Walk Two Moons (10 page)

PANDORA'S BOX

The next day, as I was helping Phoebe lug her suitcase home, I said, “Phoebe, I know you’ve been upset lately—”

“I have not been upset lately,” she said.

“Sometimes, Phoebe, I like you a lot—”

“Why, thank you.”

“—but sometimes, Phoebe, I feel like dumping your cholesterol-free body out the window.”

She did not have a chance to respond, because we were at her house, and she was more interested in besieging her father with questions. “Any news? Did Mom come back? Did she call?”

“Sort of,” he said. “She phoned Mrs. Cadaver—”

“Mrs. Cadaver? Whatever for? Why would she—”

“Phoebe, calm down. I don’t know why she phoned Mrs. Cadaver. I haven’t been able to speak to Mrs. Cadaver myself yet. She isn’t home. She left a note here.” He showed it to Phoebe: Norma called to say she is okay. Beneath Mrs. Cadaver’s signature was a P.S. saying that Mrs. Cadaver would be away until Monday.

“I don’t believe that Mom called Mrs. Cadaver. Mrs. Cadaver is making it up. Mrs. Cadaver probably killed her and chopped her up. I’m calling the police.”

They had a huge argument, but at last Phoebe fizzled out. Her father said he had been calling everyone he could think of, to see if her mother had indicated where she might be going. He would continue calling tomorrow, he promised, and he would speak with Mrs. Cadaver. If he did not receive a letter—or a direct phone call—from her mother by Wednesday, he would call the police.

Phoebe came out on the porch with me as I was leaving. She said, “I’ve made a decision. I’m going to call the police. I might even go to the police station. I don’t have to wait until Wednesday. I can go whenever I want.”

That night she phoned me. She was whispering again. “It seems so quiet here. I don’t know what is the matter with me. I was lying on my bed and I can’t sleep. My bed’s too hard.”

On Monday, Phoebe gave her oral report on Pandora. She began in a quivering voice. “For some reason, Ben already talked about my topic, Pandora, when he did his report on Prometheus. However, Ben made a few little mistakes about Pandora.”

Everyone turned around to stare at Ben. “I did not,” he said.

“Yes, you did.” Phoebe’s lip trembled. “Pandora was not sent to man as a punishment, but as a reward—”

“Was not,” Ben said.

“Was too,” Phoebe said. “Zeus decided to give man a present, since man seemed lonely down there on Earth, with only the animals to keep him company. So Zeus made a sweet and beautiful woman, and then Zeus invited all the gods to dinner. It was a very civilized dinner, with matching plates.”

Mary Lou and Ben exchanged an eyebrow message.

“Zeus asked the gods to give the woman presents—to make her feel like a welcome guest.” Phoebe glanced at me. “They gave her wonderful things: a fancy shawl, a silver dress, beauty—”

Ben interrupted. “I thought you said she was already beautiful.”

“They gave her more beauty. Are you satisfied?” Her lip was no longer trembling, but she was blushing. “The gods also gave her the ability to sing, the power of persuasion, a gold crown, flowers, and many truly wonderful things such as that. Because of all these gifts, Zeus named her Pandora, which means ‘the gift of all.’”

Phoebe was getting into it. “There were two other gifts that I have not mentioned yet. One of them was curiosity. That is why all women are curious, by the way, because it was a gift given to the very first woman.”

Ben said, “I wish she had been given the gift of silence.”

“Last, there was a beautiful box, covered in gold and jewels, and this is very important—she was forbidden to open the box.”

Ben said, “Then why did they give it to her?”

He was beginning to irritate Phoebe, you could tell. She said, “That’s what I’m telling you. It was a present.”

“But why did they give her a present that she couldn’t open?”

“I-do-not-know. It’s just in the story. As I was saying, Pandora was not supposed to open the box, but because she had been given so much curiosity, she really, really, really wanted to know what was inside, so one day she opened the box.”

“I knew it,” Ben said. “I knew she was going to open the box the minute that you said she was not supposed to open it.”

