The Secret Hum of a Daisy (20 page)

Mummies

Rock!

Sheriff Bergum
showed up with some men on his day off. It was still strange to see him in a regular old long-sleeved shirt and jeans. They went to work restoring the barn. I sat on a nearby boulder under a tree and watched. Eventually, Sheriff Bergum saw me sitting there and called me over. He put a hammer in my hands and I helped them nail and carry lumber, put up ladders, and broom away the cobwebs.

When I wasn't at the Brannigans' tending to Daisy, or thinking about what the number 4 might mean, I worked on Mama's unfinished crane. Try as I might, I couldn't get the wings right. I tried spoon bowls, the broken pieces of a vegetable steamer, and even real-life feathers I'd found in the meadow, but none of them worked. I'd know when I found the right piece, though. Mama had always told me that good art was about knowing what to keep and what to leave behind, and I tried to do that inside myself too.

It was finally time for the long-awaited entombment party. Jo answered the door, a strained look on her face. Stepping into her house, I could see why. The smoke detector was going off and Mrs. Brannigan was running around the living room, waving a giant broom, yelling, “Burnt weenies!” Mr. Brannigan leaned back in a huge brown Barcalounger, a cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes as though he was sleeping, with mummified Max nestled in his lap.

Mrs. Brannigan whacked Mr. Brannigan on his slippered foot, screeching, “The humidifier! Get the humidifier!”

Mr. Brannigan turned up the volume on his baseball game. The fans went wild.

As Grandma and I watched from the doorway, Mrs. Brannigan made a complicated hand gesture that looked like a cross between warding off the evil eye and throwing imaginary salt over her shoulder.

“Maybe we should go to your house,” Jo said.

“Good heavens! Mrs. Jessup! I didn't see you there,” Mrs. Brannigan said. She pawed at a wisp of hair that had fallen from her short ponytail and set the broom against the wall. She whacked Mr. Brannigan again on his foot with the flat of her hand.

Sheriff Bergum came from the kitchen holding a handful of weedy-looking mustard greens. He took off his hat and started to hand it to Grandma, then he snatched his hat back and held out the mustard greens instead.

“That was kind of you, Pete.”

“Let's get those in some water,” Mrs. Brannigan said, and before Grandma could take them, she bustled the flowers right out of Sheriff Bergum's hand. He stood there for a second with his hat still over his heart and his empty bouquet hand out like he didn't know what hit him. He put his hat back on.

I put two fingers up to my eyes and pointed them at him. He laughed.

More guests came. Ginger and Beth were there with a gaggle of Max's friends, including Spencer, the friend he blamed for hiding his red suitcase. Lou and Mel came with a banana cream pie and a pot full of corn chowder to satisfy Max's need for all things yellow. Margery brought something in a bag that made Mrs. Brannigan blush. Archer came with Stubbie. Beth even came prepared with a speech and T-shirts for everyone that said
MUMMIES ROCK!

Mrs. Brannigan shooed us out with her giant broom so we could take in the vitamin D she thought we desperately needed after a long winter. The broom being almost as big as she was. And there on the deck, beside the smoking barbecue, was a roughly carved sarcophagus, something I learned Sheriff Bergum had been working on with Max for weeks. Max scampered over and climbed in. Jo was attaching her camera so she could film the whole thing.

The TV switched off but Mr. Brannigan didn't get out of his big chair. After standing around a bit awkwardly waiting for him, Mrs. Brannigan hurried back inside. Only instead of whacking Mr. Brannigan with her broom, she rested a tender hand on the sleeve of his plaid shirt. He brushed a hand at his eyes as he walked toward us.

Jo stood at the makeshift podium Mrs. Brannigan set up using a stool from their kitchen island. She cleared her throat and said just the right words, which Max had helped her with.

“Here lies Max. Brother, son, and friend. He loved everything yellow because he thought yellow was the happiest color. He did not like comic book superheroes because he thought they were fake. He loved his mother because she gave him raspberry tea when he was sick all night and told him the angels were taking his hair so they could weave golden patches for their wings. He loved his sister because she shaved her head when the angels took his hair, and she folded cranes until her fingers were stiff with paper cuts. He loved his father because he'd fall asleep by his bed under his cowboy hat. Real superheroes wear cowboy hats, in case anyone was wondering how to tell. And last, but not least, he loved Grace because she was brave and being brave is catching. Sort of like chicken pox, only in a good way.”

