Here Lies Linc (30 page)

Addie frowned as she stood up, as if the memory still pained her. “It was Mother who chose it. Since I was the only child in the family and a daughter, she wanted an upside-down torch for Papa’s memorial to symbolize his death and the end of the Raintree line.” She paused. “But I refused to accept that idea.”

We all blinked at the sudden rise in Addie’s voice. Jeeter stopped fidgeting. Then Addie turned to look at me, her eyes
shiny with determination. “Even after I had given in and agreed to let the Crenshaws take my son, I knew it wouldn’t be the end of the Raintrees. I went to see the stonemason myself and tried to convince him to make a few changes. In the end, he compromised and carved the torch lying on its side.”

“With the flame still burning,” I murmured.

A triumphant smile crept over Addie’s face. “Exactly,” she said.

I had always felt kind of embarrassed about my middle name. I mean, who wants a weird middle name like Raintree? But finally it made sense and felt right—just like it felt right for all of us to move on to Dad’s wall. I let Jeeter push Mr. Krasny’s wheelchair, and I felt a calm seep over me as I led the way. Once we were there, Lottie guided Addie closer to see the spot where Dad’s name was etched in the black granite. Addie didn’t cry. She just stared for a long, peaceful minute, leaning on Lottie’s arm.

When no one was looking, Lottie pressed something into my hand. It was Dad’s watch, ticking away with an extra hole in the strap. “Thank you, Lottie,” I whispered as I fastened the watch around my wrist. It fit me perfectly now.

Jeeter was standing with his hands on his hips, squinting up at the names on Dad’s wall. “Your father’s got some great next-door neighbors,” he blurted out.

“Excuse me?” I said, wondering if I had heard him right.

“Well, I knew a few of these folks from around town.” Jeeter walked farther down the wall. “And so far I don’t see a single one I didn’t like.”

I shook my head. “You’re crazy, Jeeter.”

“Good neighbors are important,” Mr. Krasny chimed in, and I smiled to myself, thinking of the grumpy old men in their plots under my bedroom window, resting in peace at last.

The Black Angel was the last stop on our graveyard tour. I hadn’t exactly planned for my report to be the grand finale of our field trip, so I felt a little unsteady as everybody assembled around the statue, watching me fumble for the pages of notes folded in my coat pocket.

Of course, having Lottie there made me extra nervous. I knew she had been biting her tongue for the past month, resisting the urge to ask too many questions about my research or dole out directions whenever she saw me floundering. But now I could see how eager she was to hear my results. She stood off to the side, smiling with anticipation.

I smoothed the creases from my sheets of paper and let out a jittery breath of air. “Today I’d like to tell you the
true
story of the Black Angel,” I announced. “The story begins with a mysterious woman named Theresa Dolezal Feldevert.”

Jeeter was watching me with his eyes wide, like a kid at the movies. All he needed was a bucket of popcorn.

“Theresa was born in 1836 in the small village of Strmilov, Bohemia. But like the date of her death missing from this stone,” I continued, turning to point at the dates carved on the front of the statue’s pedestal, “her life has always been
shrouded in sadness and superstition—
until now.
” I paused for effect, just like I had planned.

“I started this project thinking the superstitions were ridiculous. How could a silly statue be a messenger of doom? But I have to admit, the more I learned about Theresa Feldevert, the more I couldn’t help believing there might really be a curse linked to her name.”

To prove my point, I spilled out the list of tragic events in Theresa’s life, beginning with the fire that destroyed her family’s village and ending with the death of her rancher husband in Oregon. “She returned to Iowa, frail and crippled,” I said dramatically, “but determined to build a magnificent memorial to honor those she had lost.”

I glanced over at Mr. Krasny, who was hunched in his wheelchair, listening intently. He looked like a wise old gnome with his stocking cap perched on the top of his mostly bald head. “I might still be convinced that the Curse was real,” I confessed with a smile, “if it hadn’t been for my neighbor, Mr. Martin Krasny. Mr. Krasny actually remembers seeing old Widow Feldevert near this very spot when he was a little boy.”

