broke into a jog again. But a fresh stab of guilt made me turn back. I couldn’t run right by without at least checking on Dad’s stone.
At first I couldn’t find it. Lots more names had filled in during the last few years. I could hear myself huffing for breath as I searched the rows of compartments. Where was he? It wasn’t until I swallowed and forced myself to start back at the edge of the wall that I remembered—third row from the top, halfway across. Then I found him right away. “Lincoln Raintree Crenshaw,” I whispered as I stood gazing at the stone. I was tall enough now to reach up and touch it if I wanted.
I squeezed my eyes shut trying to recall the exact sound of my father’s voice, but it kept drifting in and out like a bad phone connection. Instead, all I could hear was Dad’s ElmerFudd impression in my head. He used to be good at all kinds of voices—Pepé Le Pew, the Three Stooges, Muhammad Ali. But his Elmer Fudd was the best. Dad would chase me around the house before bedtime—my least favorite time of the day—calling, “Come back, you wascally wabbit! Wockabye babe-eeee, in the tweeeeee-tops!”
I shook my head, smiling to myself as I stood there remembering, and for one crazy second it occurred to me:
Here’s the grave I should adopt
. Other than scraps of memories from when I was little, I barely knew anything about my father.
I was still standing there when I heard the whimper. I must have jumped a foot. “C.B.!” I cried, and whirled around in relief. Then I stopped. It was the dogs, all right. But a man with a crew cut and a jaggedy face stood behind them, hauling back on lengths of rope that he had tied onto their collars. He wore a short-sleeved work shirt buttoned up tight around his skinny neck.
The warden. I had no idea how he had managed to come so close without me noticing sooner. “You missing something?” he asked. His voice was cold and quiet.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Those are my dogs. I’ve been looking for them.”
I could hear C.B.’s toenails scratch against the stone paving as he tried to scrabble closer to greet me. I reached my hand out to take the dogs, but the warden didn’t budge. I dropped my arm to my side.
“Sure didn’t appear as though you were looking too hard just now,” he said. His eyes were glittery, and he had apeculiar way of chewing on his words, like there was grit between his teeth. He looked me up and down. “Didn’t you read that big sign out front that says NO DOGS ALLOWED ?”
“No, sir,” I fibbed. “I didn’t.” I let my gaze flick down to the writing sewn across his breast pocket: R. KILGORE—OAKLAND CEMETERY . Where was Jeeter? I stole a look past Kilgore’s shoulder, hoping I would see him come loping around the corner to rescue me at any second.
“You must think this is some kind of a park where you get to run your dogs and play fetch.”
I shook my head. “No, sir. I just—”
The dogs had worked themselves into a frenzy by now. I could see the whites of their scared eyes as they strained toward me, whining louder. “Listen, Mr. Kilgore. I’m really sorry. I won’t ever bring my dogs in here again. So … do you think I could just take them now and … leave?”
He glanced down at the embroidered writing above his pocket, and his lips curled up in a slow smile. “So you
can
read after all.”
I blinked back a little shock of surprise. I was used to fending off sarcastic comments from kids, but no adult had ever talked to me that way. What was it Jeeter had called him? Ornery as a snake on a stick? He wasn’t kidding.
“Here,” Kilgore finally said. “Take ’em.” I held my breath and stepped forward to grab the ropes. C.B. and Spunky were all over me in a second, a blur of paws and tongues and tails. Kilgore crossed his arms over his chest and watched without a word while I struggled to untangle myself and herd the dogs toward home. But he wasn’t done with me yet. We had madeit only a
At first I couldn’t find it. Lots more names had filled in during the last few years. I could hear myself huffing for breath as I searched the rows of compartments. Where was he? It wasn’t until I swallowed and forced myself to start back at the edge of the wall that I remembered—third row from the top, halfway across. Then I found him right away. “Lincoln Raintree Crenshaw,” I whispered as I stood gazing at the stone. I was tall enough now to reach up and touch it if I wanted.
I squeezed my eyes shut trying to recall the exact sound of my father’s voice, but it kept drifting in and out like a bad phone connection. Instead, all I could hear was Dad’s ElmerFudd impression in my head. He used to be good at all kinds of voices—Pepé Le Pew, the Three Stooges, Muhammad Ali. But his Elmer Fudd was the best. Dad would chase me around the house before bedtime—my least favorite time of the day—calling, “Come back, you wascally wabbit! Wockabye babe-eeee, in the tweeeeee-tops!”
I shook my head, smiling to myself as I stood there remembering, and for one crazy second it occurred to me:
Here’s the grave I should adopt
. Other than scraps of memories from when I was little, I barely knew anything about my father.
I was still standing there when I heard the whimper. I must have jumped a foot. “C.B.!” I cried, and whirled around in relief. Then I stopped. It was the dogs, all right. But a man with a crew cut and a jaggedy face stood behind them, hauling back on lengths of rope that he had tied onto their collars. He wore a short-sleeved work shirt buttoned up tight around his skinny neck.
The warden. I had no idea how he had managed to come so close without me noticing sooner. “You missing something?” he asked. His voice was cold and quiet.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Those are my dogs. I’ve been looking for them.”
I could hear C.B.’s toenails scratch against the stone paving as he tried to scrabble closer to greet me. I reached my hand out to take the dogs, but the warden didn’t budge. I dropped my arm to my side.
“Sure didn’t appear as though you were looking too hard just now,” he said. His eyes were glittery, and he had apeculiar way of chewing on his words, like there was grit between his teeth. He looked me up and down. “Didn’t you read that big sign out front that says NO DOGS ALLOWED ?”
“No, sir,” I fibbed. “I didn’t.” I let my gaze flick down to the writing sewn across his breast pocket: R. KILGORE—OAKLAND CEMETERY . Where was Jeeter? I stole a look past Kilgore’s shoulder, hoping I would see him come loping around the corner to rescue me at any second.
“You must think this is some kind of a park where you get to run your dogs and play fetch.”
I shook my head. “No, sir. I just—”
The dogs had worked themselves into a frenzy by now. I could see the whites of their scared eyes as they strained toward me, whining louder. “Listen, Mr. Kilgore. I’m really sorry. I won’t ever bring my dogs in here again. So … do you think I could just take them now and … leave?”
He glanced down at the embroidered writing above his pocket, and his lips curled up in a slow smile. “So you
can
read after all.”
I blinked back a little shock of surprise. I was used to fending off sarcastic comments from kids, but no adult had ever talked to me that way. What was it Jeeter had called him? Ornery as a snake on a stick? He wasn’t kidding.
“Here,” Kilgore finally said. “Take ’em.” I held my breath and stepped forward to grab the ropes. C.B. and Spunky were all over me in a second, a blur of paws and tongues and tails. Kilgore crossed his arms over his chest and watched without a word while I struggled to untangle myself and herd the dogs toward home. But he wasn’t done with me yet. We had madeit only a
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