Chapter 20
“Abraham!” I call, even though I can already tell there’s no point.
I haven’t seen a lot of dead people, but I’ve seen a lot of alive people, and they are never, ever that pale and still. Also, when they’re asleep, their eyes aren’t wide open and dry.
“Shipoopi!” Maggie screeches from the backpack.
It’s apropos, at least. The stairwell has…that smell.
I’m about to ask what to do, but Hunter already has his phone out. I’ve never called 911 before, but it seems like he knows whoever answers. I’m yet again shocked by what a small town Arcadia Falls is.
“Hey, it’s Hunter. I’m at the video store. Looks like Abraham died. Uh-huh. Thanks.” He turns to me. “They’re on their way. There’s nothing we can do, but there are steps to follow.”
The next hour is beyond surreal. Hunter and I leave Abraham where he is and go stand just outside the front door as if trying to put as much distance between us and death as we can.
He lifts his arm like he might put it around me, but it wavers there in a stretch and then drops sadly to his side.
I’m grateful for his presence but rendered mute by the shock of finding a dead body.
Sirens start up and get closer and closer.
There’s an ambulance, a fire truck, and a police car, the placid night now full of blinking lights and cacophonous noise.
The EMTs go in first and confirm that Abraham is gone.
They roll in a gurney and place him on it, flat on his back under a white sheet.
Hunter and I stay by the door, giving them space to do their work as they slide him into the back of the ambulance and drive away.
“You don’t have to stick around,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“I don’t,” he says simply. “I know you didn’t know him, but this still can’t be a fun thing to go through alone.”
I feel like a burden on him, this kind stranger who also sorta half hates me, until a policeman walks toward us with a grim expression.
“Hunter.”
“Officer Ferguson. This is Rhea Wolfe, Maggie Kirkwood’s granddaughter.”
He inclines his head to me. “Ms. Wolfe, I’m sorry you had to see this tonight. Is it okay if I ask you some questions?”
“Of course. I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
He pulls out a notebook and pen, and I tell the story of how we discovered Abraham.
I feel a little guilty that I can’t tell the officer when Abraham got to work or how he looked or what he said.
The closest I’ve come to an actual interaction with him was at Lindy’s on my first day, when Colonel asked him who was watching the video store—and we didn’t actually interact.
“Do you know how old Mr. Kirkwood was?” he asks me.
“Oh, gosh,” Maggie mutters from my bag. “Let’s see. My father was born in 1930, and Uncle Abe was three years younger, so—”
“Around ninety, I think,” I say.
“Looks like he went peacefully. Was there anything unusual about the store that might indicate foul play?”
I look around, but honestly, I wouldn’t know what constitutes unusual here.
“The door was unlocked and the lights were on,” Hunter says. “Like always.”
“And the fishbowl is full of cash, so it wasn’t a robbery,” I add.
“We’ll ask around, but this seems pretty open-and-shut.” Officer Ferguson puts away his notebook. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.” He winces. “Losses. Grandmother, too. That’s rough.”
“He was probably waiting for me to go,” Maggie says softly. “Always thought he could look after me, even when I was looking after him. Then you got here, and I guess he reckoned you could handle it yourself.”
“Maybe he was waiting for Maggie to go,” I say. “I know old folks do that sometimes.”
Officer Ferguson nods. “Maybe so. Usually we’d alert the next of kin, but I think that’s just you. Not that many Kirkwoods around these days. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Y’all have a nice night and give us a call if you think of anything else we need to know.”
It’s after ten by the time he drives away, and the square is dark and still. I give a decisive sigh and head inside to unplug the boiled peanut slow cookers before something catches fire.
“I wonder if there’s a manual for opening and closing,” I say out loud, and I know I might sound like an absolute idiot, but Hunter isn’t aware that someone in the know is secretly answering all my questions.
“No manual. It was only ever me and Uncle Abraham. I tried hiring teenagers a couple of times, but it was an absolute failure,” Maggie says.
“Just put the cash in the safe, turn out the lights, lock the doors, and head upstairs. Nothing you can do now.” Maggie sounds sleepy and sad.
I can’t imagine how strange it must be, to die and return to life in the body of an animal, to be staring straight at your friends while they think you’re dead, and then to lose someone you’re close to and not even be able to cry.
It is possibly the weirdest situation I can think of, and I read over a hundred books last year, one of which was about romancing Bigfoot.
Hunter is still at the door, giving me space to do whatever I need to do.
I grab the fishbowl, and Maggie mutters, “The safe is in the back corner under a tablecloth.”
“There’s got to be a safe around here, right?
Because Maggie wasn’t stuffing cash under the bed,” I say for Hunter’s benefit.
Then, after a few minutes of poking around, I lift up the flowered tablecloth on what appears to be a small table with an ALF doll on it and find a safe that’s got to be older than both Maggie and Abraham combined.
“No combination. It doesn’t lock anymore. We called it the Unsafe Safe,” Maggie tells me.
I open the door and my jaw drops.
This thing is stuffed with cash.
Almost a solid block of wadded bills.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah, we’re not great at bank runs,” Maggie admits. “Weren’t great. Whatever.”
I try stuffing today’s cash into the safe, but it just keeps falling out, so I stick the fishbowl in the stairwell where we found Abraham. It’s cold in there, with a definite odor rising up from the pile of crusty blankets and graying pillows.
