Turns out, Papa Kwirk had been with us all along.
Or most of him, anyway.
Aunt Gertie owned nine vacuum cleaners, five of which were operational. But only one of them held the remains of our recently departed grandfather. She told us how she’d accidentally spilled him all over the dining-room carpet trying to fill the ziplock baggie that would eventually stuff a shell in a museum. She’d decided to just keep him in the vacuum because, as she put it, “Jimmy was always ragging on me to be a little neater around the house.”
It was one of several stories that Aunt Gertie shared with us that night, though they were mostly stories that Papa Kwirk had shared with her. About things he’d held on to and things that haunted him. Garbage Pail Kids cards and the books Fletcher used to read as a kid. His own war medals and the letters from Vietnam that Grandma Shelley had kept in a drawer of her nightstand. Memories of love and of loss and the many bottles of bourbon he’d nearly drowned himself in. Over the years, it seemed, he’d told Aunt Gertie everything he couldn’t bring himself to tell Dad—the apologies and explanations, the hopes and regrets.
When he died, she said, the weight of all that passed on to her. So she had to find a way to pass on the message. Hence the scavenger hunt, inspired by the Easter-basket adventures of Dad’s youth, a tradition passed down from Kwirk to Kwirk. It was the best way she could think of to preserve his memory.
I still had some trouble picturing Aunt Gertie burying a box of trading cards in a stranger’s lawn. And I couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to get that book forty feet up that tree. But the rest was easy enough. Aunt Gertie knew almost everyone in town. All it took was a few phone calls. A few favors. She knew the owner of the ice-cream parlor, of course, and was friends with the manager at Bailey’s Pub. And, as it turned out, she and Mr. Oglesby were scheduled to go on their first date this Thursday.
She’d even given us a push when we needed it—sending us to Mallory’s so we could climb the Mountain. After all, you don’t hide the Easter basket from your kid so well that he never finds it.
And just like the basket full of candy I could have gotten just as easily elsewhere, it wasn’t about what was stuffed inside that shell at the museum. It was the finding it that mattered.
We sat for another hour around the table, the whole family, trading stories with Aunt Gertie, laughing and crying and remembering, until Cass asked if she could be excused to text her friends and Lyra asked if she could hunt for Beelzebub one last time.
“Can I go call Manny?”
I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to tell somebody what had happened, somebody not named Kwirk. Mom said I could, but that I had to leave out the part about the hired thugs—or at least what they had been hired for. I was just supposed to say that we were almost mugged. “We don’t want to say anything else until the police have had a chance to investigate,” she warned.
Getting mugged didn’t sound nearly as cool as being blackmailed in an act of corporate espionage, but I nodded, grabbed Aunt Gertie’s phone, and headed up to the Vault. I found a box big enough to sit on, glancing suspiciously at another vacuum cleaner sitting in the corner.
As soon as Manny picked up, I erupted, spouting like my dad after an ice-cream binge. I started with “Dude, you’re not going to believe this: I was just held at knifepoint,” then started over at the beginning, telling him all about the search for Grandpa’s ashes, from digging holes in the dark to the showdown in the museum.
“And get this,” I finished. “It turns out it wasn’t even my grandfather’s idea. My aunt Gertie was behind it all. How incredible is that?”
I waited for him to say something.
“Manny? You still there?”
When he finally spoke, I could almost hear his head shaking. “You know what? I take it all back. All those times you complained about how your family was crazy and I was, like, ‘All families are like that’ and tried to get you to shut up about it? I was wrong, dude. Your family is psycho. Like full-on straitjacket.”
“Yeah, but—” I started to say, but Manny wasn’t finished.
“I mean, a scavenger hunt? For his body? And not even all of his body? Just the part that wasn’t sucked up by the vacuum cleaner?”
“Well, she did spill him on the carpet. I’m sure if it had been the linoleum—”
“And who hides somebody’s ashes in a museum?”
“Yeah, it’s a little weird,” I admitted. “But then if you stop and think about it—”
“A little weird?” Manny insisted. “Dude, I will never doubt you again. Your family is certifiably bonkers.”
He was finally finished. I sat on my box surrounded by Aunt Gertie’s treasures—her toothbrushes and toasters and bags of aluminum foil—the phone pressed to my ear, struggling to come up with a response. I’d been waiting years for Manny to agree with me, to say this exact thing, and now that he finally had, I suddenly felt the urge to tell him he was wrong. Or that he was right, but that it didn’t matter, because, certifiable or not, they were still my family. I couldn’t change them, even if I wanted to. Or maybe it was wouldn’t, even if I could.
I was about to tell him so when a heart-stopping scream echoed through the giant house, reaching me from downstairs. It was the kind of scream only my drama queen sister could produce. But this didn’t sound like acting; this sounded like she was in real trouble.
