Growl Power! (10 page)

“Okay, ‘Mom,’ let’s go,” Galleria says, taking Ma by the arm. Suddenly I feel jealous—but then I catch myself for being so selfish.

When we drive past Sycamore Road, we see that Uncle Skeeter’s car is still parked there. I get a bad case of the spookies again, and take a deep breath. Ma keeps driving until we get to Hummingbird Road, and Sable Wilkerson’s house. There, she pulls over and cuts the engine.

“Someone’s home,” Angie says quietly.

“Good luck,” I whisper as Ma, Galleria, and Dorinda get out the car.

There are kids playing on the sidewalk, and they check out the three of them as they walk up to Sable’s front porch.

Angie, Chanel, and I sit in the car on lookout. The plan is that if we see Uncle Skeeter going into the house, or sneaking out the back, we honk the horn.

It seems like hours before Ma, Galleria, and Dorinda come out. I can tell by the way they’re walking that they’ve had no luck with their census charade.

“She’s more clueless than we are,” Ma says, visibly upset as she gets into the driver’s seat. “She hasn’t seen Skeeter in five days.” Ma’s hands are shaking as she tries to put the keys in the ignition. She stops, then puts her head down on the steering wheel, and starts bawling like a baby.

Galleria puts her arms around Ma’s shoulders, and we just sit and wait until she pulls herself together. I bite my lower lip. I don’t want to start crying too.

“What are we going to do?” Angie says, feeling as helpless as I do.

“Exactly what we were doing before—wait,” Ma says, pulling herself together and taking a deep breath. She’s all right for the moment, ready to concentrate on driving home.

The sadness looms over all of us. All of sudden, it doesn’t matter that we are going to sing a song in front of five thousand people tomorrow night. All that matters is that we find Uncle Skeeter—and that he’s all right.

T
he next morning, the gloomy cloud is still hanging over our heads even though we had a great dinner the night before with Fish ’N’ Chips. They ate everything but the tablecloth! We got ready to go see Granddaddy Walker at his funeral parlor. (He’s seventy-two years old, and has never missed a day of work!) Granddaddy Walker has been chomping at the bit, because we have been four whole days in Houston and still haven’t come to see him.

“Let’s go wake up the dead!” Galleria says, when we tell her about his hurt feelings.

Dorinda is excited about going, too. “We might as well take a ‘coffin break’ before the show,” she smirks.

“Now remember girls, we can’t stay too long,” Ma preps us.

I don’t know why she says that, because we have plenty of time. We have ironed our costumes, bought the cheetah umbrellas we’re gonna hold, and the play money we’re going to throw onstage for our performance, and we’ve practiced “It’s Raining Benjamins” till we could sing it backward.

But I guess Ma feels bad about the dee-vorce and all, even though Granddaddy Walker still treats her like family, and we know he loves us, well, “to death.”

Rest in Peace is the biggest funeral parlor in Houston, and it’s housed in the landmark district, in a beautiful building with a white marble front, and white pillars on the porch. When we get inside, Granddaddy Walker gives Ma a real long hug and doesn’t let go.

“We’ll get through this, Junifred. We sure will,” he tells her. Obviously, Ma has already told him about Uncle Skeeter.

“Should we call the police?” Ma asks him, distraught.

“No—not yet. The Lord will tell you what to do—just wait and see,” Granddaddy Walker says, laying down words of wisdom like he always does.

“Good morning,” says Grandma Selma, greeting us all cheerfully. She is Granddaddy Walker’s second wife, and also his secretary. He married her after Grandma Winnie passed (which raised a few eyebrows—since Selma is twenty-four years younger than he is!).

Granddaddy Walker peers over his bifocals to look at me and my friends. “How y’all doing?” he says, grinning and extending his hand to shake Galleria’s.

Bubbles seems a little nervous, acting very polite and looking down at the floor. I guess Granddaddy Walker can seem a little intimidating. He is a great big man, and he always wears a black suit with a white shirt, and a red handkerchief in the jacket pocket. You can tell how important he is just by the way he looks.

“You know, that boy hasn’t been himself since his daddy died,” Granddaddy says, shaking his head.

All of a sudden, Galleria is looking straight at Granddaddy Walker, and watching him real closely. “Skeeter’s father died?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh, yes, seven years ago. I buried him myself. Skeeter loved his daddy something awful,” Granddaddy goes on.

Galleria looks at the literature laying on the table, then mutters, “‘Rest in Peace …’ that’s what Skeeter said….”

