“I told Bert that car wouldn’t make it another week. Damn engine hadda blown head gasket. Only an idiot woulda kept driving it.” The way he said “idiot” made it sound more like “idjit.” I rolled my eyes.
A second old man jumped to Bert’s defense with a nasal tone. “A man’s gotta get to work.”
The first old man snorted. “He couldn’t walk to the Grill? Hell, I used to hoof it three miles to work before I got the Caddy. He only lived a mile outsidah town.”
A third old man chimed in, his voice so mechanical that I wondered if he was speaking through one of those devices they attach to your neck after throat cancer surgery. “Speakin’ o’ the Grill. That Mary’s a fine-lookin’ woman. She single yet?”
“Still married to that Bob Gunderman fella. He’s a hunter with a bad temper, Bob. So if you’re lookin’ t’flirt with Mary, you best stick to lunch at the Grill.” I moved down another aisle, wondering just where the stupid caulk was kept anyway. Narnia?
“Just don’t go on Sunday.” At this, the entire group guffawed. I spied the shelf of caulk tubes at last, right at the end of the aisle I was in. I picked one up and scanned the label—not that I had any idea what to look for besides big.
“That Martha is one crazy ol’ bat, ain’t she?” Bert’s defender lowered his voice when he spoke of Martha. I hoped he’d done so because he was ashamed to be talking about someone behind their back, but I doubted it. “And those kids of hers. Must be hard not having their daddy around to help raise ’em right.”
The guy with the robotic voice said, “Now it won’t do no good to speak ill of the dead, Frank.”
Frank huffed a little. “Not speakin’ ill, just sayin’ the man’s dead.”
“Dead? Well. Seems that brings us full circle—all the way to Bert's car.” They all laughed at the nasal man’s quip—all, of course, but for the first old man, who seemed downright irritated.
As I rounded the corner and headed to the cash register, they all fell silent. I didn’t even get a chance to set the two tubes of caulk I’d grabbed on the counter before the one I thought was Tom said, “Eight dollars even.”
I paid the man and took my receipt before heading out the door, hoping that I’d never have to go back inside Tom’s Hardware ever again.
A few hours later, the tubes were all but empty, and I was sick of being stuck on a ladder doing work for a woman who clearly loathed my very existence for no apparent reason. Dad had put me in charge of washing the windows after we’d finished caulking them, and then had taken a ridiculous amount of time to stand in the yard and admire my work. By “admire,” of course, I meant “critique.” Which was such an incredible help.
By “help,” of course, I meant “pain in the ass.”
Screw it. If I took the time to define every term and definition my father dealt in, I’d end up inventing a whole other language. One called Bullshit.
He’d finally gone inside and left me alone for the last one. I think he could tell my temper was running short.
“Hey.” As I ran the wet sponge over the final windowpane, a familiar voice reached my ears—one I hadn’t been expecting. I turned around to see Cara standing at the end of my driveway, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was wearing another short skirt today—this one red plaid—and black thigh-high stockings with satin bows on the top. I could have told her that she didn’t need the bows to draw attention to her thighs, but didn’t want to risk getting slapped. Instead, I moved my eyes up the length of her body, appreciating every inch. She wore dozens of bracelets on each wrist—some simple rubber things, some leather straps with pyramid studs. The T-shirt that I was envying for clinging so closely to her curves had a drawing of some kind of sea creature with a unicorn horn. Framing the picture were the words Narwhals Are Sexy.
I didn’t know what a narwhal was, but I lingered on “sexy” for a moment before moving up to her eyes, lined in thick black. Her hair contained purple and blue falls and featured several barrettes that looked like grinning skulls. And when she smiled, I noticed how shiny her lip gloss was. Like glass, only more inviting. Maybe like a mirror. Whatever. I wasn’t a poet, I just wanted to kiss her. Preferably when no one else was around and she was feeling frisky.
