The Cemetery Boys (5 page)

The outside of Tom's Hardware was plain and painted cinder-block gray, with the name written out on the simplest of signs hanging over the glass front door. The inside was cramped, overstuffed with the kinds of manly-man things that I largely didn't give a crap about. Buckets of various-sized screws were everywhere. And it had this weird hardware-store smell, like grease and loneliness. But that didn't seem to bother the four old men who were crowded around the cash register, talking to the old man standing behind the counter—presumably Tom.

This group of old men looked vaguely similar to the one
that had been outside the gas station when we'd first arrived in town, but there was no way I could pick either group out of a lineup. They were all old. They were all men. One of these guys had a kind of mustache or something. At this point, all I knew was that we'd been working on my grandmother's stupid windows for a week now, and my dad had sent me here to buy more caulk. I had snickered like an idiot when he told me to buy the big tube.

Who knew that a week could stretch into an eternity when you were doing everything at someone else's bidding, for someone else's benefit? I did. Now I did, anyway. Every day of my new life had begun with scrambled eggs and lukewarm showers, and every night had ended with me lying on my bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. When my grandmother wasn't at home coming up with mile-long to-do lists for Dad and me, Dad was on the internet, scouring every job site he could find. When I told him he'd better not be looking for any jobs in Spencer, he'd said there weren't any jobs in Spencer to find, anyway.

Now, as I moved through the aisles, searching for a row of pointy-ended white tubular things, the conversation from the cash register floated over the tops of the shelves to my ears. It's not like I meant to eavesdrop. It's not like I really gave two craps about old-men gossip. But it was there and so was I, and I listened in an offhand way.

“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.