Nobody can make the elephant move from the grave. Not even Henry Jack. They are trying all kinds of things, but nothing works. Queenie Grace just lies there, over the grave.
“Jeez,” says Henry Jack. “She always listens to me. She’s definitely not herself.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Grandma says. “Grief changes you.”
“What are we going to do?” Trullia asks. “How will we get her out of here?”
And then I remember: Grandpa Bill’s song, the one that always made Queenie Grace follow.
I whistle “Amazing Grace,” just like I remember Grandpa doing it, that last time in West Virginia.
Queenie Grace looks at me. And then, she slowly, slowly, slowly heaves herself up to standing.
I keep whistling. I start to walk, and she follows me. She follows me all the way out of the cemetery, onto the road. I just keep walking, never looking back, hearing the weight of Queenie Grace behind me.
When I get to the car, I do Grandpa’s tongue-click sound for stop, and she listens. Queenie Grace listens to me and she stops, right behind the little green car.
“Lily,” whispers Grandma Violet. “You are just like your grandpa. Why, I think she listens to you almost as well as she listened to Bill. You have the magic touch.”
We all get in the car. Trullia drives again, her eyes checking the rearview mirror for the elephant. She’s still following the car.
Queenie Grace follows the car all the way home.