“Sorry, Manny. Gotta go. I’ll call ya later.”
I hung up quickly and stuck my head out the door. I could hear my sister from the far side of the house. “Mom! Dad! Hurry! Get in here!”
What now? As I barreled down the stairs, I could see everyone else running to the garage, all of us following the sound of my sister’s hysterical voice.
“Delilah, no! Bad snake! Bad snake!”
I had a pretty good guess what had gone down.
It hadn’t actually gone down. Not all the way, at least. In fact, it was still sticking halfway out of the snake’s mouth.
Poor Beelzebub.
There had been no sightings. No sock nibblings. No streaks of fur slipping around the corner or under the couch. Lyra had spent most of Saturday and part of Sunday fruitlessly looking for Papa Kwirk’s fuzzy little weasel. Apparently she hadn’t thought to look in the garage. Or if she had, she hadn’t looked hard enough. There were a hundred places for a ferret to hide in there.
Delilah had found him, though. And then Cass found them both.
We all stood there in the entry, shocked speechless, looking at the python coiled on the concrete. I felt like we’d been striking that pose a lot lately. One glance at the terrarium told part of the story. In her rush to get out of the house the morning of the funneral, Cass had clearly forgotten to secure the latch on the top. Delilah, no doubt sensing warm blood in the air, had managed to push up one corner enough to climb up and out of her enclosure and drop over the side. Suddenly the whole garage was her playground. Or her cafeteria.
There was no telling how long the python had been loose, but it was obvious that her encounter with Beelzebub was a recent event: she’d barely managed to swallow his head.
“You put that ferret down right this second!” Cass screeched, scolding the snake with a wagging finger. Delilah’s head turned slightly, taking in the six humans scrunched in the doorway. I swear she looked embarrassed—like her mom had just yelled at her for chewing with her mouth open. But it was too late now; the ferret hung limp from Delilah’s unhinged jaws. She’d given him the “big hug,” even more crushing than the one Freckles had given me.
“Your stupid snake murdered Beelzebub!” Lyra shouted, glaring at Cass before burying her face in Mom’s shirt. With a look from Dad, Mom escorted my little sister back into the house; she seemed happy to have the excuse to leave the scene of the crime.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Cass mumbled, apologizing to nobody in particular. Dad draped an arm across her shoulders.
“It’s all right, dear,” Aunt Gertie said with a shrug. “We all gotta eat.” Cass let out another squeal. I imagine it was something close to the sound Beelzebub made when the python got her coils around him.
“Yeeah . . . I’m not sure a whole ferret’s such a good idea, though,” Dad speculated. “She’s used to eating mice.”
Delilah did seem to be struggling; she couldn’t quite get past Beelzebub’s front feet, which dangled just beneath her chin. Her head looked like a water balloon about to bust. Cass pleaded with Dad to do something.
Dad turned and asked Aunt Gertie if she had a pair of gloves he could borrow.
And maybe a set of salad tongs.
I don’t think anything good ever follows the words “in retrospect.”
Nobody ever says, “In retrospect, climbing that steel ladder in a lightning storm was a great idea.” Or, “In retrospect, forgetting the dinner rolls in the oven was a fantastic way to test the batteries in the smoke alarm.” Most of what we see in retrospect we regret.
In retrospect, it might have been better to let Delilah try to finish her meal. After all, if the Kwirks could conquer the Mountain, it’s possible the snake could have swallowed the rest of that ferret. She didn’t seem at all thankful to have it taken away from her, hissing and striking at Dad the moment Beelzebub was disgorged. Dad fell backward, just out of reach, holding the limp, wet weasel by its hind legs.
Cass managed to sneak around and grab the snake behind her head, and I held the terrarium lid up while my sister dropped Delilah in. I shut it quickly and made darn sure it was locked. I had visions of that angry python breaking out again, now with an even bigger appetite, slithering upstairs to get her revenge on those who’d snatched her dinner right out of her mouth. For some reason, I suspected she would come for me first.
With the snake secured and the ferret’s body recovered, Aunt Gertie went upstairs to find a shoebox—she only had about two hundred of them—to make a suitable-sized coffin. Mom had managed to calm Lyra down, and my little sister wiped her nose as she helped make a comfortable final resting spot using cotton balls and Kleenex. Dad, still wearing Aunt Gertie’s ski gloves, settled Beelzebub’s body gently in his makeshift casket; then Lyra added a couple of the toys from the box marked Ferret Crap, arranging them just so.
The Kwirks put on their jackets and sweatshirts. It was getting dark outside and there was a chill to the night air, but we had no choice. We had a funeral to attend. A real one this time.
Cass went and got the dirt-crusted shovel from Aunt Gertie’s shed and Dad let us all take turns digging this time. Apparently there was some law regarding how deep to bury animals in your yard.
