Texting the Underworld (21 page)

Ashling sat up straight. “You can take food with you. I can eat it and become mortal.”

Nergal looked as if he might cry. “We can try, child, but you would have to be right there when we arrived. You would almost certainly be off in the World, waiting to keen for your latest Death. We cannot predict when you would return.”

“I'll eat it when I come back with my Dear Departed.”

“It will have rotted away to nothing within minutes. You know that.”

Ashling sagged all over again.

Javier made a visible effort to hold himself in. But he just couldn't. “Nergal got me a new cell phone,” he said to Conor, trying and failing to keep his voice to a whisper. “He'll call me when he needs advice. They're going to
pay
me.”

“How will they do that?” Conor asked.

“He will have an account in his name, and we will add money to it,” Nergal said.

“But . . . how?”

Nergal smiled. “One of the mysteries of death.”

“I'm
so
going to MIT,” Javier said.

“Have you decided what to do about the Death?” Nergal sounded as if he were asking about the weather.

“We went and talked to a man with
empty seed mask,
” Ashling said in dejected tones. “He may wish to die. But most likely not.”

“Emphysema,”
Conor said.

“The time draws nigh,” Nergal said. “It must be soon—Ashling has been with you several days.”

Conor's stomach clenched like a fist. Glennie looked sick, too.

“I put my will and stuff on the kitchen table,” Grump said.

“Thanks.” Conor's brain was a hunk of meat loaf.

“Conor,” Grump said, “I love you. I will always love you, even if I don't remember it. Glennie, too. You know that, right?”

Conor couldn't speak.

“We know, Grump,” Glennie said.

Conor's tongue loosened itself. “Grump. I can't do this. You're asking me to kill you. I can't do it.”

“C'mere, kiddo.” Grump patted the sofa beside him. “The rest of you talk amongst yourselves.”

Conor sat down next to Grump.

“Kiddo, I know it's hard for you to imagine. But we all gotta keep moving, and there's only one more step for me to take. I won't tell you any lies. I'm nervous about this one. But . . . I dunno, it feels right to me.”

“You're in okay shape, Grump. This Richard O'Neill guy—”

“Kiddo, I know Richard O'Neill, and I happen to know he still enjoys a good cheeseburger. Anyways, this ticker of mine could shut down any minute.”

“Grump, I'd never see you again.”

“Ah, who knows, kiddo. A few years from now, you hear there's a kid across town blowing stuff up, that'll probably be me.”

Grump leaned his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Conor watched him, imagining him dead. The thought froze his soul.

Nope. Nope. I'm choosing Richard O'Neill
.
If Ashling started keening for the Death, he'd run for the alley by the Wilsons' house. Maybe he'd get close enough to point even if Richard O'Neill was still in his house.

That would be murder,
he thought.
But I don't care.

“Well, this is cozy.” Conor's dad came through the front door, fresh from politics and a beer with his buddies. “Where's your mom?”

“She was in before,” Grump said. “I think she's taking a nap.”

“I don't blame her. You kids look pretty bleak, too. Heck, Grump looks better than you do.”

Nergal stepped away from the mantelpiece, a foot and a quarter taller than Dad. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Dad had to tilt his head to see Nergal's face. “Good afternoon. Who are you?”

“I am Nergal.”

“We met last night,” Grump said.

“Oh, at the hospital.” It wasn't a question, so they all let it fly past without an answer. “How do you do?”

“I do fine.”

Dad let his gaze travel down Nergal's massiveness to the overstuffed bags at his feet. “Been shopping?”

“Cell phones,” Nergal said. “For my business.”

“Oh? What's your business?”

“Uh,” Nergal said.

“Recycling,” Grump said.

The residents of South Boston said Brian O'Neill could talk with anyone. Sure enough, Dad had no trouble at all chatting with Nergal, Babylonian lord of the dead and recycling tycoon. Nergal had no idea what recycling was and it took him a while to catch the hints Conor and Grump kept feeding him. But Dad didn't notice.

“Well, Pop,” Dad said at last. “You're looking pretty good. I guess you'll live.”

“Come sit by me, Brian.” Conor got up, and Grump again patted the cushion next to him. “I don't see enough of you.”