Throats cleared. Birds chirped in the trees. I pulled out Mr. Flinch's “dramatic flair” handkerchief.

Sheriff Bergum stood up, nearly knocking over the folding chair he'd been sitting in. Grandma helped him right it. “Max Brannigan was a pain in the rear end.”

Everyone laughed. Sheriff Bergum reached in the pocket of his jeans and took out a childish drawing of a sarcophagus. “This was his idea of a good set of plans.” Everyone laughed again.

“May the sarcophagus protect him in the afterlife.”

He sat down, crossing his long legs and pulling on the lid of his black cowboy hat.

Beth Crinkle stood up and read a list:
Top Ten Reasons to Love Max Brannigan.
Ginger quoted Shakespeare.

Mrs. Brannigan read a letter she'd written to Max one night in the hospital. He'd gotten an infection after his first round of chemo and they thought he might not make it. The letter talked about how lucky she was to be his mother and that she was so glad to have known him. That he'd changed her life forever. Mr. Brannigan didn't say a word, couldn't maybe, and instead set his cowboy hat on top of Max, who was lying still, eyes closed, hands clasped to his chest.

There were a lot of cowboy hats in this place.

Stubbie stood up and pushed a button on a CD player. I wondered if he was going to try and do a stand-up routine, but instead, I heard the chords leading to “Amazing Grace.” He sang in a clear and beautiful voice, which made me feel two parts awe and one part giggly. I had to bite my lips to keep the giggly part from happening.

As he sang, everyone took turns laying something precious in Max's tomb. I put one of Mama's spoons so that he'd always be able to eat good soup. Archer laid a folded napkin on his chest and I wondered what Ladle Boy was up to. Lou placed in a recipe card for corn chowder, and Mel put in his famous wooden ladle. I'd helped Grandma make a lemon cake, and she set the box down into the sarcophagus. When Stubbie was finished, he laid a small fishing pole next to the ladle.

In the end, Mr. Brannigan sealed him up.

The smell of the barbecue must have gotten to Max, though, because he insisted, from inside the sarcophagus, that we forgot the most important part. How was he supposed to go to the afterlife without a good meal?

So not only did Max assure himself of a wonderful afterlife, but I got some proof of magic. I went around asking who might have left that little origami crane in the bushes on my first day of school. Archer? Jo? Grandma?

But no one knew.

As Lou ladled corn chowder into plastic King Tut bowls, I thought maybe heaven wasn't only in the great big sky with comfy furniture and fireplaces. I figured it lived in small places too, like a bowl of good soup or the folds of an origami crane.

• • •

With the ceremony over, and Max prepared for the afterlife, Jo and I decided to check on Daisy.

I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked into the barn. The horses were all restless in their stalls, snorting and stomping.

We found Daisy lying on her side, breathing fast, covered in sweat. I put a hand on her belly. “What's wrong with her?”

But Jo was already gone, yelling across the field for her dad to hurry.

Mr. Brannigan ran in first, Mrs. Brannigan on his heels. He checked Daisy's eyes and pressed on her gums. He laid a hand and then his ear to her belly. He tried to stand her up, but she wasn't having any of it. Mrs. Brannigan led a resistant Beauty to the stall next door.

Frantic, I said again, “What's wrong?”

“I believe it's colic,” Mr. Brannigan said.

“What's colic?” I said, panic rising. Mrs. Brannigan came over and stroked Daisy's head. Daisy moaned a little under her touch.

“Colic is when the intestines get into a bit of a twist,” she said.

“How serious is that?”

“Let's wait until the vet comes. There's no use in getting alarmed right now,” Mrs. Brannigan said.

Mr. Brannigan tried to get Daisy standing by soothing and whispering. He touched and coaxed while Beauty whinnied next door. Daisy rolled on her back, onto her other side, and eased up. She stood on wobbly legs, like she did the day she was born.

I held back, afraid to move. Mrs. Brannigan touched my shoulder. “Walk her around. That'll help.”

Daisy nodded her head up and down, up and down, as if in agreement.

I walked over to Daisy and whispered soothing words. “You can do it. You are brave and you are loved.”

