The Death Catchers (2 page)

 

Foreshadowing

Maybe it's just me, but I think some English teachers go out of their way to make things overly complicated. One of the things I really love about you, Mrs. Tweedy, is that you try to keep things simple. The whole idea of foreshadowing confused me until you explained it as a hint that the author gives a reader about what will happen next.

I'm telling you, that day in the cemetery with Jodi was a foreshadow the size of Texas. What happened there hinted at every single thing that would occur later on.

It's amazing how slowly time passes when you're panicking. As we crouched outside Agatha's cottage atop Cemetery Hill, I thought Jodi was dead. She wasn't moving. After pressing my index finger to the underside of her wrist, I finally felt a pulse. Seconds later, her eyelids fluttered. She stood upright and stepped away from the windowsill. Agatha was still inside. I squinted through the fog. If Agatha was in any way related to the frightening woman who had just touched our heads before disappearing into thin air, I wasn't taking any chances.

“Ruuuuuuun!” I shouted.

Half stunned, Jodi stumbled after me, wide-eyed. We zigged and zagged between the rows of tombstones, past Old Arthur and Ambrosius Cantare, finally bursting out of the cemetery gate. We didn't stop sprinting until we got to Delores Avenue, two full blocks from the cemetery.

Breathless, Jodi collapsed onto the lawn in front of the Camelot Theater. Clutching my chest, I joined her on the wet grass.

“What was
that
all about? Why did you freak?” Jodi asked, still panting.

“What?” I responded, not understanding why Jodi wasn't as horrified as I was by being frozen solid by Vivienne. Jodi was flat on her back, looking up at the starry sky. She smiled at me.

“No offense, but aren't you a little old to be spooked by Agatha? Maybe you can't handle the cemetery anymore.”

At first, I thought Jodi was playing some kind of cruel joke on me—trying to act cool even though she was as scared out of her mind as I was. I recounted exactly what I'd seen in Agatha's cottage.

“Look, you don't have to rub it in, Lizzy,” Jodi said, slightly annoyed. “You were
right
, okay? Agatha was talking
to herself
about somebody named Vivienne and some truce and who-knows-what-else. She's totally crazy.”

“You swear you didn't see a woman in black walk through the door like a ghost? Agatha's sister or something? You didn't hear her talk about the Last Descendant and Pendragon and Doomsday?”

“Okay, Lizster. It's time to give this up,” Jodi said, sitting upright. “It's just not funny anymore.”

“I'm not
trying
to be funny. You don't remember being frozen? That Vivienne woman touched our heads, Jodi! I saw it!”

Jodi put her hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” she said. “Because you are starting to sound, like, straitjacket crazy. Agatha started muttering, I was calmly listening to her, and then you started freaking out, grabbing my wrist. The next thing I know you're yelling ‘run' at the top of your lungs.”

The whole incident—the conversation between Vivienne and Agatha, the way Vivienne put her hand on our heads—was so vivid. But I began to doubt myself. Was it possible I imagined the whole thing?

“Your forehead's a little hot,” Jodi concluded, withdrawing her hand. “High fevers cause delusions, you know. Maybe you're getting sick.”

“You think I imagined the whole thing?”

“Let's get you some OJ and Tylenol from the market,” Jodi offered, ignoring my question.

“Orange juice? For a fever?” I questioned.

“Sure. OJ is like chicken soup … it helps whatever ails you.”

Jodi didn't wait for me to agree. Instead, she began walking toward downtown Crabapple. I followed, wondering why Jodi was so anxious to change the subject. I started to think that the tall witch-woman, Vivienne, had cast some evil spell on us by touching our heads. What had she meant when she said one of our threads was going to get cut? I knew it was a little insane, but what if she was real and Jodi was under some kind of hex? Maybe it hadn't worked on me. Worse still, maybe it had. Could Jodi be pretending she hadn't seen Vivienne? What if Jodi wasn't Jodi at all anymore, but some kind of zombie? Maybe we both were.

“What's your favorite kind of candy?” I asked as we walked down Delores Avenue.

“Um, you know the answer to that already, Lizzy.”

“Well, what is it?” I insisted.

“Gummy bears. But not the imitation kind, only the real kind.”

“What's your favorite color?”

“Turquoise.”

“What's the name of your band going to be?”

Jodi stopped and grabbed my arm. “Seriously, Lizzy. You are acting really weird. Are you okay?”

“Are
you
?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What I saw seemed so real, Jodi.”