“You see me every day, Pop.” But Dad looked pleased and sat down.

Grump grabbed his son's hand and held it, which was a shock to everyone but mostly to his son.

“You sure you're feeling all right, Pop?”

“Never better, boy.” Grump squeezed the hand. “You're a good kid, you know it? I'm sorry I spent your college money. Really. You shoulda gone to Boston College, and it's my fault you didn't. Lotsa stuff's my fault.”

“I'm going to have Moira take your temperature,” Dad said.

But Mom, when she arrived, found that Grump's temperature was perfectly normal. “He's fine, Brian. Stop worrying.” She surveyed the group. “There are people here I don't know.”

Conor introduced Nergal. (“He's a recycler, Moira,” Dad said.) And then Ashling. (“I told you about her. She's the . . . uh, pen pal.”)

“I'm from Ulster,” Ashling said. “Which is in northern Ireland.”

“I've heard of it.” Mom pointed to a moving dot on the kitchen wall. “Oh, Brian, that big wasp got in here again. I've had it with the humane approach. Get it, will you?”

“No!” Conor and Glennie and Ashling cried.

Dad grinned at Nergal. “Conor thinks when you try to kill something it'll get mad and come back and get you. Apparently, he's convinced his sister and his girlfriend now.”

Conor wished Dad would stop saying
girlfriend.

“Conor's theory is not always untrue,” Nergal said.

“Well, it's untrue in this case.” Dad fingered several of Grump's model-building magazines to see which one had the right heft. “I'm going to get that sucker, and when he's dead he's going to stay dead.” He found the perfect magazine and rolled it up.

“For practical purposes,” Nergal said, “and specifically at this place and time, that might be accurate. Taking a broader view, however—”

Whap!
Dad missed the wasp by a mile. It buzzed angrily and looped the loop, then darted to another patch of wall, this time in the dining room.

“Oh, Conor.” Ashling's face was stretching.

The Mississippi quarter was in his pocket. He held it out to her.

She shook her head, whispered, “Too late.” He could see through her shoulder.

He grabbed her hand and headed for the door.

Glennie and Javier followed.

“Wimps,” Dad said.
Whap!
“Drat. Stay still, you little creep.”

When they were out on the sidewalk, Ashling ran around into the alley between the houses. Glennie started to follow, but Conor held her arm tight. “Anyone who sees her as a wraith will die. Keep your head down.”

The Mississippi magnolia quarter dropped onto the ground.
When the Death comes
I'll put it in somebody's mouth for Charon,
he thought, distracted.

But whose mouth would it be?

The wasp must have been nearly dead, because there was the keen. It wailed of lovers torn apart forever, mothers bereft of babies, the universe wondering where it had gone wrong.

“What the heck is that?” Dad yelled from inside the house.

Across the street and down the block, O'Neills and their neighbors poured out onto the sidewalk, everybody asking the same question. It was a perfect spring Sunday, so even when Ashling had stopped keening, nobody went back inside—they stayed out there and caught up on gossip. Even Grump came out, Nergal courteously giving him his arm.

Glennie saw their cousin Katherine, who lived four doors down. The two girls greeted each other with squeals, as if they hadn't walked to school together two days before. They settled themselves on the hood of someone's car.

Conor leaned against the house, waiting for Ashling to join them.

“That shrieking thing was cool,” Javier said. “So that's what happened to her at school that day, right? Because of the moths. And that's why you attacked Jon on the bus.”

Down the street, people were yelling. There was a ripping, screeching crash. A motor revved, powerful and loud.

A blue sedan, moving fast, ricocheted off a parked car and kept coming.

Boom!
It sideswiped a red minivan.

Kept coming faster.

Conor moved out to the sidewalk, saw it all in one glance: Even though Glennie and Katherine were watching the car along with everyone else, somehow it didn't occur to them that they should move out of its way.

It occurred to Mom, halfway down the block in the opposite direction. “Glennie!” she screamed, and started to run.

Glennie turned to see what her mother wanted, and saw the expression on Conor's face. She jostled Katherine's shoulder and shouted something, but Conor couldn't hear what she said.

Because Ashling was wailing again.
Never again, never again, my love, my dove, oh gone, you're gone . . . gone . . . gone . . .

