Scavengers (10 page)

"Oh my God,” Holly cried, grabbing Laura's arm and leaning into her. “I think I'd rather have it be scary than this sad. These poor little things! Why did they just throw them away like this?"

"Some lost their parents to death,” I explained, mentally reading the notes that were tucked safely in my office desk. “Some were taken away because things were bad at home. These are the ones who died before they found a new home or became of age."

We stood in stillness. It didn't even make sense to tread on the little plots.

Susan broke the silence, “My parents died when I was little. This place makes me thankful for all the foster homes that I hated at the time."

"It makes me want to kiss my mom and dad,” Holly said.

"I lost my mom and dad when I was little, too,” Claudia braved, and I squeezed her hand again.

“Funny, though, I never felt like an orphan."

"How could you not?” Susan begged. “I think sometimes I still feel like one."

"I don't think my grandmother let me,” she said. “I moved in with her that same day. She was there in a way that never made me feel alone."

"You're lucky then,” Susan said.

"Yeah, lucky,” Claudia said, and the ooze of bitter sarcasm was visible even in the dark.

"I'm sorry! That's not what I meant,” Susan defended. “I mean having love from someone makes it bearable. I think that's why I wanted to be a teacher. If all my kids learn nothing from me, they will still move onto the next grade fully believing that Miss Garrity thought they mattered."

"Oh, that is so sweet,” Holly gushed. “You are such a good person. Claudia, you, too. We love you guys so much. And I think I'm going to find a way to help these little ones. Maybe see if they'll let me paint a mural on that wall there.” She shone her light on the brick dividing wall.

“Or auction off a painting to help them keep this place up. Or keep it up myself. Something.”

Her voice was cracking, and again she uttered, “Something."

"Well, right now, there's something we can do, Hol,” Laura told her as she slid her arm around her shoulder. “We've brought them flowers."

"And love from Kris and Ginny,” Alison quickly added.

"How about we divide by couples and spread out so none of them gets overlooked?” Laura suggested.

Everyone saw the wisdom in that, and we wordlessly, almost gracefully did so.

Claudia and I walked slowly down our section of rows, reading each name instead of just madly searching out ones with whom we shared a letter. I gave a carnation to Catherine Slatter, Paul Kuehl, Baby Scott, Katie Duncan, and Nellie Stoffel. Claudia honored Lilly Clark, Charles Duncan, Christina Boe, August Koch, and Stanilaus Krueger.

When we got to the end of the third row, Claudia froze in her tracks. She stared up, and I thought she was simply admiring the moon.

"Pretty, isn't it?” I remarked.

"I've always loved that house."

"Huh?"

"Gram's house,” she said, pointing to one of the houses that suddenly loomed large on the big hill that butted the small cemetery.

I was a complete and utter idiot, a paid reporter with no observational skills whatsoever. “I didn't realize—” I stopped myself from finishing. I had been to both places—to her grandmother's house many times, in fact—but I had never connected them in proximity. Where we stood was like a whole other city to me: it was the older part that lined the river. The new parts were built up and away. It was the 1800s down here, and up there it was 1900 and beyond. And in both cities, I was a complete and utter idiot.

"Can you see this place from her house?” I asked, still trying to get my bearings.

"No, it's too steep. I remember she couldn't even see me at the park across the street. It used to drive her mad. I could hear her yelling for me from the back porch, but I knew I didn't have to answer—not yet anyway—because she couldn't see me."

"Ah, you were a rebel."

"No, just not wanting some days to end. You remember days like that."

I did somewhere inside of me—days that included her, probably—but for the life of me I couldn't recall any at the moment, not that it really mattered. I suddenly felt like a piece of a puzzle that, prior to this exact moment, had not known of its jagged edges that fit into a larger picture. But this wasn't about me, anyway, was it?

With all the courage I could muster, I asked, “Hon, do you feel like an orphannow —now that your gram is gone?"

"I don't think so,” she responded. “I think I feel more like Holly. This place makes me want to kiss my gram.” She paused for what felt like an eternity. “But I can't, can I?” She kept staring at the house.