“What?” I ask Galleria, confused.

“Your ma said Skeeter was acting strange the last time she saw him, and he told her, ‘I’m tired of everything. I just want to rest in peace.”’

“Yeah,” Ma says, wondering what Galleria is getting at.

“So Skeeter’s father had a funeral service here at Rest in Peace Funeral Home,” Galleria continues, talking out loud. “Where did you bury him?”

“Where I bury everybody—at the Creekmore Cemetery, about ten miles from here,” Granddaddy Walker says, his big voice booming. “Of course, Selby Jasper’s coffin is buried in his own mausoleum—the biggest one in the cemetery.”

“I think we should go over there and take a look,” Galleria says, like she’s onto something.

“Go to the cemetery? Now?” Angie asks, surprised.

“I think we’d better,” I say, sticking up for Galleria. I know she’s like a dog with a bone. When Miss Galleria is onto something, she won’t leave it alone. Let her sniff around Granddaddy Selby’s grave—maybe she will come up with something.

“At this point, I’m willing to try anything that will help us find my brother,” Ma blurts out. “The worst that could happen is I get to visit my Daddy’s grave, and y’all get to do some sightseeing at a cemetery!”

“Take a bunch of magnolias with you,” Grandma Selma says, pointing to some beautiful purple flowers in a vase on the table.

Granddaddy Walker picks up the phone and calls Willie, who drives the hearses for all the funeral processions to the cemetery. “Willie, we’re gonna need a hearse—bring out the best one we have.”

Then he puts his arms around Angie and me. “Willie will drive y’all to Creekmore,” he says, his eyes twinkling. He knows how much Angie and I love riding in his big, black hearses, with their cushioned seats and draped windows.

“You sure about that, Granddaddy Walker?” Ma asks. Now that she and Daddy are dee-vorced, I don’t think she likes asking Granddaddy Walker for anything.

“Yes, Junifred, I’m sure,” Granddaddy Walker says, his eyes twinkling. “No ‘body’ is in a hurry this week.”

After burying half the dead people in Houston, Granddaddy Walker has quite a sense of humor about corpses. That’s just one more reason why we love him. Angie smiles, then looks down, trying to be respectful.

“Wow, this is supa dupa cushy,” Dorinda says as we climb into the hearse.

“This is the biggest one I’ve been in!” Chanel coos.

“Chuchie, you’ve
never
been in one,” Galleria says, shaking her head.

“I know,” Chanel responds, grinning sheepishly. “That’s what I meant.”

“Just sit back and relax, girls. Willie’s gonna take good care of ya,” the driver says, looking at us in the rearview mirror. Willie looks spiffy in his black uniform with matching black chauffeur’s hat and white gloves. We tell him all about our singing group, as he takes the long, scenic route to Creekmore Cemetery.

“I used to play the keyboards when I was younger—with a group of my boys,” Willie chuckles. “Nothing serious like you Cheetah Girls are doing. ‘Cheetah Girls’—that sounds catchy, all right.”

“Catch the rising stars while you can!” Galleria giggles.

“You know, Skeeter used to play the keyboards when we were kids,” Ma says. “He was always beating or strumming on something. But Daddy was always telling him to get a serious job—be somebody. So Skeeter gave it up, and went to work for the sanitation department.”

“I remember Uncle Skeeter always pounding out beats on cans and things,” I say, “when Granddaddy was playing his blues music. Uncle Skeeter liked the blues a whole lot.”

“Oh, yeah—that’s his favorite music,” Ma says, getting tearful again.

“You girls should keep singing—keep following your dreams, even when it seems people are trying to take them from you,” Willie the driver says, like he knows what he’s talking about.

I look at Chanel, who is sitting next to me, and smile at her. I wonder if Willie’s dreams have come true. I sure don’t think Uncle Skeeter’s dreams have …

Tears well in my eyes. I stare out of the window as we drive past the big wrought-iron gates into the cemetery.

Chanel grabs my hand tighter. “Look at all the tombstones—all those people who can’t have fun anymore, like we do,” she says wistfully.

“The most famous people in Houston are buried here. Yes, indeed,” Willie says, driving real slow so he can show us some of the tombstones as we pass. “That mausoleum right there is the permanent home of the Great Abra Cadabra—one of the greatest magicians that ever lived. And there’s where General Sam Houston rests. This city is named after him. And here … is your mausoleum.” He pulls over and we get out of the hearse.