Richard O'Neill hobbled down the sidewalk, mouth wide open as he struggled to breathe, his three-legged cane in one hand, oxygen cart in the other.

Time slowed. The wayward car came barreling toward them. Mom tripped on uneven pavement and almost fell headlong, but steadied herself and kept running.

“Conor!” Grump's voice behind him, breathless because the old man was coming for him just like Richard O'Neill. “Let me save my little girl. Let me . . . Please . . .”

Richard wanted to be chosen, that was clear. Or there was Katherine, another O'Neill right there in harm's way.

Or Conor himself. There was always Conor.

There was Mom, running down the sidewalk. If either he or Glennie died, it would be the end of her anyway.

Nergal was beside him. Because everything seemed to have slowed down so much, Conor had time to turn and consult him. “For everything,” Nergal said, “there is a season.”

“Conor,” Grump wheezed, grabbing Nergal's arm to keep from falling over. “Do the right thing.”

Mom launched herself in front of Glennie and Katherine. If the car hit, it would get all three of them.

“Moira!” Brian was running now.

Conor's heart ripped in two. He closed his eyes.

And then he pointed.

A chill wind arrowed up the street from the harbor and almost blew Mom's spring hat right off her head. She caught it in time, shivered, and struggled to button her coat. “Good thing we don't do all-night wakes anymore. I wouldn't survive.”

“Pop would like it to be more of a party.” Dad followed her down the steps from the cemetery. “I guess cupcakes will have to suffice.”

“He talks like Grump's still alive,” Glennie whispered to Conor.

He glanced back at the gravesite, with its heap of dirt and flowers. Grump didn't seem dead to him, either. Impossible that he was over there in the ground.

As they walked home, Conor went over it all in his head for the fortieth time. Glennie. Katherine. Richard O'Neill. Mom. Dad. The wayward car screaming by, missing everyone.

Grump clutching his chest and falling down. Grump lying on the sidewalk holding Conor's hand. Grump's last whisper: “You did the right thing, kiddo. See you around.”

It didn't feel like the right thing. Nothing felt right—especially not what he'd done next, huddled there beside Grump's body, Ashling's Mississippi magnolia quarter on the ground by his knee.

He was weeping for Grump then, of course, but his tears were for Ashling, too. He'd been nasty to her, almost until the last minute, and still she let him choose the wrong Death. Now she was stuck for eternity with that crazy Lady.

Her hand on my heart.

Kneeling there beside Grump, he thought of Charon and the coin in a dead Greek's mouth.

Everyone was frantically waving down the ambulance. The only ones watching Conor were Glennie and Javier and Nergal. Even Glennie gasped when he lunged for her pocket, then stuffed a whole little pack of Fruity Foolers into Grump's dead mouth.

It was disrespectful, when you thought about it, and he didn't even know if it would work. As insurance, he put his head back and yelled to the sky—to Ashling, so she'd know what she was supposed to do with a pack of jelly beans in an old man's mouth. “Remember Persephone! Eat it before it's gone!”

Nergal had laughed. “Dude. You invented a new rule.” He put his big hand over Grump's face and closed his eyes, at the same time making sure none of the candy wrapper was poking out of Grump's mouth.

Now Grump's house was empty except for assorted furniture, his three jars of peanut butter in Mom and Dad's pantry, Honey-Glazed Nutsos in the trash, and rocket parts in a cardboard box . . . how could that be anything but wrong?

“I still can't get my head around your girlfriend running away like that, Con,” Dad said as they waited for the stoplight. “And that guy Nergal! I mean, he stays right by Pop while he's dying, closes his eyes and everything, and then he gathers up his stuff and walks off, never to be seen again. You'd think they'd stick around a minute or two, or drop by or call, maybe even come to the wake.”

“Death upsets people,” Mom said. “I mean, poor Nergal—he meets a man in the hospital and the man goes home and dies.”

“Nergal didn't seem upset,” Dad said. “Matter of fact, I think he was laughing.”

Dad had been mad at the hospital at first—Grump's death had to be someone's fault, after all—but Grump's doctor told him the heart attack could have come any day. Father Ralph said it was Grump's time, and anyway Grump was the one who wanted to come home and eat Honey-Glazed Nutsos.

