Wait Till Helen Comes (2 page)

3

THAT EVENING, after Dave's friends left, we had our first dinner in the church. Mom and Dave did most of the talking; they didn't make much of an effort to involve us in the plans they were making for their art projects. While they chattered about craft fairs and galleries, Heather picked at her food as if she expected to find crushed glass or rat poison hidden in it, and Michael described the huge centipede he'd caught in his bedroom, ignoring my pleas for him to talk about something less disgusting. How can a person enjoy eating spaghetti when her brother is babbling about a hideous, million-legged creature over four inches long?

As we were finishing our dessert, Mom suggested going for a walk before it got dark. Naturally, Michael suggested a tour of the graveyard, and everyone but me agreed. As they got ready to leave, I considered staying home and washing the dishes, but then I decided it might be worse to be all alone in the house. Reluctantly I followed them out the back door and down the brick path to the graveyard.

The sun was hovering on the mountaintops, and a tall oak tree at one end of the graveyard sent a long shadow over the grass toward us. As we entered the gate, a flock of crows rose from the oak and flew away, cawing loudly, as if we were trespassers. When I took Mom's hand, Heather smiled mockingly at me from her perch on Dave's shoulders.

"Molly's scared of the graveyard," she whispered in his ear, "but I'm not."

To prove how brave she was, she slipped down and ran ahead of us. Scrambling up on a tombstone, she spread her arms. "Look at me, Daddy," she called, "I'm an angel."

"Hey, get down from there." Dave grabbed her. "These are too old for you to climb on, honey. They could topple right over."

"I was just playing." Heather tugged at his beard, trying to braid it around her fingers. "At least I'm not a scaredy-cat."

While Dave was occupied with Heather, Mom turned to me and put her arm around my shoulders. "See how peaceful it is, Molly? There's nothing frightening about an old graveyard." She hugged me close.

I didn't say anything, nor did I try to pull away. Instead I snuggled closer, feeling safe as long I could feel her warm body next to mine.

"What's the matter, Molly?" Dave smiled at me over Heather's dark head. "Do you expect to see a ghost?"

Embarrassed, I forced myself to laugh. "Of course not. I'm just cold, that's all." And it was true. The sun had slipped down behind the mountains, taking the warmth of the day with it. A little breeze brought the chill of night with it as it tossed the heads of the Queen Anne's lace blooming all around us.

"Look," Michael called to us from the other side of the graveyard. "A whole family named Berry is buried here." He waved his arm at a cluster of tombstones guarded by a solemn marble angel. "This must be the Berry Patch!"

Everybody laughed at his joke but me. It didn't seem right to call out the names of dead people, especially if you were laughing. Uneasily, I followed Mom toward the angel, but I wanted very badly to go back to the church.

"Listen to this," Michael said. "'Ada Berry, Beloved Wife of Edward Berry. April 3, 1811—November 28, 1899. Not Dead, Only Resting from Life's Weary Toil.' And here's her daughter, see? 'Susannah Berry, June 10, 1832-December 30, 1835. A Little Lamb in the Hands of the Lord.' And over here—"

"Oh, stop, Michael, stop." Mom pulled him away from the tombstone of another Berry child. "That's too sad. Don't read any more."

"I thought this was such a peaceful place," I murmured.

"Well, it is." Mom's voice wavered, though, and she looked past me at the sky where the first stars were beginning to glow.

"But don't you want to know how they died?" Michael asked. "Little kids like these probably died from smallpox or diphtheria or even measles. And this one right here, Adam Berry, died in 1863, and he was twenty-one. He was probably killed in the Civil War. A Yankee soldier, think of that."

"It's getting dark," I said, pointing out the obvious. "Why don't we go back to the church?"

"Yes," Mom agreed. "The mosquitoes have found me."

"Where has Heather run off to?" Dave scanned the graveyard, growing so dark now that everything was gray and indistinct.

"There she is." Michael pointed to the far end of the graveyard where the oak tree stood. In the shadows, we could barely see Heather poking around in the weeds.

"Come on, Heather," Dave called. "You've got all day tomorrow to explore this place. None of these folks is going anywhere."