“It’s so quiet here,” Dorinda says, taking in the peaceful scene.

“If you listen real quietly, you can hear the souls whispering,” Willie chuckles, then starts humming a gospel hymn. We all walk down the lane where Granddaddy Selby Jasper’s mausoleum stands. “I’ll be waiting right here for you,” Willie says softly. “Take your time.”

Ma sets the bunch of magnolias down in front of the mausoleum. As we walk up to the entrance, we see that the door is slightly ajar!

“I can’t believe this,” Ma says, freezing in her tracks. “One thing is for sure,
someone
has been here.”

“Should we go inside?” I ask, quivering. Angie is holding my hand. Chanel has grabbed Galleria’s, and poor Dorinda is just standing in the background, like she’s ready to run if she has to. We look around, but there isn’t one person in sight except us and Willie.

“I think we’re out here all by ourselves,” Angie says. Taking a big gulp, she folds her arms across her chest, like she’s bracing herself for whatever comes popping out from behind a tombstone.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Ma says, pulling on the heavy mausoleum door.

The door creaks all the way open, and a few cobwebs fall on Ma’s head. We peer inside behind her, but we can’t really see anything, it’s so dark. “Can
you
see anything, Ma?” I ask, shuddering.

“No, but—aaaah!” Ma screams, then takes a step back. “I heard something—I think it’s a mouse!” We are all deathly afraid of mice, more than of any ghoul or goblin, that’s for sure.

“I think we need a flashlight to go inside,” Ma says, backing out.

We hear a rustling sound again. There’s definitely something crawling around in there! “Hello!” Ma yells deep into the mausoleum. “Is anybody in there?”

We hear more stirring. “Ms. Walker, I don’t think that’s a mouse, ’cuz it moves every time you say something!” Galleria says, squinting her eyes and trying to get a peek.

“I think you’re right—and I have a feeling I know exactly
who
it is,” Ma says sharply. I can tell she isn’t afraid anymore. “Skeeter—I know you’re in there, so you can stop hiding!”

We wait for what seems like years, and then we hear a noise again—this time it sounds like a bottle rolling on the ground inside.

“Skeeter, I’m not playing. Whatever is wrong, we can work this out,” Ma says, determined not to back down.

“All right …” we hear a man’s voice grumble. “Shoot, it figures
you
would find me!”

Ma gasps, and puts her hand over her mouth. Tears well up in her eyes. “Skeeter—Omigod, I can’t believe this!”

“Yeah, I can’t believe it either. I’ll be right out.”

We back away from inside Granddaddy Selby’s mausoleum and wait. And wait …

“Maybe he’s not gonna come out,’ Angie whispers.

But a moment later, like a ghost from Thanksgiving past, Uncle Skeeter emerges from the mausoleum. Believe me, he
looks
like a ghost!

We try not to let the shock show in our eyes, but we can’t help it. Uncle Skeeter’s eyes are bloodshot, his face is full of whiskers, and his clothes are all wrinkled. He scratches his head, like he has lice or something, and asks sheepishly, “Who are all these people?”

“These are Nettie One and Two’s friends from New York,” Ma says defensively, then she bursts into tears. “Why didn’t you come talk to me, Skeeter?”

“I was finished talking for a while,” Skeeter says, looking down at his feet. I guess the sun is hurting his eyes. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t—the girls did,” Ma says, pointing to all of us.

“Yeah—you two were always the smart ones. You could be detectives,” Uncle Skeeter chuckles, scratching his head some more. Maybe he really
does
have lice!

“Well?” Ma says, like she’s waiting for an explanation. “Daddy would turn over in his grave if he saw what you’re doing to yourself.”

“Yeah … well, that’s why I guess I decided to join him, for a little peace and quiet. I’m tired of everybody telling me what I should be doing,” Uncle Skeeter says defensively.

“So, that’s your solution? Give up on your life and hurt all of us, just because we care about you?” Ma screams at the top of her lungs.

Uncle Skeeter breaks down, crying like a baby. “I thought maybe Daddy could give me some
answers
, Junie. I-I-I didn’t know where to look anymore,” he says, barely able to talk.

“What answers do you need, Skeeter?” Ma cries back.

“What to do with myself! I
hate
my life—my job—all of it. I don’t want to pick up people’s garbage anymore. My wife
hates
me. I can’t afford to take care of my kids …”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Skeeter!” Ma cries out.