When the others turned surprised looks in Mr. Krasny’s direction, he elbowed himself up in his wheelchair. “It’s true,” he murmured.

“But the real key to solving the mystery,” I announced, “is the fact that Mr. Krasny also happens to speak Czech—Theresa’s native language.”

“Only a little,” Mr. Krasny corrected, trying to brush away the attention with a swipe of his crooked hand.

“Enough to help me figure out what Theresa was really like,” I said flatly. “See, Mr. Krasny’s father was Czech too, and he wrote articles for a Czech newspaper that used to be published for all the Czech immigrants in town. Turns out Mr. Krasny still has copies of those old newspapers, and when he found out about the project I was working on, he started combing through the pages, looking for clues. Just like Sherlock Holmes.”

The sun glinted off Mr. Krasny’s glasses as he chuckled and shook his head.

“No, really,” I went on. “He searched every inch of those papers—even the advertisements. And that’s where he found the answer to one of the main questions that had been bugging me about Theresa from the beginning. I kept wondering how she earned a living before she met her second husband. She and her son Eddie were all alone when they first came to this country. So how’d she get money to buy food and pay rent all those years?”

I waited an extra beat, stretching out the suspense for as long as possible.

“Well?” Delaney said with an exasperated laugh rising in her throat.
“Tell us.”

I looked down at my page of notes. “I’ll read you the translation of the advertisement that Mr. Krasny found: ‘Terezií Dolezal, an experienced midwife from the Vienna Clinic, has settled in Iowa City and will assist everyone perfectly with deliveries and asks for the favor of all in town as well as in the countryside.’ ”

Delaney let out a gasp. “She was a midwife? That’s amazing.”
Her gaze drifted up to the Angel over my shoulder, and I knew she was thinking back to our night in the cemetery, when she had followed her crazy urge to climb up and kiss the statue’s hand. Ellie was born the very next evening.

Suddenly Lottie was chiming in, her voice cool and analytical. “Interesting. But is that the only piece of information that persuaded you to give up on the idea of a curse? In the old days, midwifery was often associated with witchcraft, you know.”

Lottie lifted one eyebrow. I could tell she was teasing but testing me at the same time, as if I were one of her students at the university. Jeeter was waiting to hear my answer, looking more spooked than ever.

“The ad’s just the beginning,” I said in a rush. “Remember how I said Mr. Krasny ran into the widow once, here in the cemetery, when he was little? He thinks he was about six years old when that happened, so it must have been sometime around 1923. From her birth date listed on the monument, I figured Theresa would have been about eighty-seven then—close to the end of her life. So I used that date to help narrow down my search for her obituary in the old newspapers at the historical society.”

Lottie was nodding her approval, and I found myself talking faster, gesturing with my hands. “I started with the 1923 papers on microfilm,” I breezed on excitedly, “and worked from there. It didn’t take too long for me to find a newspaper story about Theresa’s death in 1924. The article said that Theresa had ordered the statue to go up in Oakland several years earlier, and she had arranged to have the ashes of her
son Eddie and her husband Nicholas moved to this location. And the obituary said she was going to be cremated and buried beside them, right here in the shadow of the Angel.” I tapped the hard ground with my toe.

Jeeter interrupted me. “Then why isn’t her death date carved on the stone?”

I shrugged. “I think the stonemason must have forgotten. He had a bigger carving job to worry about. But I’ll get to that in a second.”

I pulled my shoulders back and kept going. “So once I had a death date, Ms. Beckett at the society helped me track down a copy of Theresa’s will in the old records. That’s how I found out what she did with all the money she inherited from her husband out in Oregon.”

I looked around at everyone’s expectant faces. “Theresa left most of her money to her village back in Bohemia. She wanted it to be used for building a children’s hospital.”

Delaney gave a little hop in place.
“See?”

“Yep,” I said to Delaney. “You were right all along. Theresa wasn’t evil. She was only heartbroken. I guess she probably wanted to build a children’s hospital because of the way she lost her two sons when they were so young.”