“Listen. A few years ago, I
swore
I saw an alien on the Dandos' roof when I was leaving your house. In the span of a minute, I convinced myself Crabapple was being invaded. Turns out it was a green kite stuck on a shingle.”

“So?” I wasn't sure what Jodi was implying.

“So, everyone's brain goes a little haywire sometimes. But you didn't see a witch in Agatha's house and no one touched our heads, okay?” Jodi's brown eyes pleaded with mine. She certainly wasn't acting like she was under a hex.

“All right,” I said, feeling I had no choice but to drop the whole thing. Jodi released my arm and we began moving toward town again.

Before long, we were inside Miss Mora's Market. Jodi went behind the counter into the back of the store. I waited until she reappeared with her mother by her side and a cold quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice in her hands.

“Hiya, Lizzy!” Miss Mora said.

Part of the reason I loved Jodi so much was because of her mom, Mora Sanchez. Jodi's mom is known around town as Miss Mora, owner of the local grocery store, Miss Mora's Market. Miss Mora is a sturdy woman with a long dark braid and a nice word for just about every customer who comes into her store. Truly, she is one of those people whom everyone likes to the point that it is almost annoying—except how can you be annoyed when someone's that nice?

Miss Mora's Market is five blocks down the hill from our house. Which means that whenever Mom forgets to pick up something, she sends me there.

“What did your mother forget now?” Miss Mora always says when I drop in around dinnertime. Sometimes it's green onions or butter or milk. If the market's busy, Jodi is usually there helping behind the counter.

Every time before I leave, Miss Mora whistles me back to the counter and hands me a dark chocolate square wrapped in bright green foil and says, “It helps with digestion.” Like most people in Crabapple, she knows Mom's reputation for turning perfectly good meats and vegetables into heaping burned piles of tastelessness. When it's especially bad, like when Mom cooks her tuna casserole, so wet and mushy you can barely use a fork to eat it because it's more like soup, Bizzy winks at me, smiling devilishly, and says, “Rita, you've simply outdone yourself this time. Just divine!” Later, Bizzy whispers something in my ear like, “Those green beans should press charges against your mama for what she did to 'em. Mutilation!”

It would be one thing if Mom only inflicted her cooking on the immediate family. But she loves doing things for other people. This includes dropping off books and baked goods on a weekly basis for Jodi and Miss Mora at their apartment, which is on the floor above the market.

Now, Miss Mora was staring at me curiously.

“Honey,” Miss Mora said, “Jodi tells me you're feeling under the weather.”

“Her head is hot,” Jodi said.

“You should probably go home and rest,” Miss Mora said sympathetically. “It may be a touch of the flu.”

“Maybe,” I said. Physically, I felt absolutely fine. Mentally, I was a mess. I couldn't get the harrowing figure of Vivienne out of my head. I looked at Jodi. I didn't know if I was imagining it, but she seemed different somehow.

Miss Mora took the fresh-squeezed orange juice out of Jodi's hands and placed it in mine.

“Take this with you,” she said. “There's nothing better in this world than a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.”

I reached into my pocket, pulling out some single dollars to pay for the orange juice.

“Oh, no, no, honey,” Miss Mora explained. “It's on the house.”

I hesitated, clutching the quart of orange juice. Mom had told me over and over again that I was
never
to accept any freebies from Miss Mora. “It's hard enough being a single mother in this world …,” I overheard Mom explain to Dad after she chided me for bringing home a free loaf of olive bread, “but Miss Mora, bless her heart, would give away everything in that store of hers if she felt someone was in need.”

No matter what I said, Miss Mora wouldn't take my money. I put the wad of singles back in my pocket.

“Can I ask you a question, Miss Mora?”

“Anything,” Miss Mora replied.

“You know Agatha from the cemetery? Is she crazy like everyone says she is?”

Jodi rolled her eyes and then smiled at me. “Lizzy is convinced that we saw Agatha talking to a witch.”

“I am not,” I defended. “I just wondered if the rumors about Agatha are true.”

Miss Mora put both her hands on the counter and leaned toward me. “Agatha Cantare may be a little eccentric, Lizzy, but she's no more unhinged than half the people in this town.” Miss Mora reached behind her into a wicker basket lined with a red kerchief. She held a foil-wrapped dark chocolate square in her hand.

“I feel sorry for the poor woman,” Miss Mora said, frowning. “The only person I've ever seen even talk to her is your grandmother.”

“Bizzy?”

“Sure, in the past couple weeks, I've seen Bizzy coming and going from Agatha's cottage a lot. I think they've recently become friends. They're about the same age, aren't they?”

