Going Underground (10 page)

For a few seconds, Marvin doesn't say anything, but the corners of his mouth twitch a lot. He finally comes out with, “Well. Are you?”

“I don't think so.”

He shrugs.

I was sort of hoping he'd reassure me about the pussy thing, but …

Oh, well.

If God Trips Over Angels, Does It Piss Them Off?

(“Angel's Doorway”—Suzanne Vega)

Parrots change the way you say “Hello.”

Once you hear a parrot say “Hello!” in that tight, perfect little bird voice, you'll say it that way forever.

Parrots also change the way you dance. I should probably never dance in public again. My head would bob, and my feet would jerk up and down like somebody crammed a twelve-hundred-volt plug in the bottom of my spine. If you don't believe me, go to YouTube and look up videos of Snowball, the dancing cockatoo. Fred's not a cockatoo, so she doesn't dance exactly the same way Snowball does, but you'll definitely be able to imagine it.

What you probably won't be able to imagine is Marvin in a cemetery in his red jeans, his red cookie-shaped apron, with his red hat with the big rubber chocolate-chip cookie on top, bouncing up and down next to the grave I'm digging, flapping his arms like a stoned chicken, and trying to teach Fred to say, “I'm a jerk.”

It's enough to keep my mind off Livia, at least a few seconds at a time, even though I'm not playing my music.

“I'm a jerk,” Marvin crows.

Fred stares at him.

“Jerk. Come on, bird. Jerk. Just say it once.”

I won't let Marvin teach Fred swear words, just in case she ever has to live anywhere but with me (parrots who drop endless F-bombs get in lots of trouble in terms of keeping good adoption situations), so Marvin goes for the tamer stuff. “I'm a jerk,” he shouts again, dancing his rubber-cookie-head dance while fluffy-feathered Fred keeps right on staring at him like he's a few chocolate chips shy of a full recipe. Gertrude's sitting beside Fred's cage, drooling and looking fat, and also staring at Marvin, but I think she might be waiting for the rubber cookie hat to fall off so she can bite it to see if it's edible.

We're in the very back section of the cemetery, close to Harper's house, about five slots from the main road. Two big pines shade us from the late-day sun, but I've got Fred's cage on the ground next to my dirt pile because the branches seem too far away. I smile at her every time I pop my head up to make sure I'm not dumping rocks and mud on Marvin's feet.

“Is Harper already drunk?” he asks, taking a breather from trying to brainwash my parrot into calling herself names. Whenever he moves, I catch a hint of cookie smell, kind of stale, but still enough to make my stomach growl.

“Probably. I haven't seen him this afternoon.”

Hope I don't, because I've got a sort-of date
. The thought makes my insides clench and I plop another shovelful near Marvin's shoes.

Should I tell him about the date?

Probably.

He might think it's great. Or he might have a big-deal freak-out, and I just can't go there, because I'm so nervous about eating dinner with Livia that I'd freak, too.

Marvin rubs his hands together because it's a little cool, and Marvin's hands stay cold, anyway. “Harper's gonna end bad, Del. You should say something to him.”

I stop digging, thinking about it, but a few seconds later, I shake my head. “I don't feel like it's any of my business. He doesn't give me any crap about my life.”

“You're not pickling your organs.”

“No, just letting my brain and my big glorious future stagnate, according to Branson and Dr. Mote.” I cram my shovel in the dirt hard enough to rattle my own teeth.

Marvin's grin droops at the edges, and his eyes dart toward Fred and Gertrude. We don't talk about this much, the fact he's on track for early acceptance at his dream school, Notre Dame, where we were both going to go. I know he's noticed I haven't even been bothering with stuff like taking the ACT or doing senior pictures, or even paying for my ring or cap and gown, because I'm not planning to walk in the graduation ceremony, and I'd rather not have jewelry with these dates engraved in gold forever.

“You're right,” Marvin says. “Talking to Harper probably wouldn't help, anyway. Why ask for trouble?” He glances down at his watch.

My fingers curl tight around the shovel's handle. “Exactly. That's why it's not happening.”

“Good. Well, gotta fly.” He sounds relieved, and I don't know if it's about me not talking to Harper about his booze or the fact he's getting to leave.

