Missing on Superstition Mountain (15 page)

CHAPTER 20

NECESSITIES AND SUPPLIES

T
HEY SPENT THE WEEKEND
lying low, as Simon called it. They played darts in the basement; they helped their dad weed the walk; they found an old rope from a tire swing and strung it between two trees about a foot off the ground so they could play tightrope walkers, and then snake pit, and then river of piranhas. It was just like any other weekend. Part of Henry felt relieved. It was nice to be normal for a while, doing normal things, not finding skeletons or talking to crazy people or stumbling through graveyards that had a tombstone with your own last name on it. Every time he thought about the mountain—about going up the mountain again, back to the canyon—a chill crept through him.

But the other part of Henry knew this was the test. Could he live up to Uncle Hank's name or not? Was he brave enough to go up the mountain and bring back the skulls? He wanted to believe he was that brave inside, and the only reason nobody knew it was there hadn't been a chance to prove it yet … sort of the way the old lamp in the book
Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
lay around for centuries with a genie inside, but nobody knew it because they hadn't happened to pick it up and dust it off. Was it possible that Henry could have lived his whole life without a chance to discover his inner fearlessness? He wanted to think so, but secretly had his doubts.

On Sunday afternoon, he was contemplating this and other not-so-happy thoughts while his father sat at the kitchen table paying bills.

“Is Uncle Hank buried at the cemetery?” Henry asked Mr. Barker.

“Why, no, Hen. He was cremated. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” Henry said, and then quickly, making it a more general inquiry, “Do you want to be cremated?”

As it turned out, Mr. Barker had a surprising amount to say on this subject. No, he did not want to be cremated. He found the “blazing inferno” too unnerving, though of course he would be unable to feel anything, being dead. Nor did he want to be buried, as a matter of fact, because he was claustrophobic and he didn't like the idea of being underground covered by dirt. Mrs. Barker walked into the kitchen at this point and added, “Though of course you won't know that or feel that, being dead.” Nor did Mr. Barker want to have his body donated to science—Mrs. Barker's preference—because he didn't want medical students standing around making fun of him.

“Honey, that's ridiculous,” Mrs. Barker interjected. “They would never do that. You're being paranoid.”

“No, I'm not. They
DO
do that. You're forgetting that I had a friend who went to medical school—Carl Lisi—and he told me all about it.” He turned to Henry. “Now, what I'm really paranoid about is that your mother will decide to donate my body to science even though I don't want her to. Do you hear that, Henry? Happy to have them transplant any useful organs, but I don't want my body left at the mercy of a bunch of incompetent grad students.”

Mrs. Barker rolled her eyes. “Go ahead. Tell Henry what you want instead.”

Mr. Barker tilted back in his chair and stretched his arms expansively. “Well, this is what I have in mind: a nice mausoleum.”

Mausoleum.
Henry liked the long, musical sound of the word. “What's that?” he asked.

“It's an above-ground tomb,” his father explained, “made out of stone. That's fitting, right, Henry? Like a crypt, no windows, but big enough for the coffin to sit inside.”

“Now tell Henry how much that would cost,” Mrs. Barker said.

“Pshaw, what does the cost matter?” Mr. Barker winked at Henry. “I'm sure you'll spare no expense for me when I'm gone. You'll want to do it up right.”

Mrs. Barker groaned. “It would cost a fortune. And what a waste!”

“Oh, well, too bad,” Mr. Barker said philosophically. “It's my dying wish. You're my witness, Henry.”

“Don't pay any attention to him,” Mrs. Barker told Henry. “He's kidding around.”

Mr. Barker pulled Henry close, and whispered, “Just don't let her donate my body to science! I'm begging you.”

“I can hear that,” Mrs. Barker called over her shoulder as she left the room. “And it won't be up to the boys, you know.…”

Mr. Barker raised his hands helplessly. “Rats! Foiled again.”

Henry crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them, thinking about the mountain. “A mausoleum does sound nice,” he said, and then, “Dad, are you scared of dying?”

“Yes,” his father answered promptly. “But your mother isn't.”

“Why not?” Henry asked.

“Oh, you'll have to ask her. Maybe because it's natural. And because there's always something left—we return to bones. And you know how she likes bones.”

Henry nodded. He stared at the glittering ring of droplets around the base of his father's glass of iced tea.

“What's the matter, sport?” his father asked. “You seem gloomy.”

“Nothing,” Henry said. “Just thinking.”

*   *   *

To Henry's mounting dismay, the plan to spend the day at Delilah's on Monday went off without a hitch.

“That is so nice of you boys, to help with their garden!” Mrs. Barker said. “It's a very neighborly thing to do. And I get the impression that Delilah's father isn't around much, don't you? So I bet they really appreciate it. Just make sure you dig exactly where Mrs. Dunworthy tells you to, okay?”

“We will, Mom,” Simon assured her while Henry looked guiltily at his shoes. He hated lying to their mother, but what other choice did they have? She would never agree to their plan. It was the only way to bring the skulls back where they could be identified. Henry squared his shoulders. It was the right thing to do, even if their mother didn't know it yet.

Mrs. Barker continued, “And call to let me know how it's going. Maybe I could come over to see the garden this afternoon. I'd like to meet Delilah's mother. I feel bad that I haven't introduced myself before now.”

“Oh, I don't think we'll finish it today,” Simon said. “You should come tomorrow when it's all done.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Barker agreed. “And it's all right for you to stay there for lunch?”

“Delilah said it was fine,” Henry said carefully. That was technically true; Delilah had said it was fine with her mother for them to be there all day. Not that they were actually going to be there.

