Saving Cicadas (29 page)

“There'll be plenty of time for rest later, dear.”

She hurried her steps and I struggled to keep up. I yawned and said, “All right, but where are we going now?” As I said it, we walked right past our blue gingerbread house. Napping was out of the question.

“We're going to see Mrs. Shoemaker. Do you know who that is?”

“The old lady who sits on the porch of the yellow house?”

“That's the one.”

“But she's mean. And I thought you didn't get along with her.”

“She's mean, yes. And once upon a time, we had our differences. But that's pretty much past now.”

“What happened?”

Grandma Mona stopped in the sidewalk and assessed me. Then she kept walking and turned her head straight forward. “Her daughter was a year or two older than Priscilla,” she said, “and I didn't want my girl around hers. Plain and simple. I thought she was loose and bad news. Said so, too, and my words wound up getting back to Clarabelle's ears. I guess I'm the one who ended up with egg on my face.”

“Mama's not loose,” I said defensively, not really knowing what it meant. “She's certainly not bad news.”

“Oh honey, I know she's not. I didn't mean . . . see? My big mouth always gets me into trouble. Just keep your mouth shut, Mona, keep it shut.”

Now she was talking to herself. Wonderful. We walked in silence for a few seconds more. I could see the yellow house getting larger as we approached it. “What happened to Mrs. Shoemaker's daughter?” I whispered.

“Nothing much. She married an accountant. Had a nice quiet life, I reckon, until they divorced. Far as I know she never had any kids. Lives alone in that big house. With her mother now.”

“Oh. Does Mrs. Shoemaker know we're coming over?”

“Well, we'll just have to see, now, won't we?”

When we got up to the yellow house, I couldn't believe my eyes. Earthworms, curled like question marks, littered the driveway. “Look!” I said. I bent down and studied them. I'd never seen so many in my life.

“She must be overwatering her lawn. If there's too much water in the soil, they'll drown. They come up to the surface so they won't die.”

“But it's getting hot now and dry. They're dying!”

I heard Grandma Mona go stiff beside me. “Clarabelle,” she said, nodding slightly.

“Mona,” said Mrs. Shoemaker, nodding back. It was like watching the standoff in a western movie. I wondered which old woman would pull her gun first. Mrs. Shoemaker was sitting in a new porch swing with a long hard bench that had replaced the strange-looking net one from before. She brought the swing to a halt.

“Your daughter's watering the lawn too much,” said Grandma Mona.

“What she does with her grass or anything else is her business,” said Mrs. Shoemaker. I could feel the heat between these two. “What brings you by on a hot Thursday afternoon, Mona? I see you brought your grandbaby with you.”

I was waiting, just waiting for Mrs. Shoemaker to say something about my sister again. I was preparing what I'd say to put her in her place.

“I did, Clarabelle. I believe you've met Janie already?”

“We've been introduced,” said Mrs. Shoemaker. “Hello again.”

“Hi,” I said.

“We were just going for a little walk,” said Grandma Mona. “I'm . . . we're learning some new things today, and I had something I needed to tell Janie. I needed a witness and sadly, you fit the bill.”

“A witness. Is that right? You've called me some pretty colorful things over the years, Mona, but this is a new one. You've got my attention. Let the witnessing commence.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but do you think we could get some of these earthworms off the ground now? They're dying.”

“Might have to run go get your sister for a job like that,” said Mrs. Shoemaker.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I put my hands on my hips. Mrs. Shoemaker laughed at me. She plumb laughed at me, and I started fuming. “You mean 'cause my sister's special she's only suited for scooping up worms? Is that what you mean?”

“My goodness, Mona, she is the spittin' image of you, I tell you what.”

Grandma Mona took my arm and pulled me to her. “Please, Clarabelle. Just give us a minute.” Grandma Mona looked in my eyes, and the sunlight formed a ring around her. I could barely see straight. I used my other hand to rub my eyes.

She smiled. “Janie. Do you have any idea how much I love you?” I looked down at my feet, at those dying earthworms.

“Well, do you?”

“I guess.”

“You guess. I want you to
know
. I want you to know that everything I've ever done was to protect you and your sister and your mama. Look up at me now.”

I did as she said. Her eyes were watering. She put her hands on either side of my face. “Oh, honey, never in a million years would I have told you any of this, but I have to now. You're our only hope. Honey, I have another clue for you. I want you to write this down now. Go ahead.”

I pulled my pencil and paper out of my pocket and looked at all its craziness.

“Now write exactly what I tell you. Grandma Mona . . .”

Grandma Mona
, I wrote dutifully.

“. . . is . . .”

is

Part Four

THE CHOICE

Chapter Fifty-one
SPEAKING THE TRUTH

{Mona}

There are certain things little girls should never hear of. Childhood should be childhood through and through. There should never be any thought of troubles, of war, of fornication, of any adult thing that might taint a young mind and take the gentleness out of childhood. But for some children, too many children, there is no such luck. As a very wise man I was once married to used to say,
Wishing something just doesn't make it so.

Standing there in that worm-filled driveway, I told Janie the truth about me. Ironically, my arch-nemesis in life was my only ally that day. Much to my regret.

Janie dropped her pencil. She looked up at me, swayed, and I thought she might be about to faint.