Jo came up beside me and took my hand. She led me out into the pasture, where Daisy nipped at her flanks and wanted to walk in tight circles. She tried to lie down again, but we didn't let her.

After what felt like an eternity, a white truck came barreling down the driveway, and Dr. Wilson ran across the field. He had round glasses and a tightly trimmed mustache and beard. He called us back into the barn, where he took Daisy's vitals and gave her a quick shot. He reached into his bag and pulled out a long hose. His hands looked soft and sure.

“Thatta girl,” he said.

Mr. Brannigan kneeled down and held Daisy's head as Dr. Wilson slid the hose into her nostril, slow and gentle. He kept feeding it down until I was sure it would come out her backside. Then he took a large container of liquid and poured it into the hose. She didn't much care for that. Beauty was still agitated in the stall next door, snorting and nodding her head.

“This is mineral oil. We need to get it into Daisy's stomach to help her break things up,” he said to me.

“Is she going to be okay?” I said.

Dr. Wilson didn't answer. He looked at Mr. Brannigan, who had stood up, hands shoved in his front jeans pockets.

“It's serious, Grace,” Mr. Brannigan said.

Once the oil was down, Dr. Wilson took to rubbing her stomach. “Do this every half hour or so. In between rubbings, keep her walking. Can you two do that for me?”

Jo and I nodded.

“We'll all help,” Grandma said, and I had to take a deep breath to keep from falling down.

Jo and I took Daisy out into the pasture and walked with her. The afternoon wore on to night. Everyone tried to take over for us, but Jo and I wouldn't let her go, so they took turns walking alongside. Beth and Ginger, the Brannigans, Margery, Archer and Stubbie, Lou and Mel. Grandma brought us more hot dogs around dinnertime, which we couldn't eat. At some point, Mr. Brannigan came out with lanterns and set them on the outside of the barn and hung one in the tree in the pasture. It was enough to keep us from stumbling. He lit a fire in the fire pit, where everyone took turns keeping warm. Lou wrapped us each in a soft blanket.

Archer and Stubbie walked with us, their heads down, hands shoved in pockets. I was glad for the company.

As we walked Daisy around in circles, wondering if she'd make it, I thought about Mama's last night. Where Mrs. Greene lived in Hood really wasn't much more than a couple shakes of houses with a sprinkling of dust and a big dollop of flat asphalt connecting one thing to another. Like the yellow brick road, only it wasn't yellow or brick, and it didn't lead anywhere special. A dusty town full of small animals that were always getting themselves smashed to a pulp along the asphalt road.

So I decided we needed a dog. What with so many of them dead along the side of the road or wandering around the dusty fields without collars, grungy and electrified with hunger. Mostly to save it from whatever fate was sure to come down the freeway. And only a little bit to save myself.

Mama was firm on the no-pets rule. We went round and round over it. A pet would make it harder for us to move. A pet would be one more mouth to feed. A pet needed a home it could count on.

“What about me? Maybe I need a home I can count on!”

With that, I'd slammed out the door and stomped down the asphalt road. Mama followed, keeping her distance. And because I couldn't stay mad for long, I slowed down. Eventually, her warm hand took mine.

“I'm sorry, Grace,” she'd said. “But we're leaving and we can't take a dog.”

I didn't say anything right away. Mostly out of my own shock that I'd finally said something out loud about not wanting to go. Something I'd been carrying around in a secret pocket of my heart for as long as I could remember. Maybe secret pockets were only good for so long, though, and eventually the secret had to make its way out or rot there like fish in a bucket.

“I'm not going anywhere, Mama,” I said, and took my hand from hers.

Mama looked so sad. Like I'd broken her heart right there on the asphalt road. Broken it into a million pieces. I almost took it back. But I didn't.

It was dusk, the sun going down pink and gray. “Mrs. Greene has dinner on the table,” she said. And so we went back, side by side, and ate dinner.

Later, when she wanted to climb into bed with me to read Robert Frost, I told her I was tired and turned my back. So she went for a walk instead.

I looked up into the night sky, the stars twinkling bright, Jo walking beside me. It wasn't my fault I wanted to stay in one place. It wasn't my fault we'd fought about it that last night and that she'd gone for a walk.