Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech
“I’m right? Bravo?”
Ben said, “Huh? Two people?” I was thinking the same thing myself. What two people?
Mr. Birkway said to Ben, “And you were right too. Bravo!” He asked everyone else, “How many see a vase?” About half the class raised their hands. “And how many see two faces?” The rest of the class raised their hands.
Then Mr. Birkway pointed out how you could see both. If you looked only at the white part in the center, you could clearly see the vase. If you looked only at the dark parts on the side, you could see two profiles. The curvy sides of the vase became the outline of the two heads facing each other.
Mr. Birkway said that the drawing was a bit like symbols. Maybe the artist only intended to draw a vase, and maybe some people look at this picture and see only that vase. That is fine, but if some people look at it and see faces, what is wrong with that? It is faces to that person who is looking at it. And, what is even more magnificent, you might see both.
Beth Ann said, “Two for your money?”
“Isn’t it interesting,” Mr. Birkway said, “to find both? Isn’t it interesting to discover that snowy woods could be death and beauty and even, I suppose, sex? Wow! Literature!”
“Did he say sex?” Ben said, copying the drawing.
I thought Mr. Birkway was finished with the journals for that day, but he made a great show of closing his eyes and pulling something from near the bottom of the stack.
She popped the blackberries into her mouth. Then she looked all around—
It was mine. I could hardly bear it.
She took two steps up to the maple tree and threw her arms around it, and kissed it.
People were giggling.
…I thought I could detect a small dark stain, as from a blackberry kiss.
Ben looked at me from across the room. After Mr. Birkway read about my mother’s blackberry kiss, he read about how I kissed the tree and how I have kissed all different kinds of trees since then and how each tree has a special taste all its own, and mixed in with that taste is the taste of blackberries.
By now, because both Ben and Phoebe were staring at me, everyone else stared too. “She kisses trees?” Megan said. I might have died right then and there, if Mr. Birkway had not immediately picked up another journal. He stabbed his finger into the middle of the page and read:
I am very concerned about Mrs.—
Mr. Birkway stared down at the page. It looked as if he couldn’t read the handwriting. He started again.
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.
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
Gramps yawned. “Sorry, gooseberry.” He patted the bed and said it.
34
OLD FAITHFUL
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?”
The crowd became quiet a few minutes before Old Faithful was due to go off. Everyone stared at the hole. Everyone was listening.
“Is it time?” Gram said.
There was a faint noise and a little spit shot out of the hole. The man next to me said, “Aww, is that all—” Another noise, this time a little louder, a grating and crunching sound like walking on gravel. Two fitful spits. “Aww—” the man said.
Then it was like the radiator boiling over or the tea kettle blowing its top. Old Faithful hissed and steamed. A sudden spout of water shot out, maybe three feet high.
“Aww—” the man said. “Is that all—”
More steam, boiling and hissing, and a huge jing-bang spray of water surged out, climbing and climbing, and then more and more, until it looked like a whole river of water was shooting straight up into the air. “It looks like an upsidey-down waterfall!” Gram said. All the while there was a walloping hissing, and I could have sworn the ground rumbled and trembled underneath us. The warm mist blew toward us and people started backing away.
All except Gram. She stood there grinning, tilting her face up to the mist, and staring at that fountain of water. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, huzza, huzza!” She shouted it into the air and noise.
Gramps wasn’t watching Old Faithful. He was watching Gram. He put his arms around her and hugged her. “You like this old geyser, don’t you?” he said.
“Oh!” Gram said. “Oh yes, I do.”
The man next to me was staring open-mouthed at Old Faithful. “Lordy,” he said. “Lordy, that’s amazing.”
Gradually, Old Faithful slowed down. We watched it undo itself and retreat into its hole. We stood there even after everyone else had drifted away. At last Gram sighed and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
We were inside the car and about to leave when Gram started to cry. “Gol-dang—” Gramps said. “What’s the matter?”
Gram sniffled. “Oh nothing. I’m so happy I got to see Old Faithful.”
“You old gooseberry,” Gramps said, and on we went. “We’re gonna eat up Montana,” Gramps said. “We’re gonna get to the I-dee-ho border tonight. You watch me. I’m putting this pedal to the metal—” He stepped on the gas and peeled out of the parking lot. “I-dee-ho, here we come.”
35
THE PLAN
All day long we ate up the road through Montana. It hadn’t looked so far on the map, but it was all mountains. We started in the foothills of the Rockies as we left Yellowstone, and all day we climbed up and down. Sometimes the road snaked along the side of a cliff, and the only thing between us and the sharp drop was a piddly railing. Often, as we sailed around a bend, we came face to face with a camping trailer swinging its wide body around the curve.
