Creepers (2 page)

The house had been unoccupied for a long time and it was part of an estate.When it was originally built, it served
as the gatehouse for the cemetery, where the people who managed the cemetery lived. My mom shared that last little fact under her breath, like she was hoping to slip it by me.

I was excited when I saw that the house had an immense cornfield just across the road and woods on its north and west sides. I loved nature, to hike and to explore. I remembered thinking,
If only the house did not have that cemetery on one side of it.
If I happened to be awake at dawn, I could watch the sun rise behind a sea of floating tombstones, but I did not plan to get up early if I could help it.

I convinced myself that this would be a good move. I was beginning high school and many of the kids would be new to one another. I also liked the idea of a fresh start. My closest friends from home were either moving away or going to different high schools.We were all being separated and I did not like the idea of going to the neighborhood high school without them. I might have been convinced that everything was perfect until I noticed that sign on the cemetery's wrought-iron fence as we pulled out of our driveway and paralleled the cornfield, which spread over the horizon like an amber ocean.

Memento Mori
had been welded like an arch over the cemetery's main entrance.

“What does that mean?” I had asked my mom.

“‘Remember death',” she replied, glancing at the gate and the expanse of the cemetery beyond.“When this cemetery was active, that was all anyone could think about.”

“Is that because people died young back then?” I asked.

“
Mmm-hmm
.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Life was so much harder. There were no medicines. People didn't eat as well. The climate was harsh.” My mom's face was scrunched in concern. “It must have been difficult,” she whispered, as if talking to herself.

“Let's change the subject,” I suggested, staring into the hypnotizing rows of swaying cornstalks.

“‘As I am, so thou shall be'.” She seemed unable to stop herself from speaking. “I read that quote in the brochure at the information center. The Puritans believed that cemeteries were meant to be constant reminders to the living about their own fate.”

“Thanks, Mom. I get the picture.” I sighed, looking out the window. “How about all that corn?”

As we walked into the store I told her that just because we lived on the other side of the cemetery wall, I did not want to remember death every day.

She paused to grab a cart and looked at me as if I was kidding. “Of course,” she agreed. “Do you have the list?”

My mom switched gears quickly. I watched her as she examined the cantaloupes piled in slanting stacks on the produce counter. Her straight blond hair had fallen across her eye, but she was oblivious. Instead, she brushed at her glasses as if they were the problem. Their light blue frames brought out the blue of her eyes. She was still tan from our week at the shore. Except for the laugh lines, her title for them, she could have passed for twenty. At thirty-five, that was pretty good. Some people thought that we looked so much alike, they asked if we were sisters. My mom loved it when that happened, although I think the senior citizens were just trying to be funny.

Already I was cold. Goose bumps were springing up all over my arms. I hate the way they blast the air-conditioning in grocery stores. You always feel as if you are in a freezer.

“Should I get the ice cream and milk?” I wanted to get out of there as fast as we could. I noticed then that my mom had a sweater tied around her waist.

She must have seen me eyeballing it. “Do you want to borrow this, Courtney?” she asked as she tugged at its sleeve. “It's chilly in here.”

“No, I'm fine.” I tried to sound annoyed. “I'm just
bored. I'll run down to the frozen food section. Can't be any colder than this.”

She just shook her head as I maneuvered down the row, dodging families with overflowing carts and an old couple with a small basket. The aisles were clogged with mothers and their children or older people for whom food shopping was like a pleasant Sunday drive.The frozen food section was six aisles over and fortunately it was not too crowded.

I was just about to reach for a gallon of rocky road, when a man's voice called from behind me, “Oh, miss.” I turned around and there was that old man with the glasses that looked like magnifying lenses, holding a few cans of cat food in one hand and the twenty items or less basket in his other.

“Excuse me?” I ventured. I checked to see if some other “miss” might be standing near me.

He nodded and gave me a surprisingly nice smile, showing all of his teeth, which looked to be in good shape. He seemed suddenly younger when he smiled, despite his gray hair. Maybe he was not the girl's grandfather after all.

“Aren't you the young lady who moved into that wonderful old house next to the cemetery?” he asked pleasantly. He put his basket on the floor as if he expected a long conversation.

“Uh, yes,” I replied. I hated it when I stammered, but I was unsure how honest I should be. Just because I had seen him in the cemetery did not make him less of a stranger.

He extended his hand to shake mine. It was hard, callused, and strong. “My name is Christian Geyer. I give tours of the cemetery as a volunteer.” He paused, waiting for my name.

“I'm Courtney . . . O'Brien,” I stammered, mesmerized by his enormous eyes floating behind those lenses. I looked at him closely and could see that he did not have many wrinkles. He was probably in his fifties. Lots of my friends at home had dads who had celebrated their fiftieth birthday. He did not look much different from them. He needed to color his gray hair and ditch the glasses, though, to really pass for a friend's dad.

“I saw you and your daughter . . . ” He nodded at the question as I continued, “. . . in the cemetery earlier.”
How did he get here so quickly?
I wondered.

“Oh yes, Margaret,” he agreed, as if just remembering her. “You must meet Margaret. She will be so happy to have a new friend in the neighborhood. Margaret!” he yelled, before I had a chance to make an excuse to get back to my mom.

Margaret popped her head out from the end of the aisle, by the dog toys and leashes, as if she had been waiting for this entrance.

She was wearing the same khaki shorts and flowered T-shirt that she wore in the cemetery. She walked down the aisle real slowly, as if she could not expend the energy.

