Four Rubbings

Chapter Seven: Blaze and Why Capes Are Not Awesome

Superheroes never panic, so why am I still standing here? The scream came from the front of the cemetery and it was definitely a girl. Maybe Casey thought she saw a ghost or something. She was scared to come tonight. Or what if some weirdo grabbed Josie? Don’t bad people, like devil worshippers or something, hang out in cemeteries on Halloween? Oh, man!

I race in the direction of the sound with a fresh dose of determination pounding beneath this duct-tape lightning bolt. I round the corner of the cottage full throttle, when something grabs my cape and slams me back hard against the cottage. I choke as the cape cuts into my windpipe.

“Ack!” I wheeze. Sweat pours down my face and neck as I struggle with the slippery knot at my throat, but it will not budge. I try to pull the cape over my head, but the ties are too tight to get past my big ears. I squeeze in thin gulps of air through my constricted windpipe and use my hands to follow the cape fabric to the sharp thorns that hold it fast to a trellis trailing up the cottage wall. I pull the slightest bit of fabric free and suck in air.

I twist the fabric around both hands and tug, but the woody black thorns dig in deeper as I pull. Beads of sweat trickle down my neck and I blink my stinging eyes. I yank the cape one more time but lose my grip on the sweat-soaked cape. I’m losing a one-sided tug of war.

“Help! Can someone help me? Anyone?” I sputter.

From behind, I hear a warm voice. “I’m comin.’ I’m comin.’” A caramel brown face catches up to the strong voice. The woman is tiny and lean, dressed in overalls that hang off her lean frame like she borrowed clothes from a giant. Her skin is slightly darker than mine and her face is kind. Lots of long black curls tangle into a bun at the back of her head.

She says, “Well, you got yourself into a pickle! Wrapped up good in my roses. I’d shake your hand, but I better help you first!”

My savior smiles up at me with bright eyes and then gets down to business. She unties the cape with deft fingers and I draw in a long breath. With a quick shake and snap, as if folding clean sheets, she frees the cape from the trellis.

“Yeah, well, even superheroes need help every now and again,” she says.

And with those simple words, we laugh.

“My name’s Grace, by the way. I take care of this place.” She hands me the folded cape and I tuck it under my armpit; no way I’m tying that sucker around my neck again. I introduce myself to Grace.

“Boy, am I glad to meet you,” I say.

“Is this yours?” Grace asks, bending down to retrieve a roll of paper at her feet.

“Oh, yeah, it is. I forgot I’d put it in my cape. Thanks.”

 “So, are you guys art students or something?” she asks, squinting into the distance.

“No. My friend had a rubbing kit. Is it okay that we’re here?”

“It’s fine. Actually, Blaze, it’s nice. I saw you all by the front gates earlier, about the same time I remembered I didn’t lock them,” she says, grinning. A black curl falls free from her bun and hangs down the side of her face. It is a pretty face in a mom kind of way; she looks around forty, so I guess she could be a mom. She certainly doesn’t look like a cemetery caretaker.