cistern.”
“Mr. Dietz is a public servant. He can’t deny me based on frivolous logic.”
“Mr. Dietz is a public tyrant. He’ll make your life so miserable, you’ll wish you were the one buried in the cistern.”
I stopped breathing. Did Lloyd think there was someone under the concrete in my basement?
He shifted his feet. “I don’t mean to say there’s a body in your cistern. I was just giving you fair warning. Don’t go after the permit. Box in the cistern and forget about it. Let it lie.”
My skin crept with déjà vu.
Let it lie. I’d heard those words before; three simple words that always rousted the rebel in me.
The cistern didn’t have a chance.
9
Good old Lloyd stomped off without pounding one nail.
Get the permit and remove the cistern or wall the thing in were the only two options the man would entertain. My idea to sneak the big rocks out disguised as trash only served to hasten my star contractor’s departure. Apparently, Martin Dietz gave no quarter to code violators, and Lloyd wasn’t about to suffer the tyrant’s wrath.
Moratorium declared, I slunk off to start work on the back staircase. I peeled, primed, and papered until the narrow passage looked like it belonged in the twenty-first century. Then I pried and pounded until the steps were squeak-free.
By the time the big fall holiday arrived a few days later, I had worked off my frustration over the uncooperative Lloyd and was ready to enjoy the occasion.
I was just tucking the final section of my costume masterpiece into place when the doorbell rang and the first little voices of the night wafted into the kitchen.
“Trick or treat!”
I dumped pencils and stickers into a bowl and headed to the front door to let the rascals help themselves. I smiled on the way through the dining room. I’d survived my first weeks in the new neighborhood.
But though my gray matter was intact, my house still looked as if it were a creepy old asylum. Even if things weren’t moving as quickly as I hoped, I nevertheless felt satisfied when I reviewed my progress.
I glanced around the vestibule before opening the door. Utterly perfect. I’d painted the walls a creamy off-white and rubbed the natural oak woodwork until it shone. An ornate Victorian three-bulb fixture gave off a welcoming light.
I pulled open the door and stifled a giggle. A waist-high pirate pointed a plastic sword in my direction. Next to him, a dainty princess held up her sack in expectation.
“What are you supposed to be? A mummy?” the pirate asked.
“I’m Lazarus,” I answered. I secured a stray white strip wrapped around my head.
“Who’s Lazarus?”
“He’s a guy from the Bible. Jesus raised him from the dead. Lazarus, come forth!” I said, lurching sideways in my best imitation of the newly risen friend of Christ.
Three summers of Vacation Bible School when I was a kid were the entirety of my religious training. I’d gleaned enough to know there was a God. And I couldn’t have survived to adulthood if I hadn’t held on to the hope that Jesus really existed. Sadly, a few years in the church I attended as a teen with my grandmother were enough to sour my attitude toward organized religion and keep me from wanting to know more. Now at least I browsed the Bible, even if I didn’t always understand it.
Across from me, the chaperone forced a smile. “Kids, pick out a treat. We have a lot more houses to go.”
I smiled back through the wadding that covered my face. The pirate rested on his sword. “There’s no candy in here and stickers are for babies.”
“Jason!” The mother swatted at him. “Mind your manners.”
“How about a pencil?” I asked, almost wishing I’d conformed to the tooth-rotting Halloween tradition. “Here’s one with 3-D lettering.”
I handed the little thug his prize, and he toyed with the image for a moment.
“Cool.” The pencil went into his pillowcase. Then he pushed back his patch and looked up at me.
“Mr. Dietz is a public servant. He can’t deny me based on frivolous logic.”
“Mr. Dietz is a public tyrant. He’ll make your life so miserable, you’ll wish you were the one buried in the cistern.”
I stopped breathing. Did Lloyd think there was someone under the concrete in my basement?
He shifted his feet. “I don’t mean to say there’s a body in your cistern. I was just giving you fair warning. Don’t go after the permit. Box in the cistern and forget about it. Let it lie.”
My skin crept with déjà vu.
Let it lie. I’d heard those words before; three simple words that always rousted the rebel in me.
The cistern didn’t have a chance.
9
Good old Lloyd stomped off without pounding one nail.
Get the permit and remove the cistern or wall the thing in were the only two options the man would entertain. My idea to sneak the big rocks out disguised as trash only served to hasten my star contractor’s departure. Apparently, Martin Dietz gave no quarter to code violators, and Lloyd wasn’t about to suffer the tyrant’s wrath.
Moratorium declared, I slunk off to start work on the back staircase. I peeled, primed, and papered until the narrow passage looked like it belonged in the twenty-first century. Then I pried and pounded until the steps were squeak-free.
By the time the big fall holiday arrived a few days later, I had worked off my frustration over the uncooperative Lloyd and was ready to enjoy the occasion.
I was just tucking the final section of my costume masterpiece into place when the doorbell rang and the first little voices of the night wafted into the kitchen.
“Trick or treat!”
I dumped pencils and stickers into a bowl and headed to the front door to let the rascals help themselves. I smiled on the way through the dining room. I’d survived my first weeks in the new neighborhood.
But though my gray matter was intact, my house still looked as if it were a creepy old asylum. Even if things weren’t moving as quickly as I hoped, I nevertheless felt satisfied when I reviewed my progress.
I glanced around the vestibule before opening the door. Utterly perfect. I’d painted the walls a creamy off-white and rubbed the natural oak woodwork until it shone. An ornate Victorian three-bulb fixture gave off a welcoming light.
I pulled open the door and stifled a giggle. A waist-high pirate pointed a plastic sword in my direction. Next to him, a dainty princess held up her sack in expectation.
“What are you supposed to be? A mummy?” the pirate asked.
“I’m Lazarus,” I answered. I secured a stray white strip wrapped around my head.
“Who’s Lazarus?”
“He’s a guy from the Bible. Jesus raised him from the dead. Lazarus, come forth!” I said, lurching sideways in my best imitation of the newly risen friend of Christ.
Three summers of Vacation Bible School when I was a kid were the entirety of my religious training. I’d gleaned enough to know there was a God. And I couldn’t have survived to adulthood if I hadn’t held on to the hope that Jesus really existed. Sadly, a few years in the church I attended as a teen with my grandmother were enough to sour my attitude toward organized religion and keep me from wanting to know more. Now at least I browsed the Bible, even if I didn’t always understand it.
Across from me, the chaperone forced a smile. “Kids, pick out a treat. We have a lot more houses to go.”
I smiled back through the wadding that covered my face. The pirate rested on his sword. “There’s no candy in here and stickers are for babies.”
“Jason!” The mother swatted at him. “Mind your manners.”
“How about a pencil?” I asked, almost wishing I’d conformed to the tooth-rotting Halloween tradition. “Here’s one with 3-D lettering.”
I handed the little thug his prize, and he toyed with the image for a moment.
“Cool.” The pencil went into his pillowcase. Then he pushed back his patch and looked up at me.
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