“Inside the box were all the evils in the world, such as hatred, envy, plagues, sickness, and cholesterol. There were brain tumors and sadness, lunatics and kidnapping and murders”—she glanced at Mr. Birkway before rushing on—“and all that kind of thing. Pandora tried to close the lid when she saw all the horrible things that were coming out of it, but she could not get it closed, and that is why there are all these evils in the world. There was only one good thing in the box.”

“What was it?” Ben asked.

“As I was about to explain, the only good thing in the box was Hope, and that is why, even though there are many evils in the world, there is still a little hope.” She held up a picture of Pandora opening up the box and a whole shebang of gremlins floating out. Pandora looked frightened.

That night I kept thinking about Pandora’s box. I wondered why someone would put a good thing such as Hope in a box with sickness and kidnapping and murder. It was fortunate that it was there, though. If not, people would have the birds of sadness nesting in their hair all the time, because of nuclear war and the greenhouse effect and bombs and stabbings and lunatics.

There must have been another box with all the good things in it, like sunshine and love and trees and all that. Who had the good fortune to open that one, and was there one bad thing down there in the bottom of the good box? Maybe it was Worry. Even when everything seems fine and good, I worry that something will go wrong and change everything.

My mother, my father, and I all seemed fine and happy at our house until the baby died. Could you actually say that the baby died, since it had never breathed? Did its birth and death occur at the same moment? Could you die before you were born?

Phoebe’s family had not seemed fine, even before the arrival of the lunatic and the messages, and the disappearance of Mrs. Winterbottom. I knew that Phoebe was convinced that her mother was kidnapped because it was impossible for Phoebe to imagine that her mother could leave for any other reason. I wanted to call Phoebe and say that maybe her mother had gone looking for something, maybe her mother was unhappy, maybe there was nothing Phoebe could do about it.

When I told this part to Gram and Gramps, Gramps said, “You mean it had nothing to do with Peeby?” They looked at each other. They didn’t say anything, but there was something in that look that suggested I had just said something important. For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe my mother’s leaving had nothing whatsoever to do with me. It was separate and apart. We couldn’t own our mothers.

On that night after Phoebe had given her Pandora report, I thought about the Hope in Pandora’s box. Maybe when everything seemed sad and miserable, Phoebe and I could both hope that something might start to go right.

THE BLACK HILLS

When we saw the first sign for the Black Hills, the whispers changed and once again commanded, rush, hurry, rush. We had spent too long in South Dakota. There were only two days left and a long way to go.

“Maybe we should skip the Black Hills,” I said.

“What?” Gramps said. “Skip the Black Hills? Skip Mount Rushmore? We can’t do that.”

“But today’s the eighteenth. It’s the fifth day.”

“Do we have a deadline someone didn’t tell me about?” Gramps asked. “Heck, we’ve got all the time in the—” Gram gave him a look. “I’ve just gotta see these Black Hills,” Gramps said. “We’ll be quick about it, chickabiddy.”

The whispers walloped me: rush, rush, rush. I knew we wouldn’t make it to Idaho in time. I thought about sneaking off while Gram and Gramps were looking at the Black Hills. Maybe I could hitch a ride with someone who drove fast, but the thought of someone speeding, careening around curves—especially the snaking curves down into Lewiston, Idaho, which I had heard so much about—when I thought about that, it made me dizzy and sick.

“Heck,” Gramps said, “I oughta turn this wheel over to you, chickabiddy. All this driving is making me crazy as a loon.”

He was only joking, but he knew I could drive. He had taught me to drive his old pickup truck when I was eleven. We used to ride around on the dirt roads on their farm. I drove, and he smoked his pipe and told stories. He said, “You’re a helluva driver, chickabiddy, but don’t you tell your Momma I taught you. She’d thrash me half to death.”

I used to love to drive that old green pickup truck. I dreamed about turning sixteen and getting my license, but then when Momma left, something happened to me. I became afraid of things I had never been afraid of before, and driving was one of these things. I didn’t even like to ride in cars, let alone drive the truck.

The Black Hills were not really black. Pines covered the hills, and maybe at dusk they looked black, but when we saw them at midday, they were dark green. It was an eerie sight, all those rolling dark hills. A cool wind blew down through the pines, and the trees swished secrets among them.