My dad chose that moment to step outside, carrying a plate of turkey sandwiches. But he couldn’t resist the chance to criticize my window-washing abilities one more time. Like it was a thing I’d put on my résumé someday. “Is that window streaked? You shouldn’t leave streaks, Stephen. They’ll drive your grandmother crazy.”
Rolling my eyes, I stepped down from the ladder and shoved the sponge into his free hand before joining Cara on the sidewalk. My dad blinked, taking in the situation for a moment before realization hit his eyes. I could tell he had a million questions about who the strange hot girl was and why she was standing in front of our new home. To his credit, he kept his mouth shut. Also to his credit, he didn’t look at Cara in that pervy way that old guys sometimes look at younger punk girls.
Cara raised her eyebrows, a small smile touching her shiny lips, and said, only to me, “You busy?”
Without a word, and pretending that he wasn’t totally eavesdropping—which he totally was—my dad approached the ladder and adjusted it. Needlessly. We both knew what he was doing, and that it had nothing to do with the windows and everything to do with the sudden appearance of Cara, but neither one of us pointed out that obvious fact. Instead, I tried to pretend that my dad didn’t exist. “Kind of. What’s up?”
“I was thinking of heading to the Playground and doing some charcoal rubbings. Wanna join me?” Her eyes flicked from me to my dad. I was pretty sure if it were up to him, I would be going nowhere today. Not only because he needed my help, either. All week, he’d been treating me like I was being punished for something, and he just wouldn’t say what. Probably all the mouthing off I’d done. But what did he expect? I had to do something to liven things up. He kind of had it coming.
To my immense surprise, my dad just smiled and offered a nod, telling me to go ahead. Maybe even Dad understood that when a hot girl beckons you somewhere, you don’t question it, you just go.
Drying my palms on my jeans, I smiled at Cara. “Let’s go.”
“Home by dinnertime, Stephen.” Glancing back, I could see a mixture of feelings in my dad’s eyes. Mostly hope, but also a tinge of concern. It might’ve been because Cara looked different than the girls he was used to seeing me with back in Colorado.
We walked a block down Fourth to Pine and took that street all the way to the northern end of town, past the movie theater and several small boxy houses of varying drab colors. I was glad that she wasn’t feeling too chatty, because I wasn’t exactly sure what I could talk about without revealing myself to be a loser. And besides, I was still kind of worried about the fact that I had ditched her a week ago. She might have been pissed. Around her neck I spied the locket she’d been wearing the first time I saw her, but I didn’t linger. Mostly because I was trying to act casual about the way I was checking her out.
Just as we were about to run out of street, I cleared my throat and said, “So, what exactly are we rubbing at the playground?”
Cara grinned. “Don’t get your hopes up just yet. The Playground is what locals call the cemetery. We’re going to do some charcoal rubbings of tombstones. Have you ever done grave rubbings before?”
I shook my head and her smile softened. “It’s easier than you might think, and the end result is really cool. I have a few hanging up in my bedroom. You’ll love it, I promise.”
My stomach shrank a little in disappointment that the rubbing we were doing involved charcoal, but I was pretty geeked about visiting the cemetery. Also about the fact that she’d mentioned her bedroom, because it gave me a chance to picture her in bed. Possibly naked.
At the edge of town, Cara led me down a long dirt road, lined with silver maple trees. Their jagged, pointed leaves shuffled in the wind. The only other sound was that of some birds
singing a mournful whistle. We passed an old shed on the right and came to a small hill—sitting atop it was a tombstone bearing the name of William Spencer, the town’s founder. There was no gate identifying the beginning of the cemetery. It was just part of the town, as death was just a part of life.
The cemetery had an abandoned feel to it, and I wondered whether they were still burying people here, or if this was full and forgotten. “Why the 'Playground’? Kind of a weird thing to call a cemetery, isn’t it?”
Cara shrugged as she led me past the hill and down the dirt road. To our right were graves. To our left was the reservoir, behind a thin row of trees. “It’s a pretty regular hangout for Spencer kids, so the nickname just seemed natural, I guess. I don’t know. People have been calling it the Playground since the eighties or something.”