He and Mom chuckled, and he put his arm around her waist and whispered something in her ear that made her giggle. Glancing at Heather, I saw her stop and stare at Dave and Mom. Even in the darkness I could see the look of hatred that flashed across her pale face at the sight of him embracing Mom. Then, realizing that I was looking at her, she made her face blank and walked slowly toward us, trailing her fingers across the tombstones and humming softly.

By the time we reached the church, the trees were dark masses against the sky, flickering with fireflies, and above us the sky was studded with stars and a crescent moon barely clearing the oak tree.

"Look at that." Mom paused on the back steps, her head tilted back. "I'd forgotten how many more stars you can see when you get away from the city."

"There's the Milky Way and the Big Dipper," Michael said, "and the Little Dipper too."

"And the North Star." Dave pointed at something that only he could see. "If you're interested, Michael, I've got some astronomy books we can look at."

While Mom and I washed the dinner dishes, Dave got out a book and sat down at the kitchen table to explain one of the star charts to Michael. Finding herself with nothing to do, Heather climbed into Dave's lap and did all she could to make it impossible for him to talk to Michael.

"I'm sleepy, Daddy," she whispered. "I want you to put me to bed."

"Is your room all ready?" Dave asked.

"Yes, but I don't want to sleep there." She peeked at me, then tugged at Dave's beard.

"Why not, honey?" he asked, gently freeing his beard.

"Because of her." Heather looked at me again and snuggled closer to Dave. "I don't want to sleep with her."

Mom and Dave looked at each other and sighed as if they'd been expecting something of this sort. "Molly's your sister now, Heather," Dave said patiently. "Sisters always share."

Heather stuck out her lip and managed to squeeze a few tears out of her big, sad eyes. "She's mean to me."

"Oh, Heather," Mom said softly. "Molly's not mean to you."

When Mom tried to touch Heather's shoulder, she jerked away as if Mom had intended to hurt her. "You leave me alone!" Heather cried. "You're mean too, and I hate you both. Him too!" She glared at Michael, then turned to Dave. "I don't want to live here with them. I want my own mother back!"

There was a little silence in the kitchen which made all the night noises—the crickets and the frogs, the wind in the leaves—seem louder.

"Now, now, honey." Dave stood up with Heather in his arms. "Daddy will tuck you in and tell you a little princess story. Wouldn't you like that?"

Heather buried her face in his neck, but as he carried her out the door, she looked at me and stuck out her tongue.

"Just ignore her, Molly," Mom said softly. "It's been a long day, and we're all tired."

"You always make excuses for her, no matter what she says or does." I flopped down in a chair beside Michael. "She's spoiled rotten."

"Oh, Molly, can't you be more understanding?" Mom looked at me sadly. "She's such an unhappy little girl."

"That doesn't give her the right to make us miserable too. The only thing that would make her happy is for you and Dave to split up. Can't you see that's what she wants?"

Mom shook her head. "That's a terrible thing to say, Molly. I'm ashamed of you."

"Molly's right," Michael said. "Heather hates us. She's never going to be happy living here."

"If we give her enough love, she'll change," Mom said. "I know she will."

Michael and I looked at each other and shook our heads. Why couldn't Mom face facts?

"You two could try a little harder," Mom added in a crosser voice. "You've never really given her a chance. Always running away from her, teasing her, making her cry."

"Mom, that's not fair!" I jumped to my feet, ready to run to my room. "I've tried and tried and tried! But she twists everything I do all around and lies and then you believe her, not me!"

Mom turned her back and leaned on the sink. "Just try harder, Molly. Please?" She kept her face hidden as she spoke, and I realized that she was crying.

Running to her side, I put my arms around her and hugged her tightly, pressing my face into the little hollow beneath her collarbone. "Okay, Mom," I whispered, trying hard not to cry myself, "I'll try some more."

Mom hugged me fiercely. "I'm sorry, Molly. I know you've tried. I'm just so discouraged. I thought by now Heather would be happier with us, but sometimes I'm afraid you and Michael are right. She doesn't want my love." She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and sighed. "I don't know what to do. I love Dave so much. And you all too. But Heather, I just don't know."

She made herself a cup of peppermint tea and carried it out on the back porch. Knowing she wanted to be alone, I sat down beside Michael. While he studied the star chart, I thought about Mom. I hated to see her so unhappy, but I had no idea what I could do to help her feel better. Heather sat in the middle of everything, making all of us miserable, and, as far as I could see, enjoying every minute of it.