Everybody was mad at the guy in the rampaging car, even though it wasn't his fault, either. He'd been on new medication and had passed out at the wheel. He wrecked his own car and three others, but nobody got hurt.

Except Grump.

And, by extension, Conor.

He couldn't imagine how he'd get through life without Grump. His brain was fuzzy—he couldn't think, couldn't talk. All he could do was stare at his family and wonder which of them he should have chosen instead.

He was glad he hadn't chosen Glennie, anyway. She'd stuck right by him ever since, so kind and courteous that her mother took her temperature.

Mom had kept them out of school until after the funeral, which had been this morning. Everyone was coming back to the house for tea and cakes. Then life was supposed to go back to normal.

Conor stood in a corner of the living room, trying to be part of the wallpaper. But Mrs. Miller, one of the youth hockey coaches, noticed him anyway. “I hear you'll be trying out for us, Pixie!” She handed him a chocolate cupcake he didn't want.

“Uh. I guess.”

Mrs. Miller leaned in close. “You're lucky, you know. Not every dad cares as much as yours does.”

“I know.”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, and Davey was a good, good man, but everybody knows his kids weren't his top priority. Your dad, now—”

The world went hot and red. Conor shoved the chocolate cupcake back into Mrs. Miller's hand, smearing chocolate on her sleeve. “Shut up. You don't know anything about Grump.” He jostled past her, heading for the stairs.

Dad's heavy hand fell on him before he was halfway across the room. “Apologize,” Dad hissed. “Right now.”

Mrs. Miller scuttled over. “No, no, Brian. Jeez. I'm dumb as dirt. Really.” She did look upset. “I'm sorry, Conor. What a stupid thing to say, today of all days.”

The world felt not one bit better. “I'm not doing hockey,” Conor said. “I'm not good at it and I don't like it.”

“He doesn't mean that, Katie.” Dad released him. “Go get some air, Con. We'll talk about this later.”

How does
he
know what I mean?
Conor slipped out the kitchen door and almost fell down the back stoop, because this was like Declan slipping away into the woods and for a second it seemed weird that there were steps and an alley.
I'm not Declan,
he told himself for the zillionth time.
Well, I'm sort of him. Or he's sort of me. Except neither of us is anybody but our own selves.

It was so confusing he wanted to throw up. Instead, he walked. Somehow he wasn't surprised when he ended up at Richard O'Neill's wrought-iron front stoop.

“This time, I hope you'll let me offer you some tea,” Richard said.

“I'll make it,” Conor said. Richard settled down in his chair, oxygen tank by his side.

Richard looked awful, his eyes red, his skin yellowish. When Conor handed him his tea, Richard's hand shook so much Conor had to put the mug down on the table for him.

Conor sat on the couch with the nubbly bedspread and let the silence hum like a blessing. Richard picked at invisible fluff on his gray flannel-covered knees. He took a deep breath, coughed, and focused his attention on the ceiling. “It should've been me. I heard the . . . banshee and I . . . tried to get there, Conor. I
was
there. Why didn't you choose me?”

Conor didn't know why, either. “For everything there is a season.”

“That's no answer.”

No, Conor had to admit, it wasn't. He sipped tea and tried again. “He hated the idea of me choosing a stranger. And he wanted to be the one to save my sister.” Bitterness overcame him. “Nobody knows he did that. They think he just
died
.”

Richard nodded. He used both hands to pick up his tea mug, managed a shaky sip, wobbled it back to the table. “Terrible spot . . . to put a kid in.”

“I asked for it.”

“You didn't. It was a trick. The Lady's trick.”

Conor shrugged, too tired to argue.

That night, while they did the dishes, Conor told his father what Mrs. Miller had said about Grump's kids not being his priority.

“Well,” Dad said, “she's not wrong.”

Conor wanted to shout,
He died for Glennie!
But of course he couldn't. “He loved us,” he said instead.

“No doubt about that.” Dad put his soapy hand on Conor's shoulder, gave it a little shake. “You have the O'Neill Spark, he always said.”

Conor closed his eyes, tears stinging.

“He was right. You're a smart kid, Conor. Go to BC, major in economics. I'm telling you, it'll be great.”

Conor blinked his eyes dry. “Now you want me to major in economics?”