“That long?” I joked.
“I know, right? Practically prehistoric.”
The road ended at a cliff, overlooking the water. When we reached it, Cara steered us right, to some of the oldest-looking tombstones in the cemetery. Her eyes scanned them, like she was choosing the perfect stone for her project. Finally, she settled on a small, white one featuring a carving of a lamb. On sight, I knew it to be the headstone of a kid.
When I was about ten years old, my dad volunteered for this community clean-up crew. He was assigned to help rake away the dead leaves in the fall, and one day, when his crew was cleaning the Fairmount Cemetery, he brought me along to help. I came across all these carvings of lambs on the smaller stones in the oldest part of the cemetery. When I asked Dad about them, he said the Victorians loved their symbolism, and a lamb was the symbol of choice when it came to gravestones for children. It represented innocence.
Cara got on her knees and unzipped her backpack. I looked around at the cemetery for a minute before joining her. “So what got you into grave rubbings?” I asked.
“My dad taught me. Plus, I’ve just always had a fascination with death and the weird rituals that people practice around it.” She laid her supplies out neatly on the ground before meeting my eyes. When she looked at me, my heart jumped into my throat for a second. If it was possible, she was even prettier here, surrounded by all these reminders of people who had once lived. “Gravestone rubbing is really easy. You just brush the stone free of dirt, wash it down with a spray bottle and rag, then tape the rice paper in place and rub the stone over with charcoal. The key is to be incredibly gentle, or else you can damage the stone.”
I blinked in confusion for a few seconds, then finally realized what she was saying. She expected me to do a rubbing, too. “I’m . . . not an artist, exactly.”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone’s an artist. You probably just haven’t found your medium yet.” She smiled brightly and pointed at the small stone next to the one she had chosen. This one marked the grave of two children together. Judging from the engraving, they’d died on the same date.
After watching her for a while, I hesitantly reached for a soft bristle brush to clean dirt from the letters on the stone. Grabbing the spray bottle, I squirted several pumps of water onto the granite and gently wiped it clean with the cotton cloth, careful to mimic her every move. Then I sat back, scanning the stone for any sign of dirt, and waited for it to dry.
Cara glanced over at me. I couldn’t tell if she was checking my progress, or checking me out, or both. “This is nice. Usually I’m up here all alone.”
“I’m glad you invited me.” And I was glad. Cara’s company was easy and natural. I still wasn’t sure if she’d been sacrificing goats or not, but that was mattering less and less.
I taped a sheet of rice paper to the stone and reached for a charcoal pencil, my fingers brushing Cara’s as she did the same. We both broke into stupid grins.
The cemetery had grown quiet. The breeze had settled, leaving us sweltering in the summer heat. The mourning doves had silenced their song. Our only company was the sun, which had risen to its highest point in the sky, warming my shoulders as I dragged the charcoal across the paper, documenting the inscription on the gravestone one section at a time. In a way, we were preserving history. I liked that. The past had to be remembered. Otherwise, all we had was the present. And the present largely sucked.
I stood and stretched for a moment, brushing dirt from my jeans. A slight sheen caught my attention, and I followed it two graves down the row to a small, round-topped stone. Beside this grave lay a long, black feather, so shiny it almost seemed metallic, unreal. I turned it over in the sunlight. One side was so glossy it was almost reflective; the other was dull, barely picking up the light at all. Immediately, my thoughts turned to the journal I’d found—the one I was still calling Devon’s journal in my head, even though Devon had yet to come asking for it. The journal had been sitting in the top drawer of my nightstand for the past week, calling my name. I’d still only flipped through it briefly the once, but several pages had contained sketches of wings. Wings made of feathers that looked a lot like this one.
Cara said, “It’s probably a crow’s feather. They fly around here a lot.”
I looked up at the empty sky and back to Cara, who was chewing her bottom lip, her eyes locked on the feather. Softly—almost whispering—she said, “Did you know that a group of crows is called a murder? A murder of crows. I’ve always found that interesting.”