Questions spiraled through my head. Bizzy … friends with Agatha from the cemetery? Did she know that awful Vivienne woman? Was Bizzy a witch, too? It seemed ridiculous. Jodi raised an eyebrow at me suspiciously. I wondered if she could tell what I was thinking.

Miss Mora unfolded my hand and placed the dark chocolate square inside it. “Insurance in case your mother makes her legendary tuna casserole tonight,” she said, smiling brightly.

“Thank you,” I responded.

Jodi turned to her mother. “How come you never give me chocolate?” she whined.

“Because you were blessed with a mother who can cook,” Miss Mora said, winking at me. “Not to offend you, Lizzy. Rita is wonderful, but the woman can't cook canned soup.”

I laughed. “I know. Thanks again, Miss Mora.” I took one last look at Jodi, to see if there was any trace of whatever it was Vivienne had done to us. Jodi appeared to be completely normal. I knew I couldn't stand there and watch her all night. “See you tomorrow,” I added, reaching back into my pocket. I set the wad of one-dollar bills on the counter. I jumped toward the door, cradling the quart of orange juice.

“But—,” I heard Miss Mora object.

“Keep the change!” I shouted as the door to Miss Mora's closed behind me. I sped home in the soggy Crabapple night, sure that Bizzy was the only one who could explain what had really happened in the cemetery.

 

The Protagonist

Here's the first curveball in my story, Mrs. Tweedy: this story really isn't mine. Like a lot of narrators, I kind of found myself caught in the cross fire. The real driving force of this story is my grandma, Beatrice Mildred Mortimer.

Nobody calls her that, though.

People call her Bizzy Bea or just Bizzy because she's always buzzing around when strange things happen in Crabapple. She's the town gossip who knows everybody's business. Bizzy Bea is more a term of endearment than anything else, though, and my grandma doesn't seem to mind it. She's had the nickname since she was a teenager.

Bizzy is a better protagonist than I am. She's the real center of the story. Even if you're convinced the main character of this story is me (I'm pretty darn sure it isn't), there are still a few things you need to know about Bizzy before I tell you what happened when I asked her about Agatha and the cemetery.

Now, Bizzy was born in 1936 in West Monroe, Louisiana, which is right smack-dab on the Ouachita River. I guess that's only important because she's got this great southern accent that makes everything she says sound better. Like the word “for” is “fow” and when she says “golf” she just drops the “l” completely and it's “gof.”

My grandma loves to tell me that I remind her of an “adolescent Beatrice Mortimer.” This, of course, just means that I remind Old Bizzy of Young Bizzy. Bizzy has this habit of talking like she's the narrator of a documentary about her own life. For instance, when describing herself growing up she once proclaimed, “In her teens, there were two words most often used to describe Beatrice Mildred Mortimer: ‘wild' and ‘child.' ” Only the way she said it, “wild child” sounded more like “while” and “chi-ull” (and as far as I can tell, Bizzy still is a bit of a “while chi-ull”). Whenever Bizzy tells me I remind her of herself, I try not to be rude and frown. The truth is, I love Bizzy, but she's not exactly the person I want to grow up to be. Now that I know we share the same curse, I may not have much choice in the matter.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again.

As the most opinionated person in our small town of Crabapple, Bizzy has quite a few critics, ranging from Mr. Primrose, the head of the Historical Preservation Society, to Mrs. Frackle, the owner of the Camelot Theater.

Also, Bizzy looks different, to put it nicely. Her hair reminds me of a large mound of crumpled Kleenex. It's always a messy pile of white. But she has these magnificent eyes that resemble blue-green algae at the bottom of two pools of crystal clear water.

Bizzy loves wearing pearls (she wears a string around her neck and so many around her left wrist that they cover half her palm and look like a thick pearl wristband); fishing off the Crabapple Cliffs (I swear she hasn't caught anything living or larger than an index finger in four years); and putting Konriko Creole Seasoning in just about everything she eats (she even sprinkles some into her morning coffee).

Though she moves pretty darn well for a seventy-four-year-old woman, Bizzy fell down some stairs a few years ago and now she mostly gets around using one of those combination walker-stools. But it's not just any old walker-stool. When she got it, she had it painted fire-engine red so it sparkles in the sunlight. It has extralarge wheels, a cushioned seat in the front, and patriotic streamers on its handles. She also attached small side-view mirrors to each handlebar so it was “highway ready.” By far, though, the best part is that Bizzy named her walker-stool: Dixie. Strangely enough, almost everyone in Crabapple refers to Bizzy's walker by name as well.