“Cookies don't fly. Especially cookies with rubber chocolate-chip heads.”

Marvin ignores this and tosses me a small can of tuna. “Give Gertrude her special dinner, okay?”

“
Su
kitty
es mi
kitty.” I give him a salute with the can. “
Mi
big fat huge drooling kitty.”

“
Carapedo
,” he calls back as he jogs toward his car, which is parked on Rock Hill's main road.

Carapedo
. That's like, what? Oh. Fart face.

I got an A in Spanish and Marvin barely got a B, but he remembers every phrase, name, and swear word we ever heard.

“
Cerote
,” I fire back as loud as I can, resting the tuna can on the edge of the grave. That's one of the words for
turd
, and the best I can do on short notice. Marvin wins. Again.

I need to buy a Spanish-English dictionary and look up how to say
Giant Cookie-Headed Bastard-Nose
. Then I'd have a shot at scoring a few points.

“
Cerote
,” Fred says brightly, keeping herself fluffed against the cool fall air. “Jerk.”

Gertrude's not saying anything, but she's staring at the tuna can like her head might start spinning right before she levitates and spits pea soup vomit everywhere and screeches
OPEN NOW!
in Satan's voice.

I risk cat possession and finish the grave I'm working on first, then climb out next to Fred's cage and dust my hands on my jeans. It takes a few seconds to fight the pop-top lid off Gertrude's tuna, and I dump the juice on my dirty shirt trying—stinky crap. The tuna I pile carefully on the tarp in front of Gertrude, but I don't give her the can, because she'd probably cut her tongue on it trying to get every last drop of tuna water. I cram the lid into the can before I stuff the whole mess in my pocket.

“Fred,” Fred says in a mocking tone, and I feel sad that in a month or so, it'll be too cold to bring her with me, and she'll probably sulk and pluck feathers off her belly every afternoon I have to work.

Gas and propane heaters emit exhaust fumes that could hurt her, so I can't use them. I've been wondering, though, if I could find a battery-operated plant grow light that would give off enough heat that I would only have to abandon her during the worst part of winter. The part where Harper and I have to use pickaxes to chop up frozen dirt to get the graves started. Nothing needs to be near us when the pickaxes start flying, anyway.

Somebody's walking through the main gate, and I recognize Livia immediately. She waves at me. I wave back.

Guilt washes through me as I let my hand fall to my side.

What the hell am I feeling guilty about?

Cheating on Cory.

Stupid. Cory's been gone for three years. That's over. No contact. Your choice.

Not telling Marvin about my sort-of date
.

Marvin doesn't have to know every detail of my life.

Not telling Livia she shouldn't be having dinner with a sex offender.

Now, there's a reason for guilt.

This afternoon she's wearing jeans and a black sweater, and she looks more like a fashion model than a Fairy Girl, and I'm sweaty and covered with dirt, and I smell like Gertrude's tuna juice.

Great.

I knew I had a sort-of date, and I'm filthy and I stink. No doubt Marvin does much, much better with his rubber cookie head. At least cookies smell good.

Livia has her bag plus a second bag, and she comes up to the dirt pile separating Fred's cage from Gertrude and me and the fast-disappearing tuna pile, and sits down on the drier part of the dirt next to Fred.

“Poor thing. She looks cold.” Livia smiles at the bird, then at me, and I like that a lot.

“She probably is cold, a little.” I settle myself about an arm's length away, on another dry patch of clods and rocks, and Livia pulls a small blanket out of one bag and spreads it on the ground between us. “Parrots can stand low temperatures for short periods of time, but she doesn't have all her feathers, so I try to be careful.”

“
Cerote
,” Fred says.

Livia's eyebrows pull together. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” I jam my palm into the dirt and glare at Fred. “Sometimes she mumbles.”

“Jerk,” Fred says, dancing from foot to foot, obviously happy with herself. “One, two, four, jerk!”

“One, two,
three,
four,” I say automatically.

“Three!” Fred shrieks. “Three! One, two,
three,
four!”

“She likes you,” I tell Livia as she pulls out two bottles of water, two small bags of chips, then what looks like sandwiches wrapped in foil, one package for me and one for her. “She doesn't talk this much in front of anybody besides my parents and Marvin.”