Hunter waits as I fumble with my key ring, and Maggie tells me which key to use to lock the door.
The street is well lit but almost totally silent, aside from what sounds like a live guitarist somewhere mangling Ed Sheeran.
We’re quiet as Hunter walks me around the corner, past the dumpster, and up to Maggie’s door.
My door.
“You gonna be okay tonight?” he asks me. “I’m sure Nick and Nathan have a room at the inn if you want company. And if not, there’s another B I can’t be.
I didn’t even know him. I’m just exhausted from all that has happened in Arcadia Falls. It feels like I’ve been here a month.
“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks for sticking around, though. I would not have known what to do if I’d been alone.”
“Me neither, but that’s what 911 is there for, I reckon.”
I open the door and step into the kitchen, and he leans against the jamb.
“I’ll be by after lunch tomorrow,” he says, “if you still want to talk estimates. And I hope this doesn’t seem presumptuous—”
Go ahead and try me, I think but don’t say as I flip on the light, my heart full of hope despite the family drama.
“But you might want to order a doorbell cam or some kind of security system for this alley. Maggie’s generation still thinks that nothing bad could possibly happen in a small town like this, but they’re wrong.”
My smile falls. That is not what the word presumptuous generally implies.
“Yeah, I’m definitely going to need some upgrades. Thanks again for everything. Today was just—” My voice hitches.
Our eyes meet with an electric thrill, and I think he might reach for me, but his hands go to fists at his sides.
He’s taut as a bowstring, and I’d like to be the kind of woman who could make the first move, but I can’t.
Whatever happened between our families is keeping him at a distance, and I’m not going to push him.
He asked me out. I said yes. He never texted.
He’s mad about ancient history that has nothing to do with me, but I’m the only person left to blame.
I can tell he’s conflicted, but the ball is firmly in his court, no matter how much I truly need a hug right now.
“Today was just,” he repeats, as if it means something.
I give a little wave, and he gently shuts the door. I can feel his presence outside. I already know he’s the kind of man who isn’t going to leave until the door is locked again and I’m safe.
“Don’t you dare get all twitterpated over that boy, you hussy,” Maggie says vehemently as I unzip the backpack to let her out.
“We don’t use words like hussy anymore, Grandma Cockatoo,” I remind her, wagging a finger. “Slut-shaming is not cool.”
“I don’t care what’s cool! He’s Joyce’s grandson, and I’m sure she’s poisoned him against me. He might be a spy.”
“He doesn’t seem like a spy.”
“Spies never seem like spies! That’s what makes them good spies!”
“What’s he going to spy on—who’s renting FernGully on VHS? He seems like a decent man. Didn’t want me to walk home alone after dark, refused to leave me alone to deal with a corpse. So now it’s your turn. I need you to tell me right now what beef you have with the Blakelys.”
Instead of answering me, Maggie flutters into her cage to drink some water.
I’m fuming, but I know I can’t force her to do anything, so I head to the bedroom, put on my pajamas, and start doing some cleanup.
I’m already making plans for this space, imagining what a little elbow grease and a trip to Walmart can do to make it my own.
I hope Maggie won’t take the changes too hard, but what’s she going to do?
“Joyce Blakely is a snake,” she says as she struts into the bedroom. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“I’m pulling all your scarves off the lamps so I can get some actual light and avoid starting any fires.”
“They add ambiance! And they’re not a fire hazard.”
I hold up a silky scarf, showing a browned section that had been dangling perilously close to the light bulb. “Not anymore they’re not, Firestarter.”
I toss the scarves into a corner, and Maggie runs over and nestles down among them.
“I’m sorry, but it’s time to redecorate,” I tell her. “If I’m all in, I’m all in.”
Even her chirps sound disappointed in me. “I’ll have to come to terms with it, I know. Just promise me you’ll donate my things. Don’t just throw ’em out like garbage.”
“I would never do that. I’m not that kind of person.”
“Then I guess someone must’ve raised you right.”
It’s the closest she’s come to any sort of compliment to me or my mom. I’m half proud and half insulted.
Finally it’s time to try out Maggie’s tub for the first time, and I put her to bed in the open cage and allow myself to sink down in absolute bliss.
I’ve wanted a tub like this all my life, and the windowsill is right next to it, perfect for paperbacks.
Maybe I should feel weird that someone died downstairs today, but it’s not like I knew my great-uncle Abraham.
I feel bad for him in the way that you feel bad for people you don’t personally know, but it certainly seems like he lived a long life and died peacefully in a place where he was content.
I read until I’m pruny and the water is tepid, dry off, remove my makeup, and snuggle down in the cozy bed, already looking forward to seeing Hunter again tomorrow, even if it’s going to be weird.
It does not escape me that Maggie yet again dodged the question about why she was feuding with the Blakelys, but I’m going to find out eventually.
We’re pretty much stuck together unless she wants to go join the turkey gang.
I fall asleep, and my dreams are filmy, misty things, wisps of trees and waterfalls and something elusive, just out of reach.
Some time later, when all is dark and still, I wake up straining to hear some odd sound, but whatever it was, it’s gone.
The room is freezing, colder than it should be in late summer, the moonlight shining in through the window to make a patch of icy white on the ground.
I breathe out and my breath hangs in the air like a question.
“Bye, Uncle Abraham,” I say, half dreaming.
I burrow deeper under the covers, and as I fall back asleep, it feels like someone pats my hair.