“It's true,” said Clarabelle Shoemaker. “I know it for a fact.”

“But . . . it's impossible,” said Janie. She was beginning to tear up. “She's here. We're here. Talking.”

“As God is my witness,” said Clarabelle, rocking again and pointing to the sky. “Oh how 'bout that? A witness calling a Witness.” She chuckled, and I grabbed Janie's hands.

“Come on, Janie,” I said. “Let's try to help these worms now. Come on down here with me.”

Janie was glazed over. She was staring from me to Clarabelle, then down at the ground. She was in slow motion, and knowing what the truth was doing to her hurt me down to my core. I wanted to scream and cry at the sky,
Why? Why should a child ever have to go through this?!

But I didn't. Instead, I said, “Come on, sweetie. Let's pick up these worms now. They're dying.”

Janie shook her head and bent down on all fours. She went to pick up a squirming worm. She couldn't quite get her fingers on it. “Janie, I'm having a dickens of a time. Aren't you?”

Janie struggled, convinced the worm was stuck to the ground. She went for another and then another. To no avail. “I cain't pick them up!” she fretted. Then she began crying.

“I can't either,” I said. The time had come. There was no more room for stalling.

“Honey, in your heart you already know why I can't pick up these earthworms to save them. But do you know why you can't? Do you know now, honey? Do you understand?”

Clarabelle stood up on her front porch and in all her meanness, blurted it out. I knew there was a special place in hell for her. I watched helplessly as the old woman threw her arms wide, and for all the world to hear, she belted, “Because you're a ghost, too, Janie! You're a ghost, your grandma's a ghost, and even me. Boo!”

Chapter Fifty-two
FLOWERS IN THE SIDEWALK

{Janie}

There were no words. I was in a bad dream. I wanted to wake up, but there was no waking up from this. The sky around me dimmed as if the lights may flick out any second. I saw Mrs. Shoemaker standing on the front porch. She looked much younger—maybe it was her daughter there. On my knees, surrounded by earthworms and question marks, I looked over at Grandma Mona, who was crying. Her eyes were bluer than just a minute ago and her hair was no longer gray, but blonde. Her wrinkles had erased themselves like magic.

“You're . . .” I reached out to touch her face, and she took my hand. She pressed her lips in my palm and kissed it, then took my fingers and ran them along her wet cheeks. “Can you see me, dear? Can you see me?”

“You're young,” I said, my knees failing me.

“Yes, I am.”

“And so is she.” I pointed to Mrs. Shoemaker, who was doing a little jig on the steps. She couldn't have been over fifty years old, when before she'd looked nearly eighty.

Grandma Mona said gently, “You've got new eyes now, sweetheart. Now that you know. You can see us clearly. You can see us as we really are.”

“But I don't understand! Mrs. Shoemaker said you're a ghost. And she's a ghost. And I'm a ghost! Is everybody a ghost? Is nobody real?!”

Grandma Mona pulled me up from the drive and put her arm around me. She held me up as we started walking slowly back down the drive. “Oh, Janie. There's no real ghost here . . . except, maybe her.” Grandma Mona turned back and said, “We'll just be going now, Clarabelle. If I don't run up to thank you personally, don't take offense.”

“Oh, none taken, Mona. None taken a'tall. Y'all just run along. Enjoy this fine summer day. And give my best to your daughter now.”

I was shredded inside. I didn't know what to do, how to act, what to say. I was amazed my feet kept moving along, not making me fall over, for surely I wasn't thinking straight enough to make them move on my own.

“Last night you said Poppy was a ghost,” I said, the words coming out slow as if in a dream.

“You're right,” said Grandma Mona. “I said that so you might begin to understand. But he wasn't a ghost, not really. Ghosts are generally thought of as, well, people like Great-Aunt Gertrude, who stay here on earth in agony over something they've done or lost or regret. But Poppy, he wasn't that way. He was a ministering spirit—brought here for your mother. We are all spiritual beings, Janie. Every single person, living or not. We are spirits, souls, first and foremost. Some spirits have earthly bodies wrapped around them. Others do not.”

“Are you a spirit?” I asked.

“I am.”

“Am I . . . a spirit?”

“You are, Janie. You are a beautiful spirit.”

“Is Rainey a beautiful spirit?”

“Absolutely. The most beautiful. Just as pretty as you.”

“So . . . we're all the same?”

“No. I'm afraid we're not all the same.”

I looked up at Grandma Mona again and was startled at how young and pretty she was. I couldn't believe how much she looked like my mama, same blue eyes, same pretty hair.

“How come some spirits have earth bodies and some don't?” I asked.

“Because a person is born into this world with an earthly body. And when the body dies, the spirit goes on, sometimes to heaven, sometimes not.”

I stopped under the shade of a crape myrtle and looked at the swaying blossoms. I whispered to Grandma Mona, “Are you . . . dead?” I couldn't believe the sound of my voice—that these words were actually coming out of my mouth. That this was actually a conversation two people might have on the sidewalk in Forest Pines.

“No,” said Grandma Mona. “I'm not dead. But my earthly body did die . . . once.”

“When?”

“Oh, nearly sixteen years ago, March. About the time I moved in next door to your mama.”

“And Mama?”

“Oh no, she's very much alive.”