Walk Two Moons

33 THE VISITOR

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.