Walk Two Moons

29 THE TIDE RISES

“Did Peeby’s mother call?” Gram said. “Did she come home? Did Peeby phone the police? Oh, I hope this isn’t a sad story.”

Phoebe did go to the police. It was on the day that Mr. Birkway read us the poem about the tide and the traveler—a poem that upset both me and Phoebe, and I think it is what convinced her, finally, that she had to tell the police about her mother.

Mr. Birkway read a poem by Longfellow: “The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.” The way Mr. Birkway read this poem, you could hear the tide rising and falling, rising and falling. In the poem, a traveler is hurrying toward a town, and it is getting darker and darker, and the sea calls to the traveler. Then the waves “with their soft, white hands” wash out the traveler’s footprints. The next morning,

Mr. Birkway asked for reactions to this poem. Megan said that it sounded soft and gentle, and it almost made her go to sleep.

“Gentle?” I said. “It’s terrifying.” My voice was shaking. “Someone is walking along the beach, and the night is getting black, and the person keeps looking behind him to see if someone is following, and a jing-bang wave comes up and pulls him into the sea.”

“A murder,” Phoebe said.

I went barreling on as if it was my poem and I was an expert. “The waves, with their ‘soft, white hands’ grab the traveler. They drown him. They kill him. He’s gone.”

Ben said, “Maybe he didn’t drown. Maybe he just died, like normal people die.”

Phoebe said, “He drowned.”

I said, “It isn’t normal to die. It isn’t normal. It’s terrible.”

Megan said, “What about heaven? What about God?”

Mary Lou said, “God? Is He in this poem?”

Ben said, “Maybe dying could be normal and terrible.”

When the bell rang, I raced out of the room. Phoebe grabbed me. “Come on,” she said. From her locker, she took the evidence she had brought from home, and we both ran the six blocks to the police station. I am not exactly sure why I went along with Phoebe. Maybe it was because of that poem about the traveler, or maybe it was because I had begun to believe in the lunatic, or maybe it was because Phoebe was taking some action, and I admired her for it. I wished I had taken some action when my mother left. I was not sure what I could have done, but I wished I had done something.

Phoebe and I stood for five minutes outside the police station, trying to make our hearts slow down, and then we went inside and stood at the counter. On the other side of it, a thin man with big ears was writing in a black book.

“Excuse me,” Phoebe said.

“I’ll be right with you,” he said.

“This is absolutely urgent. I need to speak to someone about a murder,” Phoebe said.

He looked up quickly. “A murder?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “Or possibly a kidnapping. But the kidnapping might turn into a murder.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it is not a joke,” Phoebe said.

“Just a minute.” He whispered to a plump woman in a dark blue uniform. She wore glasses with thick lenses. “Is this something you girls have read about in a book?” she asked.

“No, it is not,” I said. That was a turning point, I think, when I came to Phoebe’s defense. I didn’t like the way the woman was looking at us—as if we were two fools. I wanted that woman to understand why Phoebe was so upset. I wanted her to believe Phoebe.

“May I ask who it is who has been kidnapped or possibly murdered?” the woman said.

Phoebe said, “My mother.”

“Oh, your mother. Come along, then.” Her voice was sugary and sweet, as if she was speaking to tiny children. We followed her to a room with glass partitions. An enormous man with a huge head and neck, and massive shoulders, sat behind the desk. His hair was bright red, and his face was covered in freckles. He did not smile when we entered. After the woman repeated what we had told her, he stared at us for a long time.

His name was Sergeant Bickle, and Phoebe told him everything. She explained about her mother disappearing, and the note from Mrs. Cadaver, and Mrs. Cadaver’s missing husband, and the rhododendron, and finally about the lunatic and the mysterious messages. At this point, Sergeant Bickle said, “What sort of messages?”

Phoebe was prepared. She pulled them out of her book bag and laid them on the desk in the order in which they had arrived. He read each one aloud.

Sergeant Bickle looked up at the woman seated next to us, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. To Phoebe, he said, “And how do you think these are related to your mother’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

Sergeant Bickle asked Phoebe to spell Mrs. Cadaver’s name. “It means corpse,” Phoebe said. “Dead body.”

“I know. Is there anything else?”

Phoebe pulled out the envelope with the unidentifiable hair strands. “Perhaps you could have these analyzed,” she suggested.

Sergeant Bickle looked at the woman, and again the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. The woman removed her glasses and wiped the lenses.

They were not taking us seriously, and I felt my ornery donkey self waking up. I mentioned the potential blood spots that Phoebe had marked with adhesive tape.

“But my father removed the tape,” Phoebe said.

Sergeant Bickle said, “I wonder if you would excuse me a few minutes?” He asked the woman to stay with us, and he left the room.

The woman asked Phoebe about school and about her family. She had an awful lot of questions. I kept wondering where Sergeant Bickle had gone and when he was coming back. He was gone for over an hour. There were three framed pictures on Sergeant Bickle’s desk, and I tried to lean forward to see them, but I couldn’t. I was afraid the woman would think I was nosy.

Sergeant Bickle finally returned. Behind him was Phoebe’s father. Phoebe looked extensively relieved, but I knew it was not a coincidence that her father was there.

“Miss Winterbottom,” Sergeant Bickle said, “your father is going to take you and your friend home now.”

“But—” Phoebe said.

“Mr. Winterbottom, we’ll be in touch. And if you would like me to speak with Mrs. Cadaver—”

“Oh no,” Mr. Winterbottom said. He looked embarrassed. “Really, that won’t be necessary. I do apologize—”

We followed Mr. Winterbottom outside. In the car, he said nothing. I thought he might drop me off at my house, but he didn’t. When we got to their house, the only thing he said was, “Phoebe, I’m going to go talk with Mrs. Cadaver. You and Sal wait here.”

Mrs. Cadaver was unable to give him any more information about Phoebe’s mother’s call. All Mrs. Winterbottom had said was that she would phone soon.

“That’s all?” Phoebe asked.

“Your mother also asked Mrs. Cadaver how you and Prudence were. Mrs. Cadaver told her that you and Prudence were fine.”

“Well, I am not fine,” Phoebe said, “and what does Mrs. Cadaver know anyway, and besides, Mrs. Cadaver is making the whole thing up. You should let the police talk to her. You should ask her about the rhododendron. You should find out who this lunatic is. Mrs. Cadaver probably hired him. You should—”

“Phoebe, your imagination is running away with you.”

“It is not. Mom loves me, and she would not leave me without any explanation.”

And then her father began to cry.