The straps on the backpack chafed on the way downhill, but my good mood overcame any discomfort. I had done it!
Willie floated beside me, grinning at me all the way.
The sun hid behind gathering clouds. By the time we reached the cemetery, the wind had come up.
I collected the bucket, then headed up the railroad trail. By the time I got to the tree house, every muscle in my body ached. I looked forward to a hot shower and a cold lemonade, but first I wanted to try to pry open the box I’d found.
I didn’t see Mrs. Stray or her kittens, but the cat food was gone. I refilled the dish, then climbed up the ladder and sat on the big pillow.
I removed the heavy metal box from my backpack and fiddled with the lock for a minute. It held fast. Then I remembered the railroad spike in my backpack. I stuck the narrow end of the spike under the box lid, then pressed down as hard as I could on the spike’s head. The edge of the metal lid bent slightly. I moved the spike half an inch and tried again. The metal bent there, too. I worked my way methodically along the edge of the box, prying the lid as much as I could.
Around and around the box I went. Each time I pressed on the spike, the box lid gave a tiny bit more. I shoved the spike in as far as I could and pressed with both hands until one side of the lid raised up far enough so I could peek inside.
I held the box up to the window so the light shined inside it. Then I peered into the box and gasped. The box contained money! I couldn’t tell if there was a whole stack of paper money or merely a bill on top of something else. I also couldn’t tell what denomination the money was. The opening I’d made wasn’t wide enough for me to stick my fingers in and pull the money out.
In my excitement, I forgot all about my hunger and thirst and aching muscles. I focused on opening the metal box. I pried the edge of the lid a while longer, trying to loosen the hinges, but I couldn’t open it farther. I needed sturdier tools. I’d gone as far as I could go with the old railroad spike.
I left the spade and hatchet outside the tree house, then carried the box to Aunt Ethel’s house. Although I was curious about the contents, I was starving, and I needed a shower. I itched where the sweat had trickled down my neck.
I decided to eat first, get cleaned up, then take the box out to the barn, where all the tools were. I’d open it there and see how much money it contained. Maybe it’s only play money, I thought. The box might have been buried by kids pretending to be pirates. There might be a pretend treasure map showing the cemetery, with a big X on the grave of Willie’s leg.
Once I knew for sure what the box held, I would show it to Aunt Ethel. If it contained real money, she could call the police for me. It might be unjust, but a phone call from an adult would be taken more seriously than a call from a kid.
I had already concocted my story to explain how I found the box. I planned to say I went to the cemetery to plant some daisies on Aunt Florence’s grave. After I got there, I decided to put a few on one of the other graves, too, so I chose one that looked neglected.
When I dug a hole for the flowers, I discovered the box. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was too new to have been buried very long. It seemed suspicious, so I brought it home. If it was supposed to be there, I’d take it right back.
The story sounded plausible. There was no reason for anyone not to believe it.
“I’m home!” I called as I set the box on the kitchen table.
The house was still. “Aunt Ethel?”
No answer.
I looked around the kitchen. A large pink bakery-type box sat on the counter next to a sheet cake frosted with white frosting. Yellow roses made of buttercream icing decorated the edges of the cake, but the center part, where it would say “Happy Birthday” or “Congratulations” or whatever it was supposed to say, was still blank. She had not finished the cake.
A tube of frosting with a pointed tip lay on the counter next to the cake. I squeezed the end of the tube, and a line of yellow frosting came out the tip onto my finger. I licked it off.
“Aunt Ethel?” I called again. “Are you here?”
I found her lying on the living room floor. Her eyes were closed, and her face was the color of fireplace ashes. I knelt beside her. “Aunt Ethel?”
She didn’t answer.
She was unconscious, but I could tell she was breathing.
I grabbed the phone and called 911. “My aunt needs help,” I told the operator. I explained the situation and gave Aunt Ethel’s name. “I don’t know the street address,” I said, “but it’s up the hill from Carbon City. It’s the first driveway after you pass the cemetery.”
“We’ll find it,” the operator said. “Help is on the way.”
Later I learned Carbon City has a volunteer fire department, and the medic unit consists of local people, most of whom had lived in the area all their lives. The only address they needed was “the Hodge place.”
By the time I hung up, Aunt Ethel had opened her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “What happened?”
“I tripped on the edge of the rug.”
“I called nine-one-one. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
“Call them back and tell them not to come. I’ll be fine.”
She sat up.
“Maybe we should let them come and check you, just to be sure.”
“No! They’ll want to put me in the hospital. Help me stand up.”
When I tried to help her stand, she groaned and sank back down to the floor. “I sprained my ankle,” she said. “Get me a package of peas from the freezer.”
I found the peas, thinking it appropriate that Aunt Ethel would use frozen vegetables for an ice pack. “Which ankle?” I asked.
She pointed to her left side, and I placed the frozen peas on that ankle.