I could see Addie’s eyes turning misty with understanding. Until that minute I hadn’t really thought about how much they had in common. Just like Theresa, Addie had spent her whole life grieving over the loss of a son, waiting for the day when she could make things right somehow.

“And there was one last thing in the will,” I revealed.
“I found the Czech epitaph that Theresa wanted the stonecutter to engrave on the base of the Angel when she died.”

I paused and added sheepishly, “Turns out the inscription was a little different from what I copied off the statue when I started this whole thing. Some of the words had faded over the years, so the first version I gave to Mr. Krasny to translate was missing some important phrases.”

I glanced over at Lottie, expecting to see an I-told-you-so smirk stamped across her face. But she wasn’t gloating in the least. She actually looked kind of impressed.

Then I walked toward Mr. Krasny, handing him my page full of notes, where I had carefully copied down his most recent translation. “Will you read the real inscription out loud for us, Mr. Krasny? Since you’re the one who did most of the work?”

With a satisfied nod, Mr. Krasny carefully adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. I had never heard him speak in such a slow, solemn voice:

There was a small moment of quiet as everyone stared up at the Angel and let the meaning of the words settle in. Lottie was the first one to break the silence. “Well, in that case …,” she said, stepping over to join me at the base of the statue. At first I thought she wanted to give me a big hug of congratulations. But she just smiled and brushed past me, and then, standing on her tiptoes, Professor Charlotte Landers,
of all people
, reached up to press her palm against the Black Angel’s skirt.

“Heck,” Jeeter blurted out. “Why not?” He loped over and gave another fold in the Angel’s skirt a good rub.

Then Mr. Krasny was pushing himself out of his wheelchair, and Addie and Delaney were coming up to take a turn. I squeezed in between them and laughed as I laid my hand next to theirs, soaking up the warmth of the bronze in the sun.

M
Y FIRST TRIP INTO
O
AKLAND
C
EMETERY
came about by accident. My family had recently moved to Iowa, where we were lucky enough to find a house near the largest public park in Iowa City. Whenever I had time, I would take a jog through Hickory Hill Park, exploring the rambling network of wooded trails. One morning I followed a small dirt path off the main route. I could see some sort of clearing through the thick trees up ahead. I emerged from the shadowy woods and found myself on the edge of a sprawling graveyard.

I had always been fascinated by cemeteries, and this one pulled me back again and again over the next month or so. I would jog along the pathways past the graves—old and new, plain and ornate—and think about all the poignant stories hidden behind the simple names and dates etched in the stones. It was a crisp fall evening, right at dusk, when I first encountered the Black Angel. I had been determined to run five miles that day without stopping (a little farther than Linc’s goal), but as soon as I saw the forbidding statue rising up in the heart of the cemetery, my feet slowed to a skittish walk. I circled round the pedestal and tried to make out the
strange foreign words in the inscription.
Who could be buried here?
I wondered.

As the next several years passed, I kept my ears tuned for historical facts about the Black Angel. But no one seemed to know any more details beyond the dark warnings associated with the monument. Soon even my own three daughters, ready for an added thrill after trick-or-treating each Halloween, were begging me to drive them over to Oakland Cemetery to visit the Angel. One Halloween we arrived to find votive candles burning around the base of the statue. My kids and their friends dared each other to sprint over and touch the Angel’s candlelit skirts, but eventually they agreed they were perfectly satisfied to stay in the car and look.

When I finally decided that I wanted to write a novel about a boy who grows up next to Oakland Cemetery, I spent days in the State Historical Society of Iowa, digging for more information about the family whose names appear in the Black Angel’s epitaph. But the few clues I could find in the archives about the Feldeverts were sketchy and disjointed—certainly not interesting enough to provide a gripping plot for my novel.

I had almost resigned myself to the idea of demoting the Black Angel, pushing her to the background of my story, where her only role would be to add a little mystery and atmosphere, when one of the librarians at the historical society asked me, “Haven’t you met Tim Parrott? He’s writing a book about the Black Angel too.”