His dad's face was all glowy. “Well, you don't have to. But I've been thinking about this and, boy, if you major in economics, you can do anything. It trains your mind, you know? That's what my friend Jimmy said last time I saw him—he was an econ major. So you've got a certain logic, an understanding of how things work.”

Conor looked at his father and saw the ten-year-old in the picture on Grump's mantel: eager, smart, yet clueless. “How things work? You mean like, why people die?”

His dad frowned. “No, no, no. Important stuff. The financial system. Markets. That may not sound so great now, but it will when you're grown up.”

Conor remembered that he, age twelve, had once had the power of life and death. He probably was the only person in the world who knew who he was sixteen hundred years ago.

All by themselves, his vocal cords said, “Dad. I'm not going to play hockey.”

“Tryouts in five weeks, Katie says.”

“Dad.” Conor took his father's glowy face in his two hands so he couldn't look away. “I'm. Not. Playing. Hockey. I don't like hockey. I'm not good at it. Maybe I'll try for Latin School—I haven't decided. But I'm not playing hockey.”

His father pulled away from him. “
Maybe
you'll try for Latin School?” His O'Neill Blue Eyes were wild, like a Dál Fiatach raider with an ax in his hand.

Conor backed right off. “Probably, probably. Don't get upset.” But then he remembered he was a hero. “Maybe not, though. We'll see.”

“
We'll
see?”

“No. Right.
I'll
see.”

The glow went out of his father's face. “You live in our house, you play by the house rules.”

Conor hastened to explain. “I'm not saying I won't go to high school, or even that I won't try for an exam school. I'm just saying, maybe it won't be Latin. And”—
I'm a hero, I'm a hero
—“I'm definitely not playing hockey.”

“What're you gonna do all summer, sit around and draw maps?”

“I'll go to summer school.”
Huh? What am I saying?
“In art.”

“Art?”

“It'll be something of my own. What these admissions people are looking for.”

His father pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and plunked down with a heavy sigh. “Cripes.” There was a long silence. Then: “Okay, listen. We'll talk to the folks at school. I guess there's all kinds of ways to get into BC.”

Or not,
Conor thought. But his vocal cords remained mercifully silent on that point. Heroes pick their battles, and college was five years away. Plenty of time to make up a new house rule before then.

• • •

He was actually glad to get back to school the next day. He didn't have to worry about Ashling transforming into a wraith and killing everyone, although he did have to lie to his classmates when they asked where she was. He said she'd gone home, which was sort of true.

“Do you think it worked?” Javier asked that afternoon on the bus. “Were the Fruity Foolers still in your grampa's mouth when he got there? Did Ashling eat them and turn mortal and get reborn?”

“Nerd alert,” Andy Watson said. Conor had to admit, Javier did sound like he was talking about a role-playing game.

“Shut up, Andy.” But that was Conor's vocal cords talking all by themselves, because his brain had frozen in horror. “Javier. Cripes. I just realized something. Something awful.”

“What? What?”

“Let's say the jelly beans were still in Grump's mouth. Let's say Ashling ate them and it worked and she became mortal.”

“Yeah. So. Good, right?”

Breathe.
But he couldn't breathe. “She'd be mortal but she wouldn't be
dead
.”

Javier stared at him. “So . . . so she wouldn't . . .”

“She wouldn't get reborn. She'd be stuck there until she died, worse than if she was a banshee.”

Javier-silence, now of the horrified variety. Then Javier said the only thing he could: “You did your best.”

At home, in misery, Conor flipped through Trivial Pursuit cards and ate Fruity Foolers. Nothing made him feel better. He remembered the last thing he'd said to Ashling: “emphysema.” That didn't seem like a very good last thing to say to someone.

“You did your best,” Glennie offered.

He wished everyone would stop saying that.

April slid into May. In the dark of a Saturday night, Javier flew to the Underworld with Nergal and two large bags of cell phones. He came back starry-eyed but with no useful information. He hadn't seen Ashling or Grump, and Nergal wouldn't talk about anything except wireless communications.

Conor discovered an extremely large spider living in a corner of the game cupboard, and got Glennie in to capture it and put it outside. She rolled her eyes and called him a wimp, but she didn't tell anyone.