Creepers (7 page)

Mom nodded. “Yes.We have to figure out how to fight this.”

My dad glanced at me to see if I was upset, but I just shrugged.

“Jen, let me park this thing and change out of these clothes and we'll talk. I'll throw some burgers on the grill, okay?” He flashed her his best boyish smile.

“All right,” she agreed. She patted him playfully on the
cheek before he pulled around to the “wall of the east wing” of the house to park in the back by the shed.

“Shall we go in and wash up?” she asked, putting her arm around my shoulder. “I hope you don't think your mom is crazy.”

“Well,” I started jokingly, but I was interrupted by a voice calling from the end of the driveway.

“Courtney! Mrs. O'Brien!” It was Margaret and Mr. Geyer walking along the road toward the cemetery. Brochures were tucked under Mr. Geyer's arm. I had not seen them give one tour yet, I realized.

“Mr. Geyer! Wait!” my mom called, her voice hitting a pitch it only reaches when she's excited. “I must talk to you!”

Mr. Geyer's eyebrows were raised in surprise as my mom jogged down the driveway. I trotted right behind her. Margaret smiled as if truly glad to see us. “Let me hold the brochures for you, Dad,” she offered as she slipped them from his side.

My mom looked at Mr. Geyer as if she had hit the lottery. “Forgive me for shouting, but I couldn't let you get away.” She laughed. She was just as suddenly serious.“I need to ask you if you know anything about a developer who wants to build homes on parcels of the cemetery, that is, once he purchases the property and relocates the remains.”

For a moment, Mr. Geyer said nothing. Margaret glanced at the cemetery and then back at our house.

“We did hear that,” Margaret answered for him. The smile was gone from her face.

“Well, we heard the rumors,” Mr. Geyer corrected. “We prayed they were not true. This cemetery is precious. It must not be disturbed again.” He pronounced this like a church minister addressing his distracted congregants.

My mom seemed captivated by his eyes. They seemed to float behind his lenses, as if disconnected from his body.

“I agree,” she finally replied.

“Then we'll need your help,” he said. All the humor was gone from his voice. It must have been ninety degrees out, and yet I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

“Well, actually, I have an idea,” my mom said, as if challenged. “I'm doing a story on it for our weekly paper, so it would be a conflict of interest for me to get personally involved.” Her speech tumbled rapid-fire as it does when she is excited and does not want anyone to interrupt her. “But you know this cemetery better than anyone. If you want to gain attention about its plight, perhaps a protest could be arranged. Then I can cover the story for the paper. You'll need to rally the people of Murmur to fight for its protection.”

“That's a wonderful idea,” Margaret agreed.

Mr. Geyer turned to my mom and I could almost see his demeanor soften.

“An interesting proposition, Mrs. O'Brien,” he agreed, the chill gone from his voice.

“Do you have any ideas?” my mom asked hopefully.

“Perhaps.” He nodded, a bit distractedly. “But don't worry. I'll come up with something newsworthy, I promise you.”

“Great.” My mom beamed. “I'll need to interview you, too, as the cemetery's expert. And I'll want you to start calling me Jenny,” she insisted.

“Certainly.” Mr. Geyer suddenly seemed very calm.

“Can we pick a time to talk tomorrow? My article is due by Wednesday. Will that give you enough time to brainstorm a plan?”

“It will have to be enough time.” Mr. Geyer smiled patiently. “Time waits for no man.”

I looked at the cemetery and tried to picture winding tree-lined streets with nice big houses and lots of people. Would it really be that bad? Then I remembered Prudence.
If Prudence was still lost from the first move, how many others might be displaced?

“Exactly,” Margaret said, turning to me, although I am sure that I had not voiced my thoughts out loud.

MARGARET, MR. GEYER, AND I WERE SITTING BY Prudence's grave. Despite the high August temperatures there was a nice breeze, which made the sitting bearable. Today Margaret's hair was pulled back in a single thick braid, taut against her face, making it look almost shrunken. She had the witch's emerald eyes.

Margaret had brought along another copy from a page of Christian's journal, to inspire us in planning our cemetery protest.

 

“Why only one page?” I asked. I was hooked. I wanted to hear more.

She was pleased by the question and placed her hand over mine. “I just picked an excerpt that I thought was appropriate for today. I'm afraid of leaving the house with
even one. What if it got damaged or lost?” Her face was beseeching. Her question seemed sincere.

I looked at the skeleton head, the bats, the angels, and the ivy decorating Prudence's tombstone and nodded. I understood. Every clue to Prudence's whereabouts was precious.

Mr. Geyer was walking along one of the gravel paths with a notebook, jotting as he paused and peered at various tombstones.Wispy white clouds raked the blue sky behind him. The hearty sycamores and willows that had grown on this land from tiny seeds seemed to stand at attention. Their leaves barely stirred. Mr. Geyer seemed incongruous in this pastoral scene in his jeans and plaid shirt.Then again, he looked out of place wherever he was. I was beginning to recognize his limited wardrobe already.

“It's teasing, isn't it, Courtney?” He glanced at Margaret, who was crouching now and plucking at the weeds daring to sprout around Prudence's plot. “When I found Christian's journal at the historical society, I stayed up all night reading it. I was entranced.” His eyes were focused on my face, but when he turned slightly, his glasses appeared like fun-house mirrors. Talk about entrancing. I looked back to Margaret.