My mother had always wanted to see the Black Hills. It was one of the sights she was most looking forward to on her trip. She used to tell me about the Black Hills, which were sacred to the Sioux Indians. It was their Holy Land, but white settlers took it as their own. The Sioux are still fighting for their land. I half expected a Sioux to stop our car from entering, and the thing is, I would have been on his side. I would have said, “Take it. It’s yours.”

We drove through the Black Hills to Mt. Rushmore. At first we didn’t think we were in the right place, but then, jing-bang, it was right before us. There, high up on a cliff face, were the sixty-foot-tall faces of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt, carved right into the rock, staring somberly down on us.

It was fine seeing the presidents, I’ve got nothing against the presidents, but you’d think the Sioux would be mighty sad to have those white faces carved into their sacred hill. I bet my mother was upset. I wondered why whoever carved them couldn’t have put a couple Indians up there too.

Gram and Gramps seemed disappointed as well. Gram didn’t even want to get out of the car, so we didn’t stay long. Gramps said, “I’ve had enough of South Dakota, how about you, chickabiddy? How about you, gooseberry? Let’s get a move on.”

By late afternoon, we were well into Wyoming, and I added up the miles left to go. Maybe we could make it, just maybe. Then Gramps said, “I hope nobody minds if we stop at Yellowstone. It would be a sin to miss Yellowstone.”

Gram said, “Is that where Old Faithful is? Oh, I would love to see Old Faithful.” She looked back at me. “We’ll hurry. Why, I bet we’ll be in Idaho by the twentieth without any problem at all.”

THE TIDE RISES

“Did Peeby’s mother call?” Gram said. “Did she come home? Did Peeby phone the police? Oh, I hope this isn’t a sad story.”

?

Phoebe did go to the police. It was on the day that Mr. Birkway read us the poem about the tide and the traveler—a poem that upset both me and Phoebe, and I think it is what convinced her, finally, that she had to tell the police about her mother.

Mr. Birkway read a poem by Longfellow: “The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.” The way Mr. Birkway read this poem, you could hear the tide rising and falling, rising and falling. In the poem, a traveler is hurrying toward a town, and it is getting darker and darker, and the sea calls to the traveler. Then the waves “with their soft, white hands” wash out the traveler’s footprints. The next morning,

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Mr. Birkway asked for reactions to this poem. Megan said that it sounded soft and gentle, and it almost made her go to sleep.

“Gentle?” I said. “It’s terrifying.” My voice was shaking. “Someone is walking along the beach, and the night is getting black, and the person keeps looking behind him to see if someone is following, and a jing-bang wave comes up and pulls him into the sea.”

“A murder,” Phoebe said.

I went barreling on as if it was my poem and I was an expert. “The waves, with their ‘soft, white hands’ grab the traveler. They drown him. They kill him. He’s gone.”

Ben said, “Maybe he didn’t drown. Maybe he just died, like normal people die.”

Phoebe said, “He drowned.”

I said, “It isn’t normal to die. It isn’t normal. It’s terrible.”

Megan said, “What about heaven? What about God?”

Mary Lou said, “God? Is He in this poem?”

Ben said, “Maybe dying could be normal and terrible.”

When the bell rang, I raced out of the room. Phoebe grabbed me. “Come on,” she said. From her locker, she took the evidence she had brought from home, and we both ran the six blocks to the police station. I am not exactly sure why I went along with Phoebe. Maybe it was because of that poem about the traveler, or maybe it was because I had begun to believe in the lunatic, or maybe it was because Phoebe was taking some action, and I admired her for it. I wished I had taken some action when my mother left. I was not sure what I could have done, but I wished I had done something.

Phoebe and I stood for five minutes outside the police station, trying to make our hearts slow down, and then we went inside and stood at the counter. On the other side of it, a thin man with big ears was writing in a black book.

“Excuse me,” Phoebe said.

“I’ll be right with you,” he said.

“This is absolutely urgent. I need to speak to someone about a murder,” Phoebe said.

He looked up quickly. “A murder?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “Or possibly a kidnapping. But the kidnapping might turn into a murder.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it is not a joke,” Phoebe said.