4

WHILE MOM was still out on the porch, Dave came into the kitchen. Ruffling his hair with one hand, he sighed. "Well, Heather's asleep," he said, "so you two can get along to bed now yourselves. Don't wake her up, Molly. I've just about run out of little princess stories."

As Michael and I started to leave the room, Dave asked where Mom was.

"On the porch having a cup of tea," I said, as I followed Michael down the hall. Behind me, I heard the screen door open and shut and then Dave's voice murmuring something to Mom.

Pausing in his doorway, Michael said, "Want to come in and talk for a while, Molly?"

"Sure. I'm not in any hurry to go in there and take the chance of waking her up."

Michael's room already looked like home. His framed insect displays were hanging on the wall over his bed; his aquarium was set up near the window, and his scientific apparatus—microscope, magnifying glass, butterfly net, and chemistry set—was in place on the long desk Dave had made for him. Books filled his shelves, mostly plant, bird, rock, and animal nature guides with a few Encyclopedia Browns, Hardy Boys, and Alfred Hitchcocks for variety.

Picking up one of his fossils, I examined the print of a tiny skeleton embedded in its surface. "Doesn't the graveyard bother you at all?" I asked.

"I think it's great," he said. "I'm going to make it into an archeological project. I'll study all the graves, and then figure out what the people died of."

"You don't mean you're going to dig them up?" I stared at him, horrified.

"Of course not. That's against the law. What do you think I am? A body snatcher?" Michael grinned and polished his glasses on his tee shirt. "Not that it wouldn't interest me. In fact, I wish I could. They dig up Indian burial grounds and primitive Iron Age people, and they learn a lot from the things buried with them."

"That's awful." I thought of all the movies I'd seen on TV involving the opening of pyramids and the curses of mummies. "I'd be scared to disturb somebody's bones." I shuddered just thinking about how horrible it would be to discover a skeleton.

"You really are scared of the graveyard, aren't you?" Michael sounded curious.

"There's something about it, Michael." I gazed past his curly head at the window's dark rectangle, thinking of the tombstones behind the hedge, the tall weeds silvery in the starlight. It seemed to me that they waited there in the night for something, and I folded my arms tightly across my chest and tried to convince myself that I was being silly.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Michael leaned toward me. All he needed was a pipe in his mouth to make him the perfect scientist.

I shrugged. "I don't know." As usual, his rational approach was embarrassing me. I felt silly answering his questions. Pretending to yawn, I edged toward the door. "I think I'll go to bed, Michael."

He nodded. "If you hear any funny noises or see a face at the window, just yell for me," he said as I started down the hall to Heather's and my room.

I glared at him, sure now that I wouldn't be able to sleep for fear of what might be creeping toward the church from the graveyard.

"Just kidding, Molly," he whispered as I paused, my hand on my doorknob. "The only weird thing you'll see tonight is Heather."

Ignoring him, I tiptoed into the room. Except for the moonlight shining dimly through the window, it was dark, and I moved cautiously, not wanting to trip over anything and risk waking Heather. Pulling my pajamas out from under my pillow, I undressed and got into bed. I was anxious to fall asleep as quickly as possible so I wouldn't lie there thinking about horror movies and scary stories.

But you know how it is. The more you want to sleep the more you stay awake, hearing every strange sound and translating it into footsteps in the hall, bony hands at the window, the moans of ghosts in the shrubbery. When I heard a sort of whimper, I stiffened in terror and prepared myself for the appearance of a hideous creature. Forcing myself at last to open my eyes, I saw nothing but Heather, her pale face almost hidden by her dark curls tumbling over the pillow. As I watched, she moaned again and tossed restlessly, mumbling something that sounded like "Mommy, Mommy."

Turning my back, I grabbed my cassette player and put the earphones on. Soon all I heard was the voice of Julie Harris reading one of Emily Dickinson's poems, a good inspiration for the poetry I planned to write this summer.

I woke up to the sound of a mower droning away outside. The sun was shining, and Heather's bed was empty. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was nine o'clock. Hoping that Michael hadn't already disappeared in quest of new insects to add to his collection, I dressed and ran down the hall to the kitchen.