"No, you can't. But there's a light on in the house. That means someone's taking care of the place you both loved. Maybe they have their own children who they yell to from the back porch."

"I doubt that."

"Why? It's a big house. Room for a big family."

"Um ... Because it's an automated light. Nobody lives there. Nobody but Gram."

Okay, I was indeed clueless. I knew something had been ‘wrong’ with her, but I could not fathom that she had taken a plunge off the deep end. I asked what she meant, several times, but she would say nothing expect that I would lose all faith in her if I knew. After nearly having to head down her throat to retrieve the words I needed to hear, she finally said, “I never sold the house, Kate. It's the same as the day she died. Except there's an urn on the mantle now."

I was speechless. I remembered asking her a hundred times if there was anything I could do to help with the ‘business-side’ of Gram's dying: to help get the house ready to sell, to help pack her things, to...

"You told me it was taken care of, Claudia. I took that to mean you sold it."

"I did take care of it. I hired the guy next door to take care of it. I send him a check every month.

He takes care of it. He put in automatic lights and an alarm. I did take care of it, just not how I had planned to. I just couldn't walk in there. I still can't walk in there, and yet I can't walk away from it. I can't have it just be gone. Isn't that insane?"

In the darkness of the little cemetery, I tried so hard to see what was in her eyes. They were empty of all but moonlight.

"So now you know, and now you've lost all faith in me, and you'll leave. Right. I knew it would come to this. I just knew.” She started crying, the cold kind.

Weep to have that which it fears to lose.

"Well, one thing I know for sure about you, is that you don't like to be wrong, but it gives me great pleasure to tell you that you are wrong. I won't listen to crap like that, Claudia. I'm not leaving, even though you're doing your awful best to get me to. I won't go. And somewhere inside you know it, too. Otherwise, you wouldn't be pulling away from me. You'd just stand there and wait for me to go. You wouldn't have to move away to make distance. So I'm telling you what you already know: I won't go."

"One day you will."

"Yeah, one day I may not have a choice, just like your mom and dad, just like Gram. But do you think that beating me over the head for still being here is really the way to go? How about frickin’

asking me for help? How about telling me you're scared—you're hurt—you're mad—you don't want to be frickin’ abandoned ever again? But no, you've got to be Ms. Self-Reliance, the badass manager who keeps everybody in line. Don't you think maybe it might make me feel good to be on the needed end for a change? You'd move mountains for me, but you'd give me a spoon to do the same for you—probably a frickin’ slotted spoon at that."

"And Barbie Doll size,” she acknowledged, and much to my utter surprise and joy, she laughed.

See, there was trust—and she knew it. I could say all these things, and she still listened; she still laughed at the things that indeed were funny about this “us."

"But you need to make up your mind,” she said, and I expected another foretelling of my leaving.

“One minute you want me to move the muck. Now you want me to move mountains. Which will it be?"

"You sure you want to know?"

"Yes."

"And you'll go along with whichever one I pick?"

"Yes,” she replied, but her face was beginning to scrunch with doubt.

"No matter what?"

She clenched her teeth and uttered a very difficult “Yes."

"Okay. Then I say we screw the muck and we screw the mountain. I want the hill."

"The hill?"

"Come here,” I said, and when she neared I held her close. “I wantus to move the hill. You can have the big mama earthmover and boss all us peons around. I don't care. I'll take the Barbie-size slotted spoon, but I want us—together—to move that hill."

She was crying in my arms. Maybe it was a lifetime of tears that fell, maybe just new ones. I didn't know for sure, but I did know that I felt her surrender—to the horrid feelings, and to me.

I gently moved her away from me and looked her in the eyes. “We've got two flowers left, honey.

We're standing here honoring kids who are no longer here but are still important. We have two flowers left. I'll take the S: Sarah for my Sutter. You take K and make it a Kitterman for a Kitterman. Up that hill, honey.” I pointed to her grandmother's house. “Up that hill."

"Sarah Kitterman.” She said her name as though it was a healing poison. “I don't think I can."

"I know thatwe can. We can move mountains, remember? We can walk in muck. We can move this hill. I swear we can; otherwise, I wouldn't ask."

