
with this guy? I took my time leading the dogs toward the park, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me run. Then, once we were a few steps into the cover of the woods, I pulled C.B. and Spunky behind a thick mound of brush. I couldn’t resist looking back. I hunched down and peered through the branches as the dogs sat beside me with their tongues hanging sideways. Kilgore was still there, at his post beside the wall. I watched him reach into his front pocket for something. Suddenly the sharp hollows of his face were lit up as he held a match to the cigarette clamped in his mouth. I ducked lower and froze while he stood smoking, scanning the edge of the woods where I hid.

When Kilgore finally finished his cigarette and turned to go, I sank down into the layer of rotten leaves at my feet. My knees felt spongy from crouching for so long. But even with Kilgore gone, I was too scared to risk taking the shortcut home. The dogs snuffled closer, and for a minute I stared out at the night descending over Oakland, my mind spinning through all the lousy things that had happened to me that day.

Everyone at school thought I was a loser.

My mother wasn’t speaking to me anymore.

And to make matters worse, I still didn’t have a decent idea for my Adopt-a-Grave Project.

I was beginning to think I was cursed, just like that Black Angel.

The Black Angel
.

I smiled into the shadows.

Maybe I had an idea after all.

I
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
. Instead of letting us quietly hand in our work sheets the next day, Mr. Oliver wanted us to announce our picks for the Adopt-a-Grave Project. Out loud. To the whole class.