I found Heather and Mom sitting at the table, finishing their breakfast. Dave was already in the carriage house setting up his pottery workshop, and Mom said Michael was in the graveyard talking to Mr. Simmons.

"Who's Mr. Simmons?" I asked, pouring milk on my cereal.

"He's the graveyard's caretaker. He comes once a month or so to mow the grass and tidy the place up." Mom sipped her coffee. "He's a nice old chap, about seventy or eighty years old, but he carries himself like a soldier."

Remembering the height of the weeds, I had a feeling that Mr. Simmons had been on a vacation or something. "Maybe it won't look so gloomy after he finishes," I said.

Mom smiled and turned to Heather. "What would you like to do today, sweetie?" she asked.

Shoving her half-full bowl of cereal across the table, Heather got up and headed toward the back door.

"Where are you going?" Mom called after her.

The only answer she got was the sound of the screen door banging shut behind Heather.

"Oh, well, I guess she'll be all right outside." Mom went to the window over the sink and watched Heather amble across the lawn toward the hedge and the sound of the mower. "Poor Mr. Simmons. I guess she wants to see what he's up to."

She crossed the room and paused beside me. "I've got a lot to do, Molly. As soon as you finish eating, please go out and keep an eye on Heather. I don't want her wandering off."

"Can't I stay in and help you?"

She patted my shoulder. "The nicest thing you can do for me is to look after Heather."

Before I could say anything more, she left the room. Glumly I ate the rest of my cereal and went outside in search of Heather and Michael. By the time I got to the graveyard, Mr. Simmons had finished mowing. He was clipping and trimming the weeds around the tombstones, and Michael was raking the cut grass into a pile next to the wheelbarrow. Heather was sitting on a fallen tombstone trying clumsily to make a daisy chain. When she saw me hesitating at the gate, she said, "Molly's afraid to come in here. She thinks something's going to get her."

Mr. Simmons looked up and smiled at me. "Well, good morning, Molly. Won't you join us?"

Taking a deep breath, I walked toward him, careful, as usual, not to step on anybody's grave. Now that the grass was cut, it was easier to see where it was safe to walk. In fact, the whole place looked at lot less scary than it had before.

"Mr. Simmons says this is a real old graveyard," Michael told me. "The church was built way back in 1825, so some of the graves are 160 years old. Isn't that something? The Civil War hadn't even happened then. But nobody's been buried here since 1950. Isn't that right?" Michael turned to Mr. Simmons.

The old man nodded his head. "They filled the graveyard up, that's what they did. Old Mrs. Perkins was the last one to get in." He pointed at a pink stone with a shiny front. "Right there she is. My first-grade teacher." He grinned and shook his head. "She's not handing out any more report cards now, is she?"

Michael laughed, but I felt sad just thinking about Mrs. Perkins. "Caroline," it said on the stone. "Dear, Departed Wife of John Albert Perkins. She will long be missed."

"And right over here," Mr. Simmons went on, "is where my mother and father are sleeping." He rested his old hands on two stones. "I brought flowers for them and my baby sister, too."

I looked at the mason jars full of wild flowers decorating the three graves. "They look very pretty," I said, wondering if he felt sad. "It must be awful when a baby dies," I added, staring at the tiny headstone marking his sister's grave.

"They didn't have the medicine then, you know," he said. "Measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, scarlet fever, that's what killed the children."

As Michael nodded, glad that Mr. Simmons was backing up his own theories, Heather joined us. "Fire too," she said. "Lots of people died in fires, didn't they?"

Mr. Simmons looked a little surprised. "They did indeed," he said.

"My mother died in a fire." Heather dropped a dandelion on the baby's grave and walked away.

Mr. Simmons watched her for a moment, then turned to us. "I thought she was your sister," he said.

"No, her father married our mother." Michael nudged the dandelion away from the baby's grave with his bare toe. "She's our stepsister."

"Her mother died in a fire?" Mr. Simmons asked.

"When Heather was three. They were all alone in the house, and Heather almost died too. She was unconscious when the rescue squad found her," I told him.

"Poor little thing," he said sympathetically. Turning away, he returned to his work, clipping carefully around each stone and whistling. The sweet smell of cut grass drying in the hot sun filled the air, mingling with the aroma of Mr. Simmons' pipe. A mockingbird perched on a tombstone and sang; butterflies flashed about, and for a while I forgot my fears and helped Michael scoop the grass cuttings into the wheelbarrow.