“These roads are a dinger,” Gramps said, but he was like a little kid riding a hobby horse. “Gid-yap, let’s get a move on,” he said, encouraging the car up a hill. “Hee-ya,” he said as we swept down the other side.
I felt as if I was torn in two pieces. Half of me was ogling the scenery. I had to admit that it was as pretty as—maybe even prettier than—Bybanks. Trees and rocks and mountains. Rivers and flowers. Deer and moose and rabbits. It was an amazing country, an enormous country.
But the other half of me was a quivering pile of jelly. I could see our car bursting through the railing and plunging down the cliff. As we approached each curve, I could see us smashing straight on into a truck or a camper. Every time I saw a bus, I watched it sway. I watched its tires spin dangerously close to the gravel at the road’s edge. I watched it plunge on, eating up the road, defying those curves.
Gram sat quietly, with her hands folded on her lap. I thought she might sleep, especially after staying awake all night, but she didn’t. She wanted to hear about Peeby. So all day long, as I took in the scenery, and as I imagined us in a thousand accidents, and as I prayed underneath it all to any tree whizzing by, I talked about Peeby. I wanted to tell it all today. I wanted to finish it.
On the day after Mr. Birkway appeared at Phoebe’s house and told us about Mr. Cadaver, Phoebe and I put our plan in motion. We were going to track down Sergeant Bickle’s son and, according to Phoebe, discover the whereabouts of Phoebe’s mother. I wasn’t positive that Sergeant Bickle’s son was a lunatic, and I wasn’t convinced he would lead us to Phoebe’s mother, but enough of Phoebe’s tales had been transplanted into my brain so that I was caught up in the plan. Like Phoebe, I was ready to take some action.
We could hardly sit still all day at school. Phoebe, especially, was fired up. She was worried, too. She was afraid we might not discover her mother alive, and I was beginning to share that fear.
At school, everyone was still buzzing about the journal readings. Everyone wanted to know who had written about the murder. Alex avoided Mary Lou because of what she had said about his being a pink jerk, and Mary Lou avoided Beth Ann because of what Beth Ann had written about the chicken kisses. Megan and Christy taunted Beth Ann with, “Did you really tell Mary Lou that kisses taste like chicken? Did she really believe you?” and they taunted me with, “Do you really kiss trees? Didn’t you know you’re supposed to kiss boys?”
In English class, everyone badgered Mr. Birkway to finish reading the journal entry that he had begun yesterday, the one about Mrs. Corpse and the body, but Mr. Birkway did not read any more journals. Instead, he apologized for hurting people’s feelings by reading their private thoughts aloud, and he sent us to the library.
There, Ben trailed me. If I looked at the fiction section, he was right beside me. If I moved over to examine the magazines, there he was flipping through one as well. Once, his face made contact with my shoulder. He was definitely trying to plant a kiss on me, I knew he was, but there was nothing I could do about it. I could not help i
I tried remaining completely still for several consecutive minutes, and during those minutes, I detected Ben leaning slightly toward me several times. Each time, however, he drew back, as if someone were controlling him by an invisible thread.
Across the library, Beth Ann called, “Sal, there’s a spider—oh, Sal, kill it!”
When the final bell rang, Phoebe and I were out of school like a shot. At Phoebe’s house, we examined the telephone directory. “We’ve got to hurry,” Phoebe said, “before Prudence or my father comes home.” There were six Bickles listed in the directory. We took turns calling. Each time, we asked for Sergeant Bickle. The first two people said we must have the wrong number. The third number we dialed was busy. The fourth, no answer. The fifth was answered by a crotchety woman who said, “I don’t know any sergeants!”
The sixth number was answered by an elderly man who must have been lonely because he talked on and on about once knowing a Sergeant Freeman in the war, but that was back in 1944, and he also knew a Sergeant Bones and a Sergeant Dowdy, but he did not know a Sergeant Bickle.
“What are we going to do?” Phoebe wailed. “Prudence will be home any minute, and we still don’t know which is the right Bickle.”
The busy number was still busy. The previously unanswered one rang and rang, and just as Phoebe was about to hang up, she heard a voice. “Hello?” she said. “May I speak with Sergeant Bickle, please?” There was a pause as she listened. “He’s still at work?” Phoebe was jumping up and down. “Thank you,” she said, trying to make her voice serious. “I’ll call later. No, no message. Thank you.”
“Yes!” she said when she hung up. “Yes, yes, yes!” She was hugging me half to death. “You’ll have to do Phase Two. Tonight.”