“The story is so sad. Even the little bit of it I've heard,” I murmured. I wanted to ask to borrow the journal, but
an historical society would never trust it with a kid. I would have to wait for the pages that Margaret would share with me.

Margaret stood slowly and began to brush the dirt from her hands. “It is sad, especially because we know how it ends, but I brought this page to get us thinking. Dad said we needed a theme.” She brought the page close to her face, as if she missed something.

“How about . . .” she began. “‘Impatience only breeds fury and fury fire'?” she suggested.

I wrinkled my nose. “Sounds kind of threatening,” I offered. “I don't think we want to scare people.” I glanced around us. The cemetery was deserted. Who was there to scare?

Mr. Geyer came up beside me. “I think you're right, Courtney. Perhaps we should think about ‘Nature does not heed our hourglass.'”

Now it was Margaret who squinted in doubt. “And what's the message there?” She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

“That nature has its own schedule, and thus its own design.” Mr. Geyer's chin was raised in contemplation as he spoke.

“I think I need to know exactly what we are planning before I can pick a theme,” I confessed. A sudden breeze
played gently with the ends of my hair. It felt like the affectionate hands of a friend.

“Maybe we should just tell them about Prudence,” I blurted. “Her story sure got me hooked.”

Margaret and Mr. Geyer both sort of cocked their heads at me.

“Tell them what?” Mr. Geyer asked guardedly. I felt those big eyes of his scrutinizing every inch of my face.

“Uhhh . . .” Suddenly I felt like I was taking a test. “About her missing coffin. How the first time they relocated the cemetery, they lost people's remains to make room for the farm.” My voice got stronger as the idea made perfect sense to me. “There may still be people in town who have ancestors buried here. Nobody wants their ancestors going missing.” I shrugged when they both continued to stare.

Margaret stood by Prudence's grave and then suddenly crouched, as if waiting to hear Prudence whisper her opinion. Mr. Geyer opened his notebook and began flipping the pages.
What is with these two?
They seemed unconvinced.

“Who knows?” I braved, only slightly daunted by the vexing silence. “Maybe we can get the cemetery registered as an historic site. My teacher at home tried that, but he was a little too nerdy and people wouldn't pay attention to him.” I was looking at Mr. Geyer's black socks as I said this.

“Margaret can tell them, and I'll help.” People would
listen to Margaret. She at least
looked
normal and was incredibly well spoken. Adults would listen to her. I knew this instinctively.

Margaret stood and reached for my hand. For a girl my age, she had some old-fashioned habits, like this hand-grabbing thing right out of
Little Women
.

“I think that's a terrific idea.” Her usually pale face was flushed. She was breathing fast. “We have the photos and the newspaper clippings about the relocation.We just need to show some proof that Prudence is missing.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I thought you had her grave dug up.”

Margaret's green eyes opened wide. “Courtney, we said we dug up some information. We're not allowed to dig up a grave, but perhaps in this case. . . .” she added wistfully. Her gaze darted to Mr. Geyer's face. She gave him a look that said,
Well
?

“Then can we use the information that you already found?”
Well what?
I was confused.
Why is everything such a riddle with them?

“No, we cannot, Courtney.” Mr. Geyer had the same stern look on his face he took on last night with my mother. “The information I have, if published, could compromise my research. And I don't want to mention Christian Geyer or the ivy in any way. Is that understood?”

I must have been squinting at him, as if a complete stranger had suddenly taken over the body of Mr. Geyer. “I don't want to, either,” I agreed, thinking of the ivy blazing trails along my basement walls. I probably sounded a bit offended.

“Dad,” Margaret interrupted, “Courtney is just trying to help. She has a good idea. We can make this work.” Margaret's chin was in the air again.

It was amazing how she can soften him.The notebook dropped to his side and he scratched his head like he was thinking about a long-ago memory. “I'm sorry, Courtney. I care so much about this cemetery that it makes me fierce. I know you are our ally. Forgive my rudeness. I guess I'm feeling the pressure of this fight.”

“I understand,” I said. And I did. For the past year, this research was their whole life. I turned to measure with my eyes the vast expanse of the cemetery, extending without limit from my vantage point. I tried to imagine houses with big yards and decks suddenly in this place. It
was
jarring. It felt sacrilegious.

I turned back to smile in sympathy at Mr. Geyer and Margaret. I knew what they were feeling, but my smile disolved as I saw them staring in the direction of my house. Mr. Geyer's brows were raised as if in surprise. Margaret's mouth was slightly open.

“What is it?” I asked nervously. It looked the same to me—an ivy-bound house surrounded by woods and cornfields.

Mr. Geyer rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. “Nothing, Courtney. Just thinking about all the work that still needs to be done.”

Margaret and I stood at the end of my driveway and caught the breeze of a passing car before we turned down the road. Mr. Geyer was left behind with my mother. He was probably sitting at the kitchen table now, those pots and pans suspended over his head, as my mom pulled out her yellow tablet for the interview. She liked to write big. Little notebooks were not her style.