The boys were starting to leave when Jack cried, “I forgot my paper!” At first Henry didn't realize what he meant, but then he remembered it was the list of supplies for their trip up the mountain. Jack dashed back to his bedroom and reappeared, waving it triumphantly in one hand.

“What's that?” Mrs. Barker asked, reaching for it.

Henry froze. “Oh, it's nothing—” Simon started to say, but their mother took the paper from Jack and studied it.

Nobody moved, and Jack's eyes widened in horror.

“Jack, these are good drawings!” Mrs. Barker said, beaming at him. “And on Uncle Hank's stationery too. It looks so official. So many little pictures—what's this?”

Jack gulped. “Candy.”

“And this?”

“More candy.”

Mr. Barker, hurrying through the kitchen on his way to work, tousled Jack's hair and laughed.

“And what about this?”

“Soda,” Jack explained.

“It's like a menu. Or a grocery list,” their mother observed cheerfully, handing the paper back to Jack. “Okay, boys, good luck with the garden!”

As they hurried outside, she held the door for them and waved innocently from the stoop. Josie, by contrast, darted between her legs and under the bushes, watching them from the shadows with her skeptical golden eyes.

Henry felt a leaden mix of guilt and resolve as they rode away. He could hear Simon scolding Jack as they rounded the corner of Delilah's street.

“You have to be careful! What if she'd figured out what it was? It's a good thing you can't draw.”

“I can too draw!” Jack cried. “She said it was
GOOD
! And Mom's an
ARTIST.
”

“Well, she couldn't tell what anything was.”

Henry rode between them. “Do you really think we should be doing this?”

“Doing what?” Simon asked.

Henry swallowed. “Going up the mountain again.”

“Aw, come on, Henry! Don't chicken out.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why are you so scared?”

Henry's jaw clenched. “I'm not! It's just … I have a bad feeling about it.”

Simon turned to him in frustration. “What? We've been up there before. Nothing happened. We know where we're going this time, and we'll bring plenty of water.”

Henry looked at Simon in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘nothing happened'? Jack fell down the side of a cliff, we found three skulls, and a tree almost crushed me! And it was really creepy! Don't you remember what it felt like up there? You're supposed to be the responsible one,” he finished plaintively.

Simon steered into Delilah's driveway and stopped, turning to face Henry. “I'm tired of being the responsible one! It's boring to follow the rules all the time. Come on, Uncle Hank must have gone up the mountain dozens of times. And he lived into his eighties. We'll be okay. Don't you want to? It's an adventure!”

Henry propped his bike by the garage, staring miserably at the asphalt driveway. What Simon said was true. Uncle Hank had gone up and down the mountain lots of times; Emmett Trask said so. And he wasn't afraid.

“Don't be a scaredy cat, Henry!” Jack said loudly, so loudly Henry was afraid that even inside the house, Delilah could hear. He stiffened. He wanted to tell Jack that expression didn't make any sense. There was nothing scared about Josie. She was the reason they'd all gone up the mountain in the first place. But he only frowned. “You're not the boss of all of us, Simon,” he said.

“I know that,” Simon snapped. But suddenly he relented. He draped his arm over Henry's shoulder. “It's okay, Hen,” he said. “Tell you what: if it's gets weird up there, and you feel scared, we'll come right back. I promise. We won't even get the skulls.”

“Hey—” Jack protested.

“Really?” Henry asked.

“Really,” Simon said.

Delilah was waiting at the front door. “What's taking you guys so long?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Henry said. “We're coming.”

“Here's the list!” Jack clamored, thrusting it into her hands. “Can you tell what it says?”

“Sure,” Delilah answered dubiously. “That's something to drink, right?”

“Yep! Soda.”

“And that's … grapes?”

“Candy!”

“What's this one?”

“Band-Aids.”

“That's smart, Jack,” Delilah said. “We should take Band-Aids, just in case.”

“See?” Jack turned to Simon smugly.

“Well, that
was
smart,” Simon admitted. “Smarter than showing Mom the list, at least.”

Jack stuck out his tongue, but Delilah pulled them into the house before it could go any further.

“Do you have a compass?” Simon asked her. “A compass would be good.”

Delilah nodded. “Yeah, in the box of camping stuff in the basement. I'll go look for it. You guys can start filling up the backpack. It's on the kitchen counter.”

Simon headed immediately through the archway to the kitchen, but Henry and Jack stood in the foyer, looking around. Other people's houses were so interesting, Henry thought—like a giant version of the inside of someone's backpack. There were so many different ways that their owners' personalities could shine through—in furniture, knickknacks, how messy or neat a place was. Delilah's house was tidy but stuffed full, every table and shelf packed tight with things. In the living room, there were dozens of framed photographs. They covered the walls and crowded every square inch of the end tables.

“Wow, there are so many pictures,” Jack said.

Henry walked around looking at them. A much smaller Delilah with fat cheeks grinned toothlessly from a baby swing; Delilah clung to the railing at the top of a slide; Delilah leaned forward on the shoulders of a man with a big smile and crinkly brown eyes. Her father, Henry decided.

“Here it is!” Delilah cried jubilantly, bursting through the basement door. She had a scratched silver compass in one palm. “I can't believe I found it. What else do we need?”

“Supplies!” Simon called from the kitchen. “Is it okay to take anything on the counter?”

“Yeah, I put all of that out for us,” Delilah said, glancing at Jack and adding, “but leave room for Jack's list.”

Henry and Jack followed her into the kitchen, where Simon was stuffing bottled water into Delilah's backpack, which was a disconcerting neon shade of pink.