I dropped the feather to the ground and shrugged. “You’re right. Probably just a crow.”
But it wasn’t a crow’s feather. And Cara knew it.
She shook her head, forcing out a small laugh that I didn’t quite buy. “Well, it might be something else, if you believe the old people in town.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
She kept trying to play her words off casually, but something wasn’t sticking. “Oh, I don’t know. There are these stories that go back since before Spencer was even officially a town. Ridiculous stories, about these giant flying creatures. People call them the Winged Ones—say they’ve been appearing before big tragedies since the town’s first settlers arrived.”
“So they’re like an omen? With feathers?” A small chuckle escaped me, but I caught it as soon as I saw the look on her face.
“Not really. I mean . . .” She dropped her gaze to the ground between us, an expression of reluctance settling into her features. Reluctance to reveal something so strange about her town, I was guessing. Telling it to an outsider like me must have felt like revealing something embarrassing about herself. “Well, if you believe what people say, the Winged Ones eat people. They show up during the bad times—which, yeah, I guess is like an omen or something—only it’s more than that. It’s like they bring the bad times with them. People believe if you appease the Winged Ones with a sacrifice, they’ll go away again. Poof. Bad times over.”
I shook my head. Who would believe in something like that? In this day and age?
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s Spencer.”
And just like, she went back to her grave rubbing.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Cara’s skilled fingers move over her paper in a blur. I returned to my spot at the stone I’d been working on, trying to shake off the weird folktale she’d told me. I said, “So, I take it you’re not pissed about me ditching you the other night?”
“What made you think I’d be mad? I’m used to people choosing Devon over me.”
My heart sank. What a horrible way to feel. I hated that I’d been the one to make her feel it this time. I said, “Just so you know, I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . I mean, just because I was curious about what he had to show me doesn’t mean I’d pick time with your brother over time with you.”
“But you did.” She paused briefly and met my eyes. The hurt in hers was evident.
My chest grew tight with guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Stephen. You just wanna make friends here. I get it.” She smiled mischievously. “But just so you know . . . I’m a way better kisser than he is.”
Instinctively, my eyes dropped to her lips, as my own turned up in a hopeful smirk. “Prove it.”
“If you’re lucky.” She winked at me and I felt my heartbeat speed up. I didn’t go back to my charcoal, half hoping that this flirting meant she’d rather make out a little instead. When she picked up her own charcoal again, I let out a little sigh of disappointment. Then I pulled myself together.
“So are you and Devon close? I’ve heard that about twins.”
“We used to be.” She paused and took in a shaking breath. “Our dad died a year ago, and ever since then, things have been different. Mom checked out of our lives and into her Bible, leaving me and Devon to fend for ourselves. Devon couldn’t take it, I guess, so he pulled away from pretty much everyone. Even me.”
She smiled weakly, as if this didn’t bother her. She was a terrible liar. I dropped the subject, but couldn’t help marveling at her strength, putting on a happy face when she was going through so much. We exchanged a silent conversation with a glance, and then she went back to work, signaling that I should do the same.
For several minutes, we worked quietly. Full, dark clouds rolled in overhead, the perfect backdrop to our endeavor. Cara finished up with the stone she was rubbing and began picking pieces of tape from the edges, freeing her artwork. It had turned out perfectly, with each bit of the carving marked in an exact charcoal replica on the paper. Much better than mine, which I’d smudged in several places, marring my creation with random black thumbprints. Cara rolled both rubbings up carefully and slipped them inside a plastic tube from her backpack.
A white Crown Victoria pulled slowly into the cemetery, stopping in the road down by William Spencer’s grave. Blue and red lights lined the roof but remained unlit. Painted on the side of the car, in electric blue, was Spencer Police. Even though it had been a week, my first thought was that someone had blabbed about my involvement in the theater break-in—that we’d overlooked a security camera or something. I was going to jail. If my dad didn’t kill me first.