“Just a minute.” He whispered to a plump woman in a dark blue uniform. She wore glasses with thick lenses. “Is this something you girls have read about in a book?” she asked.

“No, it is not,” I said. That was a turning point, I think, when I came to Phoebe’s defense. I didn’t like the way the woman was looking at us—as if we were two fools. I wanted that woman to understand why Phoebe was so upset. I wanted her to believe Phoebe.

“May I ask who it is who has been kidnapped or possibly murdered?” the woman said.

Phoebe said, “My mother.”

“Oh, your mother. Come along, then.” Her voice was sugary and sweet, as if she was speaking to tiny children. We followed her to a room with glass partitions. An enormous man with a huge head and neck, and massive shoulders, sat behind the desk. His hair was bright red, and his face was covered in freckles. He did not smile when we entered. After the woman repeated what we had told her, he stared at us for a long time.

His name was Sergeant Bickle, and Phoebe told him everything. She explained about her mother disappearing, and the note from Mrs. Cadaver, and Mrs. Cadaver’s missing husband, and the rhododendron, and finally about the lunatic and the mysterious messages. At this point, Sergeant Bickle said, “What sort of messages?”

Phoebe was prepared. She pulled them out of her book bag and laid them on the desk in the order in which they had arrived. He read each one aloud.

Don’t judge a man until you’ve

walked two moons in his moccasins.

Everyone has his own agenda.

In the course of a lifetime, what does it matter?

You can’t keep the birds of sadness from flying over your head, but you can keep them from nesting in your hair.

Sergeant Bickle looked up at the woman seated next to us, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. To Phoebe, he said, “And how do you think these are related to your mother’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

Sergeant Bickle asked Phoebe to spell Mrs. Cadaver’s name. “It means corpse,” Phoebe said. “Dead body.”

“I know. Is there anything else?”

Phoebe pulled out the envelope with the unidentifiable hair strands. “Perhaps you could have these analyzed,” she suggested.

Sergeant Bickle looked at the woman, and again the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. The woman removed her glasses and wiped the lenses.

They were not taking us seriously, and I felt my ornery donkey self waking up. I mentioned the potential blood spots that Phoebe had marked with adhesive tape.

“But my father removed the tape,” Phoebe said.

Sergeant Bickle said, “I wonder if you would excuse me a few minutes?” He asked the woman to stay with us, and he left the room.

The woman asked Phoebe about school and about her family. She had an awful lot of questions. I kept wondering where Sergeant Bickle had gone and when he was coming back. He was gone for over an hour. There were three framed pictures on Sergeant Bickle’s desk, and I tried to lean forward to see them, but I couldn’t. I was afraid the woman would think I was nosy.

Sergeant Bickle finally returned. Behind him was Phoebe’s father. Phoebe looked extensively relieved, but I knew it was not a coincidence that her father was there.

“Miss Winterbottom,” Sergeant Bickle said, “your father is going to take you and your friend home now.”

“But—” Phoebe said.

“Mr. Winterbottom, we’ll be in touch. And if you would like me to speak with Mrs. Cadaver—”

“Oh no,” Mr. Winterbottom said. He looked embarrassed. “Really, that won’t be necessary. I do apologize—”

We followed Mr. Winterbottom outside. In the car, he said nothing. I thought he might drop me off at my house, but he didn’t. When we got to their house, the only thing he said was, “Phoebe, I’m going to go talk with Mrs. Cadaver. You and Sal wait here.”

Mrs. Cadaver was unable to give him any more information about Phoebe’s mother’s call. All Mrs. Winterbottom had said was that she would phone soon.

“That’s all?” Phoebe asked.

“Your mother also asked Mrs. Cadaver how you and Prudence were. Mrs. Cadaver told her that you and Prudence were fine.”

“Well, I am not fine,” Phoebe said, “and what does Mrs. Cadaver know anyway, and besides, Mrs. Cadaver is making the whole thing up. You should let the police talk to her. You should ask her about the rhododendron. You should find out who this lunatic is. Mrs. Cadaver probably hired him. You should—”

“Phoebe, your imagination is running away with you.”

“It is not. Mom loves me, and she would not leave me without any explanation.”

And then her father began to cry.