“The cookie guy who helps you dig?” Livia puts her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the low-hanging sun.

“Yeah.”

Livia's next smile looks a little secretive and mysterious. “Does he ever bring cookies home from work?”

“Sometimes.”

“I need to get to know him better.” Her smile gets wider, and I try not to be jealous of Marvin, who isn't even here. Butthead. He
would
get a job that girls appreciate at this level. As a gravedigger, I can offer shovels, dirt, and dead things.

“I kept it simple. Gourmet turkey sandwiches.” She pulls out small jars of mustard and mayo and some plastic silverware. “Didn't want to scare you to death this first time.”

“I'm not scared.”

I'm terrified.

The sandwich is warm and it smells like garlic and other spices toasted into the bread. My stomach growls. I add some mustard, then take a big bite.

“Mmm.” That comes out unplanned, and it makes Livia smile.

“Sometimes simple is best,” she says.

“Fred,” Fred agrees.

“How many more graves do you have to dig tonight?” Livia asks as Gertrude finally finishes her tuna, waddles off a few paces, and plops down in the grass to bathe her face and paws.

“Just this one, and it's done. I don't even need to move the dirt tonight, because the funeral's not until this weekend.”

Livia's face brightens to almost glowing in what's left of the sunlight. “Do you need a ride home? I could take you when you're finished.”

“I just live down the road.” The heat hitting my face probably shows underneath all the dirt, never mind the mustard on my chin. I wipe it off with my sleeve, then realize Livia laid out a napkin for me. “It's better if I just walk. Kind of shakes out the kinks from digging. Besides, I'd get a lot of dirt in your car.”

She looks disappointed. I hate that, but she wouldn't feel that way if she knew her car would stink like tuna and sour graves and probably mustard, too, when I got out.

Livia goes silent for a few seconds, eating, swallowing, then taking a slow drink of water. She glances around. “Is Harper here?”

“He's—” I point in the direction of his little house, not sure what to say, because if she wants to talk to him, that won't be totally possible. “He's in there, but I think he's sleeping.”

Sleeping it off.

I hope.

Because if he comes staggering out, he'll make a scene about this, I bet.

“He drinks a lot, doesn't he?” The shift in Livia's tone is quick and kind of harsh, and Fred picks up on it, too. She makes shooting noises as Livia waves a hand to dismiss her own question before I finish groping around for an answer. “You don't have to tell me. I've seen him. I know what drunk people look like. My sister was a drunk. That's what killed her.”

I don't have a clue what to say, so I open my chips and keep my mouth shut, but Fred says “Fred” in an anxious, quivery voice.

Livia lays her hand on the travel cage, and I almost lunge toward her to pull her fingers out of danger, but Fred doesn't make any move to bite her.

“Claudia died in a car wreck.” Livia stares down at Fred like she's talking to the parrot instead of me, but I know that trick too well to fall for it. “The people she hit died, too. That's why we moved—because everyone in town hated us.”

My stomach turns a slow, aching flip, on top of my sandwich and chips, and more heat rises from my middle all the way to my cheeks. “I … know that feeling.”

Livia takes her hand out of harm's way and rubs her eyes with her fingers, as if she's trying to concentrate or maybe meditate. “I can't believe I just told you about that. I'm not supposed to talk about it.”

The few feet of blanket separating us seem like too much, but also not enough as I shrug. “It's okay to tell secrets in a cemetery. Dead people don't run their mouths. Neither do cemetery caretakers. That's kind of in our job description.”

“Kids. Two of them. And their pregnant mother.” Livia pushes the rest of her sandwich away from her, then picks up a brown dirt clod and crushes it in her hands, letting the dirt sift down between her feet. “My sister killed three people—four, depending on how you believe about unborn babies.” She looks intensely disgusted, but also miserable and sort of sick.

“I think I remember hearing something about that on the news.” As soon as I see the extra pain in Livia's face, I wish I hadn't said anything, and I wonder immediately what all she's heard on the news about me, and when she'll remember it. I should just tell her, like now, before she confesses anything else to me that she might regret later.