Four Rubbings

Chapter Five: Blaze Stirs the Giant

“Blaze, don’t do anything stupid!'

My mother’s last words rattle through my mind, the words tossed at me as I exited the car at the Josie’s house hours ago. Hard to imagine doing something smart dressed in this get up!

“And don’t ruin those boots either!” she shouted as she peeled out of the driveway.

Yeah. Do you mean the boots I found buried in the back of the garage, you hoarder? I thought. No, way I’d say that out loud.

In the cemetery, I let Josie’s voice erase my mother’s harsh words like a giant broom. She gives us instructions for the night but rubs at her throat, so I know she is nervous. I take a quick peek at my stolen white boots and kick off a clump of mossy mud from the toe. Casey dodges the flying muck, giving me a sour face with big surprised eyes. I laugh. The others pivot my way, and I cover my mouth to stuff the noise back inside. Josie stares down her nose at me, and then picks up her explanation without missing a beat.

In spite of touchy girls, bossy mothers, tight clothes, and fussy capes, I buzz with anticipation. Something big is going to happen tonight; I can feel it.

I do a slow, panoramic scan of the surroundings to put my superpowers to good use. My three favorite people in the world gather beside me. Dressed in a crazy assortment of costumes, Seth and Casey seem wrapped up in what Josie is saying unaware of our incredible surroundings. We are standing in a cemetery on Halloween! How cool is that? 

Something wet plops on my head. I look up to the sign that reads, “Lakefront Cemetery” and a second raindrop plunks into my eye. I take the supplies Josie doles out with greedy hands and a wink. She frowns at me, staring at my legs, which bounce up and down, up and down with energy. I bite back another obnoxious laugh.

I breathe deeply. The air smells like apples, fresh-cut apples. And like an overcharged toy, I bounce and twitch and wiggle. I stretchmy arms out to the side and give in to the electricity pulsing through me.

You’re in charge. Make it happen! I think, smiling ear to ear. When Josie texted last night, I knew she was onto something big. After years of lame parties and junk candy, the big adventure was finally upon us! And now that we are here, it doesn’t take superpowers to sense something bigger than all of us is in the driver’s seat tonight. Call it karma, call it fate, but please don’t call it God. You call it God and my mother, the proud atheist, will kill you. And being a chef, she has the knives to back up that promise. Something buzzes in my pocket and I take out my phone to read the text that crosses the screen.

“B. Stop bouncing. UR making me motion sick.”

The text is from Casey. I send back an emoticon that sums up my thoughts, a puking smiley face. She checks her phone and scrunches her little nose at me. I caress the thunderbolt she helped craft and she shakes her head. She’s so cute when she gets all pouty.

Somehow I end up two steps behind the others as they head into the cemetery. I take slow steps and watch them walk away. Casey veers toward a grove of apple trees, her white football pants nearly falling off her skinny body. See! I knew I smelled apples! Seth aims for the center of the property where a massive flagpole whips and clatters, and Josie takes a quick glance behind her before walking to her mother’s grave. As if we didn’t know…

I take the gravel path that cuts through a series of dirty white tombs to wait until a grave “calls me.”  But so far, I’ve got nothing. My spiritual divining rod needs an adjustment.

Past the tombs where a line of pines meets the sky, a cottage comes into focus. A swirl of wet wind blows my cape over my shoulders and tugs me toward the house. In seconds, I reach the corner of the garden. Employing my superpowers once again, I scan the house and surroundings.

Hulking yellow sunflowers scrape the top of a single-story rambler. More pretty flowers and greenery gush out of the planter boxes that hang underneath shuttered windows and graves. Graves–lots of them–stand where other yards sport trees.

I walk a slow circle around the house to try and put my finger on what makes this place so perfect. Smooth round river rocks make up the walls of the house, and I run a hand across the cool, bumpy surface. As I turn the corner, I catch the noise of the lake waters that lap onto an unseen shore. The faint stink of fish and algae hangs in the air. If I squint, I can see the slimmest slice of choppy gray water through a dense stand of trees.

The owner takes good care of this place. A thick layer of shiny white paint around the windows and roofline testifies to regular touchups. The solid window frames hold imperfect, distorted panes of glass. Gold light shines from the warped glass. Someone is home. I tiptoe around the corner and wonder if I should leave.

Something about that old glass keeps me there. I snap a picture and text it to Seth, my friend who loves old things. I tuck the phone away and decide I better go before someone rushes out of the cottage pointing a gun at my head.

I jog through the yard toward the cemetery boundary and halt at a lush herb garden full of things my parents grow for the restaurants. The smell of rosemary fills my nose, and my stomach growls. In front of the rosemary bush stand purple, green, and white cabbages, their leaves alive with busy ladybugs. As I crouch down to study the red ladies, I spy a grave marker buried inside a clump of mint.

I brush the greenery to the side and uncover a stocky cross. The black and white marker reads:

Father Daniel Kujala

January 10, 1942 - April 17, 2007

All thanks to Him that saved me.

A priest?Really? I cringe as I make a quick sweep of the garden, hoping beyond hope I will discover a different grave to rub. But all I see are flowers and craft store scarecrows. No tombstones.

I consider going back to the gravel trail. But like riding backward on a train, finding a new grave doesn’t feel right. This grave picked me. No. This is my grave. My heart pounds and I gulp in air, dizzy at the thought of rebellion. And now that I’ve decided, I am determined to get it done fast before my resolve evaporates!

“Hey, Father Kujala. I’m Blaze. Nice grave.” I feel stupid talking to a grave, so I drop my voice to a whisper. “Your grave is really cool. ”

As I reach for the roll of paper tucked into my cape, I remember what I am wearing. I look down at my Halloween clothes, then back to the black and white monument. My cheeks burn. I laugh and bow to Father Kujala’s tombstone. “I don’t usually dress like this!”

I scrabble deep inside a pocket and dig out the tape and charcoal. It takes some work to get the paper taped down right. I want to capture the cross and the Father’s inscription on my rubbing. With the paper in place, I rub and surprise myself with the results. Somehow, I manage to copy the stone. Josie will be so proud.

The rubbing looks good and I want to keep it that way, so I pull gently on the tape so the thin paper does not rip. But halfway through, a scream cuts across the graveyard and startles me. It sounds like one of the girls. In a hurry to get the heck to the noise, I tug at the paper, tearing the top third clean off. I cringe, trying not to cuss in front of the good Father. I pick off what I can from Kujala’s tombstone and roll the pieces of the rubbing into a loose tube. I shove all of it into the back of my cape and run toward the shriek.

 

 ###### End of Chapter Five. Download Four Rubbings today at Amazon.com or IndieBound.com