There is one last thing about Bizzy I'm sure you don't know that is a key piece of this story. When I was younger, Bizzy used to tell me she was part fish. For a while, I believed her. See, each morning, Bizzy ignored the warning signs posted all along the beach below our house and went for a swim in the dangerous waters of Crabapple Cove. Sometimes, as a little kid, I would stand on Lookout Point on the cliffs above and watch Bizzy.

Her ritual was always the same.

First, she stripped off her sandals, slacks, and blouse, revealing an old black wet suit underneath. While the thick mat of coastal fog slept lazily on the shallow waters of the cove, Bizzy waded into the surf. She swam out, ducking under the large surface-skimming water logs rolling in from the Pacific. Then, she flopped over and floated on her back, her legs and arms stretched out to her sides. She let the waves crash over her and toss her body like a rag doll in the surf, slowly returning her to shore. When Bizzy reached shallow water again, she walked up to the beach, her hair looking like a janitor's old mop. When she reached her pile of clothes, she wrote in a journal she always brought along.

Dad guessed Bizzy's ritual had something to do with the death of her older brother, Henry. Bizzy was five years old when she witnessed Henry clonk his head on a rock and drown in the swimming hole near their house. He was much bigger than she was and there was no way for her to save him. Dad says Bizzy never got over it.

Her morning routine never changed … until recently. I first noticed that Bizzy had stopped going for her swim at the beginning of this past October. Mom chalked it up to Bizzy getting older. Dad was simply relieved that she wasn't putting herself in danger every morning. After she stopped, I detected a lingering sadness in Bizzy's face—like something important had been taken from her.

When I thought about what Miss Mora had said about Bizzy visiting Agatha, I began to wonder if there was a connection between her visits and why Bizzy stopped swimming. The two changes coincided with each other almost exactly. That night, I worked up the courage to ask her.

Bizzy's room was on the first floor of the house. I knocked on the door. Bizzy opened it.

“Why, hello, Sweet Pea!” When Bizzy smiled, you could see every wrinkle on her face.

“Hi.”

“What brings you to my door on this fine evenin'?”

“Do you know Agatha Cantare?”

“What's all this now?” Bizzy leaned on Dixie and stared at me blankly.

“Agatha from the cemetery … are you friends with her?”

“Who's askin'?” Bizzy scanned the hallway. I couldn't tell if she was scowling or smiling. Her lips formed a straight line across her face.

“Miss Mora said that you've been visiting her lately.”

“Oh, I see,” Bizzy said. I could sense her body relax. “Can't say Agatha and I got much in common 'cept the aches and pains of old age, but every so often, I go over and play a little gin rummy. Some older folks ain't as fortunate as me, Lizzy-Loo. They got no family around.”

“She's not crazy, is she?” I asked.

“Agatha? Heavens no! She's just a mite lonely. And not much of a gin rummy player. A' course, I let her win now and again to keep her morals up.”

“You mean
morale
?” I said, laughing at Bizzy. Sometimes I wondered if she mixed up words on purpose.

“You say potato, I say spuds,” Bizzy said, winking at me with a crooked smile. She studied my face.

“Have you ever heard of Doomsday?”

Bizzy eyed me curiously. “Is somethin' troublin' ya, Sweet Pea?”

I considered telling Bizzy everything. But Jodi already thought I'd hallucinated and was borderline bananas. I certainly didn't need Bizzy worrying about me, too.

“I think I'm just a little tired,” I answered.

“Well, now, that brings to mind one a' my best pearls of wisdom,” Bizzy said. “The early bird may catch all the worms, but why eat worms when you can sleep in!”

In case you were wondering, Mrs. Tweedy, Bizzy has a habit of interrupting a person, sometimes midsentence, to interject what she calls “Bizzy's Pearls of Wisdom.” For instance, if you were in the middle of telling a long-winded story (not that
you
would tell a long-winded story, but this is just an example), Bizzy would probably shout out, “Best way to make a long story short is to shut your darn mouth,” clutching the string of pearls around her neck. She always follows these outbursts with, “That there is one of Bizzy's pearls, free a' charge.”

Anyhow, after saying good night to Bizzy, I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom, somewhat guilt-ridden. In the span of a few hours, I'd actually been deluded enough to believe Bizzy was some sort of witch—all because my grandma had shown kindness by playing cards with a lonely cemetery keeper.

It turned out, however, I wasn't nuts at all.

Two days later, for the first time, Bizzy would admit she'd been lying to me. But it wasn't only me, of course. Bizzy had been lying to us all.