"You haven't mowed under the tree," I heard Heather say suddenly. She was frowning at Mr. Simmons' back as he knelt at the base of the Berrys' marble angel.

He squinted up at her. "Not enough grass under that old tree to bother with," he said pleasantly.

"There's weeds though."

"I just tend to the tombstones." Mr. Simmons returned his attention to the grass, but Heather didn't take the hint.

"But there's a grave there," she said, her lip jutting out. "I saw it."

Mr. Simmons straightened up and stared at her. "Couldn't be. Too many roots to bury somebody there."

"The tombstone is lying down in the weeds," Heather insisted. "Come with me. I'll show you." She started walking toward the dense shade under the oak tree, and Mr. Simmons shrugged and followed her.

Michael turned to me. "Aren't you coming with us, Molly?"

I started to go with them, but I felt my goose bumps coming back. The cheerfulness of the day was gone, as surely as if a cloud had covered the sun. Something was wrong; I could sense it if no one else could. Staying where I was, next to the relative safety of Mrs. Perkins' shiny new tombstone, I watched the three of them step into the oak tree's shadow. Heather pointed at something in the grass, and Mr. Simmons bent down to get a better look.

"Looks like you're right," I heard him say to Heather.

"Come here, Molly!" Michael called. "This is really interesting."

As Heather smiled at me over her shoulder, daring me as she had before, I forced myself to join them. Mr. Simmons was struggling to right a small, weather-stained stone. "Well, I'll be," he said. "I've been tending these graves for twenty-some years, and I never knew this one was here. Never even looked for it."

With the stone erect, he scraped away the dirt and moss to reveal the inscription. "'H.E.H,'" he read out loud, tracing the letters with his fingers. "'March 7, 1879-August 8, 1886. May she rest in peace.'" He shook his head and set to work pulling out the weeds growing around the base of the stone. "Strange, isn't it?"

"Why is it strange?" Michael asked.

"Well, she was just a child. Seven years old. Where's the rest of the family?"

"What do you mean?" Michael squatted beside him, staring at the gravestone.

"Well, look around, son. Families get buried together," he said.

"That's right. Like the Berry Patch." Michael nodded astutely.

Mr. Simmons looked puzzled for a moment, but then he chuckled. "Yes, yes, the Berry Family. All together they are with their very own angel to watch over them." He relit his pipe and stood up, gazing about the graveyard.

"The stones usually say 'Beloved Daughter of' or something like that," he mused, "but here's this child, all by herself. No name. Just the initials. No other grave close by. It just doesn't seem right somehow."

"It's my initials," Heather said suddenly, removing her thumb from her mouth and touching the stone lightly. "Heather Elizabeth Hill."

"My age too," she added as we all stared at her.

"Well, now, that is a coincidence," Mr. Simmons said. Lopping away the last of the weeds, he took Heather's hand and led her out into the sunlight. "I wouldn't play here," he said to her. "Even with the weeds gone, it's a good place for snakes. Poison ivy, too, from the looks of it." He gestured at the shiny green leaves flourishing in the shade and twisting up the oak's trunk.

"I'm not afraid of snakes," Heather said. "Or poison ivy either. I never get it."

Mr. Simmons frowned down at her. "You listen to what I tell you, young lady. That's the kind of shade a copperhead loves. One of them bites you, you'll know it."

Heather gave the old man a scornful look and pulled away from him. "I'll play wherever I want to. You're not my boss." Then she stalked off, head high, black curls lifting in the breeze.

"Uppity little creature," Mr. Simmons said. "How about giving me a hand with the wheelbarrow?" he asked Michael.

As the two of them trundled off toward the compost heap, I walked back to the house. Although Heather was nowhere in sight, I could hear Dave's voice in the carriage house, and I supposed she'd gone in there to tell him how mean Mr. Simmons was.

Finding a shady spot on the back steps, I sat down and gazed across the yard at the oak tree standing guard over H.E.H.'s lonely grave. Why hadn't the child's name been carved on the tombstone? Why was it all alone? I shivered again, despite the heat, and wondered how I would feel if the initials had been mine instead of Heather's.