“Margaret, I want you to meet Courtney. She lives in the house next to the cemetery.We have a new neighbor,” he said, looking at her again in that same anxious way that begged for a smile.

“Neighbor?” I asked. Either they lived in the cornfields, the woods, or the cemetery. None of those choices looked very inviting.

Now Margaret did smile, a slow, smart one. “He means that in a general way,” she explained. “Although we do spend lots of time at the cemetery.”

Up close, she looked really beautiful. There was no color in her cheeks, but her green eyes against her pale complexion and midnight hair were amazing. The colors reminded me of the cemetery at night. I stared at her as I tried to imagine her life with Mr. Geyer. She did not seem embarrassed by him or annoyed that he made her do those cemetery tours.
What made her so different from the girls I knew?

“Courtney?” my mom was now calling, from the sound of it, near the frozen food aisle.

“Over here, Mom.” I wondered if my voice sounded as relieved as I felt.

She had her sweater on now and was pushing that cart like a jogging stroller. Her eyebrows arched in surprise when she saw me stranded with Mr. Geyer and Margaret.

I made some quick introductions and my mom appeared relieved. I think she smelled a story.

“You provide tours of the cemetery? I'd love to join you sometime and learn about its history. Perhaps I could do a feature on you?” she asked hopefully. She was always perkily pushy.

Mr. Geyer positively beamed. “That would be wonderful. Margaret and I are due to give a tour tomorrow at four o'clock as a matter of fact.Would that work for you?”

My mom's eyes widened in surprise. She probably did not expect Mr. Geyer to take her up on her offer so quickly. Margaret still wore a little smile, as if she were amused by her reaction.

“Tomorrow?” she repeated, mentally tallying the day's schedule. “Actually, that should work. Courtney and I would love to join you.” She looked at me. “Right?” I did not say a word. “Where should we meet you?” she asked.

“Right by the main entrance. You won't miss us,” he said as he turned to Margaret, who had slowly picked up the basket.

“Nice meeting you, Courtney.” This time her smile seemed genuine. “Come on, Dad.” She tugged at his arm.
“We don't want to be late for this afternoon's tour.”

Mr. Geyer did a little bow. “Wonderful meeting you, ladies. Until tomorrow.”

We watched as they walked down the aisle toward the cashiers.
Was that all they were buying? Ten or so cans of cat food?

“Thanks, Mom,” I mumbled sarcastically.

“Oh, Courtney. This could be fun. We should learn everything we can about our house and the neighborhood.” She turned to look at the retreating pair one more time. “He must not be married, the way he dresses,” she noted.

I just rolled my eyes.

“And this is great—you meeting a potential friend already, after barely a week.”

Maybe
, I thought, ignoring that little twinge in my stomach. I kept seeing Margaret's amused smile.

“Let's get the milk,” I answered, pulling the cart forward.

IT WAS FOUR O'CLOCK AND I WAITED TILL THE VERY LAST minute to meet up with Mr. Geyer and Margaret. Mom was unable to make the tour after all. She had forgotten about a promise to meet her new friend Angela at the bookstore this afternoon and asked me to apologize to Mr. Geyer and reschedule if possible. She met Angela last week at the Murmur Library book lecture in town. Angela was a writer, too, and worked for the town's newspaper,
The Murmur Mercury
. Angela was going to help get my mom a freelancing job with the paper. I protested about going to the cemetery alone, but Mom was right.We did not know how else to contact him and my mom would never stand anyone up.

There was a wind blowing from the north as I walked along the grass swale on the side of the road. I could smell the sharp tang of rain and could hear the cornstalks on the other side of the road whispering as they brushed against
one another.The clouds lay fat, low, and dark on the horizon. I almost felt relieved. Surely Mr. Geyer would cancel the tour with a thunderstorm looming over our heads. Otherwise, I was afraid that he would have talked me into joining them without my mom.

The iron gate was heavy and cried as I pulled it open. My plans were to meet them at the main entrance from
inside
the cemetery. I did not want to walk beneath that
Memento Mori
welcome sign if could help it.

I was only about five hundred yards from the main entrance when I saw Mr. Geyer and Margaret with their backs to the wind leaning against the gate's large iron post. I jogged between the gravestones, all of which were waist high. Some were square, some had semicircular tops, and some were capped with triangular shapes like a mountaintop. I did not have a chance to read the inscriptions. I considered them as more obstacles to get around rather than “points of interest,” as a travel brochure might say. My sneakers hit the ground in a steady cadence and I made sure that I was not landing on top of anyone's grave.

It was while jogging that I heard the rustling. It reminded me of the sound of dead leaves when they are tossed and dragged callously along the ground by the wind. At first my feet were landing on short grass, browned by the past dry month. Then I noticed the strands of ivy that
had weaved themselves along my path. From the corner of my eye, I could see the ivy crawling across the lawn and lolling over gravestones. It was everywhere, trying to act as a tripwire for my feet.

“Courtney! Are you all right?” Mr. Geyer reached for my shoulders to steady me, as if I might topple onto his shoes.

I was out of breath, running as if I had been chased. I looked down at my feet and then behind me to see if the ivy had retreated. Of course, its wiry shoots still filled the cemetery lawn like tiny veins.

“Yes, I'm fine,” I squeaked nervously. I did my best to sound normal. “Mom couldn't make it. She wanted me to ask if she could arrange another date.”

I could see Margaret eyeing me with interest.The wind blew the little wisps of her hair that were not long enough to be braided. She was wearing a pink shirt with white polka dots—a shirt I would not be caught dead in—but she looked beautiful.