She leaned into me, almost collapsing. Then I felt her head start moving up and down, slowly at first, and then it pulled away from me to became a definite nod. I kissed her.

"Hey, guys,” I called, trying to be respectful of where we were. When I sensed that all heads had turned toward us, I said, “We're almost done but we need to take care of something important.

Would you guys be sweethearts and wait for us?"

"Is this a trick to head us off at the pass?” someone called back, and I had absolutely no desire to determine who had that much nerve.

"No! I swear!” I defended. “We're supposed to write our own finishing time on the sticker, so do it. The sticker time wins this one, not who gets back first. You can have our damn sticker if you don't believe us."

"Of course, we'll wait for you, Kate,” Holly yelled. “And I'll personally knock the block off anyone who won't.” The woman had spoken.

"Thank you, Holly."

I turned back to Claudia and asked her to give me a moment. I hightailed it over to Laura and Holly. “Hide me from Claudia,” I said. When they did, I hit Kris and Ginny's cell number on my speed dial and said, “I saw you down the road. Everything is okay. Go home."

I ran back to Claudia, offered my hand, and we were off on a scavenger hunt of our own.

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Somehow moving the hill felt more like moving a mountain. I had not realized what a steep slope we would encounter. Maybe it was better that way, as it certainly exemplified what Claudia had to overcome in order to drag herself up there—to face her biggest fear. Hand in hand, tree to tree, we plugged on, pulling ourselves to the top.

When we had reached the summit, we both sat to catch our breath. The city on the far side of the river reflected itself on the water, and the moon kept an eye on us. Once our breathing returned to normal, we stood. Claudia took my hand and led me up the few steps to the back porch. We sat in the rickety porch swing and just stared into the night sky. I put my arm around her, and so softly, she whimpered. I thought of the children below us, and I hoped that at sometime in their short lives they had known love—even a mere glimpse of it. Yes, it was what made abandonment such an evil thing, but it also made the feel of someone in your arms utterly sublime and safe. I wanted Claudia to feel safe. I wanted her to know that I was there, and that I would be there as long as this life allowed me to be, but the irony in that, is that I also had to accept the fact that one day we would be painfully parted. That was future; this was now. I did not want her to weep to have me, but just to have me.

"Honey,” I said. “I love you. I am sorry about your mom and dad. I am sorry about Gram. I am sorry that you hurt, and I hope that you can trust me with all that stuff that makes you not feel in charge. You're a strong woman, but it's okay to not be strong sometimes.” I held her closer.

“Even if it's just to give me something to do or so I don't look like the wimp all the time."

"Well, let's start by putting it this way: I don't know how to do that. Will you help me learn?"

"You're a stubborn one. What if it takes twenty, thirty more years?"

"Then promise you won't leave me.Please don't leave me."

She sobbed uncontrollably now. Our guardian angels had brought her back to me. No, Kris was right: She would not be taken. She came back to me by her own free will. I vowed to her that I would not let her go again. I apologized, genuinely, for missing that moment when she turned away from me, for not knowing enough to summon her home and make her feel safe.

We held each other for a while, and I knew that below us a group of women waited. Impatiently probably, but they waited.

"This is a damn big house, hon,” I remarked. “Room enough for a big family. Why don't we live here?"

"We have a house. You wouldn't ... we couldn't ... Could we? I always felt so safe here.” Then the “big family” phrase I had used hit her upside the head like a two-by-four. “Big family!” she yelled.

"Well, we can talk about it. A couple of adopted kids maybe. Those Old English sheepdogs you always wanted. Hell, I'd settle for a gaggle of geese."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Ah, there was that smile.

"I'll think about that. I like the sound of it. But you know ... there is a group of cranky women waiting for us down there.” She downturned her thumb. “One more thing, and then we can go."

She walked to the back door and lifted the alarm panel's cover. “Your birthday,” she said as she punched in the code. She timidly opened the door, clutched my hand, and we walked into the place that I hoped would make her feel safe again. With the flashlight showing us the way, we entered the living room. She approached the fireplace, pulled our last two carnations from the wrapper, and laid them crisscross in front of the blue urn.