Fifteen minutes after I made the call, an ambulance drove in Aunt Ethel’s driveway. Two men carrying medical supplies hurried to the door.
“You can leave,” she called as I let them in. “I don’t need help after all.”
“Since we’re here, ma’am,” one of the medics said, “we’re required to examine you.”
“Fleas and mosquitoes!” Aunt Ethel said. “All I did was sprain my ankle. I don’t need doctors.”
Ignoring her protests, the medics listened to Aunt Ethel’s heart, took her pulse and blood pressure, and examined the ankle under the bag of peas. One of them said, “I think that ankle’s broken. You’ll need to go to the hospital in Diamond Hill for an X-ray.”
“I’m not going. I hate hospitals.”
“If your ankle’s broken, ma’am, you’ll need to have a cast put on it.”
“Mom broke her ankle once,” I said. “It healed fine with the cast.”
“Without it, you’d be in constant pain and likely not be able to walk right ever again,” the medic said. “You don’t want to need help to get around, do you?”
“Oh, all right, I’ll go. But I’m not staying there. I’m coming straight home as soon as they treat my ankle.”
“Is it OK if I go with her?” I asked.
“Are you a relative?” the man asked.
“I’m her nephew, Josh McDowell. I’m visiting her for the summer.”
“You can ride along if you want to.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks.”
I didn’t really want to go anywhere. I was tired and hungry. I wanted to stay here, finish opening the metal box, and see if it held real money. But I couldn’t let them take Aunt Ethel away by herself. It’s scary enough to go to the hospital without being all alone.
I thought of telling the medics about the box, but I didn’t know them, and they were busy taking care of Aunt Ethel. One of them put a splint on her ankle to hold it steady, while the other rolled a gurney into the house. I couldn’t bother them with my story of a buried box. Besides, I wanted to tell Aunt Ethel before I told anyone else and let her be the one to call the police.
Maybe when we got to the hospital, the doctors would find that her ankle was only sprained, not broken. Probably she would not have to be admitted but would come home today. I thought back to when Mom’s ankle was broken. She had not stayed in the hospital, but she’d been on pain medication that made her sleepy for a couple of days. Gramma had come to stay with us for a week.
If Aunt Ethel wasn’t able to talk to the police by tomorrow, I’d call them myself. By then, I’d have the box open all the way, and I’d know exactly what I’d found.
“Get my purse, Josh,” Aunt Ethel said as the medics lifted her onto the gurney. “I’ll need my Medicare card at the hospital.”
“What about a house key?” I asked.
“No need. I never lock the house.”
While the medics loaded her into the ambulance, I ran upstairs to her bedroom and grabbed her purse.
I had been taught always to lock the house when I left, so I felt around in the purse for a house key but didn’t find one. There were two keys on her key ring; one said FORD on it, so I knew that was for her truck, and the other was a small key with USPS on it, plus a number and a warning not to duplicate the key. I figured the letters stood for United States Postal Service, and the key would open Aunt Ethel’s post office box.
I thought back to the night I had arrived—could it be only four days ago? So much had happened, it seemed more like three weeks. I remembered when we got here that first night, Aunt Ethel had walked in without unlocking the door first.
I couldn’t be sure that Aunt Ethel would be coming home today, and it made me uneasy to leave the house unlocked, but since I had no key to get back in, I didn’t lock up when we left.
One of the medics drove, and the other rode in back with Aunt Ethel so I sat in front. I hoped the driver would turn on a siren and some flashing lights, but he didn’t. Maybe they only used the siren and lights in life-and-death cases.
Raindrops spattered the windshield. The driver turned on the windshield wipers.
“Will she be OK?” I asked as we turned out of the driveway.
“A broken ankle’s fixable, but every patient is different. She’ll probably get a cast and come home tonight or maybe tomorrow. Of course there’s always the chance that she’ll need a few weeks in a rehab hospital.”
I liked the first choice—coming home again right away. It was best for Aunt Ethel and also best for me. If she had to spend several weeks in a hospital, where would I go? If I had to go somewhere else now, what would happen to Mrs. Stray and her kittens? I didn’t want to leave until I’d tamed them and found them homes.
Maybe I could stay in Aunt Ethel’s house by myself. I knew Mom and Steven would never allow that, but I wouldn’t have to tell them about Aunt Ethel. I could send letters about Carbon City without mentioning that she’d fallen and had to go to the hospital. I could live in her house and ride my bike to the Carbon City Market if I needed supplies. I could take care of the peacock and spend my time taming Mrs. Stray and her three kittens.
For Aunt Ethel’s sake, I hoped she’d be fine, but if she wasn’t, I could manage on my own. If I got lonely, there was always Willie.
It’s pretty strange, I thought, when the only friend I have is a ghost who died more than one hundred years ago. Still, a friend is a friend, and I’d grown fond of the one-legged coal miner.