Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

I am very concerned about Mrs., uh, Mrs. Corpse. Her suspicious behavior suggests that she has murdered her own husband—

Phoebe’s eyes blinked rapidly.

“Go on,” Ben said. “Finish!”

You could tell that Mr. Birkway was regretting that he had ever started this business with the journals, but all around the room people were shouting, “Yes, finish!” and so he reluctantly continued.

I believe she has buried him in her backyard.

When the bell rang, people went berserk. “Wow! A murder! Who wrote that?” and “Is it real?”

I was out of that room faster than anything, chasing after Phoebe. Megan called out after me, “You kiss trees ?” I tore out of the building. No Phoebe.

Idiot journals, I thought. Gol-darn idiot journals.

Gram and Gramps were both still awake in our Frontier Cabin on the edge of Yellowstone National Park. “Aren’t you sleepy yet?” I said.

Gram said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I don’t feel like going to sleep at all. I want to know what happened to Peeby.”

“I’ll tell you about Mr. Birkway’s visit. Then I’ll stop for tonight.”

I went over to Phoebe’s after dinner on the day Mr. Birkway had read from my journal about the blackberry kisses and from Phoebe’s about Mrs. Cadaver. In Phoebe’s bedroom, I said, “I’ve got two important things to tell you—” The doorbell rang, and we heard a familiar voice.

“That sounds like Mr. Birkway,” Phoebe said.

“That’s one of the things I want to tell you,” I said. “About Mr. Birkway—”

There was a tap on Phoebe’s door. Her father said, “Phoebe? Could you and Sal come downstairs with me?”

I thought Mr. Birkway was going to be mad at Phoebe for what she had written about his sister. The worst thing was that Phoebe didn’t even know yet that Mrs. Cadaver was Mr. Birkway’s sister. I felt like we were lambs being led to the slaughter. Take us, I thought. Take us and do away with us quickly. We followed Phoebe’s father downstairs. There on the sofa was Mr. Birkway, holding Phoebe’s journal and looking embarrassed.

“That is my own private journal,” Phoebe said. “With my own private thoughts.”

“I know,” Mr. Birkway said, “and I want to apologize for reading it aloud.”

Apologize? That was a relief. It was so quiet in the room that I could hear the leaves being blown off the trees outside.

Mr. Birkway coughed. “I want to explain something,” he said. “Mrs. Cadaver is my sister.”

“Your sister?” Phoebe said.

“And her husband is dead.”

“I thought so,” Phoebe said.

“But she didn’t murder him,” Mr. Birkway said. “Her husband died when a drunk driver rammed into his car. My mother—Mrs. Partridge—was also in the car with Mr. Cadaver. She didn’t die, as you know, but she lost her sight.”

“Oh—” I said. Phoebe stared at the floor.

“My sister Margaret was the nurse on duty in the emergency room when they brought in her husband and our mother. Margaret’s husband died that night.”

The whole time Mr. Birkway was talking, Phoebe’s father was sitting beside her with his hand resting on her shoulder. It looked like the only thing that was keeping Phoebe from vaporizing into the air and disappearing was his hand resting there.

“I just wanted you to know,” Mr. Birkway said, “that Mr. Cadaver is not buried in her backyard. I’ve also just learned about your mother, Phoebe, and I’m sorry that she’s gone, but I assure you that Margaret would not have kidnapped or murdered her.”

After Mr. Birkway left, Phoebe and I sat on the front porch. Phoebe said, “If Mrs. Cadaver didn’t kidnap or murder my mother, then where is she? What can I do? Where should I look?”

“Phoebe,” I said. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Look, Sal, if you’re going to tell me she’s not coming back, I don’t want to hear it. You might as well go home now.”

“I know who the lunatic is. It’s Sergeant Bickle’s son.”

And so we devised a plan.

At home that night, all I could think about was Mrs. Cadaver. I could see her in her white uniform, working in the emergency room. I could see an ambulance pulling up with its blue lights flashing, and her walking briskly to the swinging doors, with her wild hair all around her face. I could see the stretchers being wheeled in, and I could see Mrs. Cadaver looking down at them.

I could feel her heart thumping like mad as she realized it was her own husband and her own mother lying there. I imagined Mrs. Cadaver touching her husband’s face. It was as if I was walking in her moccasins, that’s how much my own heart was pumping and my own hands were sweating.

I started wondering if the birds of sadness had built their nest in Mrs. Cadaver’s hair afterward, and if so, how she got rid of them. Her husband dying and her mother being blinded were events that would matter in the course of a lifetime. I saw everyone else going on with their own agendas while Mrs. Cadaver was frantically trying to keep her husband and her mother alive. Did she regret anything? Did she know the worth of water before the well was dry?

All those messages had invaded my brain and affected the way I looked at things.

“Are you sleepy yet, Gram?” I asked. My voice was hoarse from talking so much.

“No, chickabiddy, but you go on to sleep. I’m just going to lie here a while and think about things.” She nudged Gramps. “You forgot to say about the marriage bed.”

Gramps yawned. “Sorry, gooseberry.” He patted the bed and said it.

That next day was probably one of the best, and surely the worst, in Gram’s and Gramps’s lives. The whispers woke me early. It was the sixth day, and the next day was my mother’s birthday. We had to get out of Wyoming and through Montana. Gramps was already up, but Gram was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Did you ever go to sleep?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t feel like sleeping. I can sleep later.” She climbed out of bed. “Let’s go see that Old Faithful. I’ve waited my whole entire life to see Old Faithful.”

“You’ve sure got your heart set on that, don’t you, you stubborn gooseberry?” said Gramps.

“I sure do,” Gram said.

We parked the car and walked up a low hill. I was afraid Gram was going to be disappointed because it didn’t look like much at first. There was a rope fence around a mound on the side of the hill. The ground was scrabbly dirt, and in the center of the rope enclosure, about twenty feet away, was a hole.

“Heck,” Gram said, “can’t we get any closer than this?”

Gramps and I walked over to read a sign about Old Faithful. A park ranger rushed past us yelling, “Ma’am! Ma’am!”

“Gol-dang,” Gramps said.

Gram was crawling under the rope. The ranger stopped her. “Ma’am, there’s a reason for that rope,” he said.

Gram brushed off her dress. “I just wanted a better look.”

“Don’t worry,” the ranger said. “You’ll get a good look. Please stay behind the rope.”

The sign said that Old Faithful was due to erupt in fifteen minutes. More and more people gathered around the rope. There were people of all ages: little babies crying, grannies sitting on folding stools, teenagers plugged into radio headsets, couples smooching. There were people speaking languages other than English: next to us was a tour group of Italians; across the way was a group of Germans.

Gram tapped her fingers together, getting more and more excited. “Is it time?” she kept saying. “Is it almost time?”