I guess there are all sorts of rules when it comes to honoring the dead.
When it was finally deep enough, we let Lyra lower the box into the hole we’d made. Aunt Gertie excused herself and went back to the house, returning with a carnation from one of the many arrangements that had been given to her in memory of Papa Kwirk, its frilled petals white as a mound of whipped cream. She gave it to Lyra to lay on top of the box.
“Would you like to say something?” Dad asked.
“One eulogy in a week is enough for me,” Aunt Gertie said. “How about you take this one?”
Dad nodded and cleared his throat. When he bowed his head, we all followed suit.
“We, uh . . . we gather this evening to mourn the passing of, ahem, Beelzebub Kwirk—please excuse the name—whose sudden, tragic end both saddens us and gives us cause to reflect.” Dad took a deep breath and I opened my eyes, mostly to see if anyone else was looking. I couldn’t be sure because it was so dark, but I thought I could see Aunt Gertie trying not to laugh.
“Honestly, I didn’t get the chance to know Beelzebub very well,” Dad continued. “He was Frank’s pet, after all, so I didn’t see him much, and the few times he was around, I basically ignored him. But now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d spent more time with him, even though he was annoying. When he’d bite your ankles. Or steal your socks—”
“Or crap in your shoes,” Aunt Gertie added. Cass giggled.
“Right. And that. But still. Even though there were things about Beelzebub that frustrated us,” Dad said, “he was still a member of this family. And for that we loved him. He may have been a weasel, but he was also a Kwirk. So goodbye, Beelzebub. May you rest in peace. And may ferret heaven be full of empty paper bags. Amen.”
“Amen,” the rest of us mumbled. All except for Lyra, who said something that sounded like “See monumentum rera queries sir come a speecha.”
“What’s that mean, sweetie?” Mom asked.
“It’s Latin. It means, ‘If you seek his monument, look around.’”
Of course my little sister would know Latin. “And what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means we live on in those we leave behind,” Aunt Gertie said.
Lyra shrugged. “I just saw it in a superhero movie and thought it was cool,” she admitted.
Without thinking too hard about it, I leaned over and gave my little sister a hug.
Dad grabbed the shovel and started to fill the hole.
Hours later, it seemed—long after Beelzebub had been laid to rest—I decided to put an end to the longest day of my life before anything else could happen. I started making my rounds, telling everyone good night.
Cass was in the garage consoling Delilah, who had been robbed of her dinner; I found her leaning over the terrarium, whispering. I waved to my sister from the doorway and she waved back, which was how we usually said good night. I started to leave but then turned.
“Hey, I just wanted to say thanks, you know, for saving my life and all. You’re, um . . . you’re pretty good with a sword.” I looked down at my feet as I said it. When I glanced back up, I noticed Cass smiling at me.
“Wow. That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”
“A little bit,” I admitted.
“Well, you did okay yourself back there,” she said. “I mean, at least you didn’t faint. Which must have been tough given what a big swooner you are.”
“Swoonster.”
“Swoonmeister.”
Swoonmeister. I guess I could handle being a swoonmeister. I could also let her have the last word. Just this once. I waved again, leaving her in the garage with a cold-blooded killer.
Dad and Aunt Gertie were back at the dining-room table, still talking about Papa Kwirk. I was tempted to join them, to just sit and listen and take it all in, but I’d learned enough about my grandfather for one day. Dad gave me a long hug, the kind I’d normally try to wriggle out of. “Get some sleep,” he said. They didn’t look like they were going to bed anytime too soon. I said good night and went to find Mom.
She was sitting on the back porch. Lyra was curled up beside her, cocooned in Mom’s jacket, her head resting on Mom’s lap. The girl was out. Thwarting a band of formula-filching criminals during your quest to find your grandpa’s ashes drains a person.
My mother sensed it was me without even looking around. She could tell by my footsteps, I guess. Or maybe it was just motherly sixth sense. Out in the yard, the fireflies blinked on and off.
“It really is beautiful out here, isn’t it?” She was looking up at the stars, the universe’s light show on full display now. There were thousands of them. So many it was nearly impossible to focus and pick out the shapes. Find the belt and you find the man. I went and stood beside her, careful not to nudge my sister and wake her.
“That’s the funny thing about stars,” Mom continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “They burn so bright, with such intensity, and yet you can’t even see them most of the time. It’s only when everything gets dark, the darker the better. Then you realize—they were out here all along.”
I knew what she meant. When something’s always there, always around, it’s easy to take it for granted. I bent down to let my mother kiss me good night like she always did. Lyra squirmed a little, readjusting.
“I’m proud of you, Rion,” Mom said. “You did good today.”
“Well,” came my sister’s husky little voice, talking without even opening her eyes. “He did well.”
I smiled and patted Lyra’s head and started back to the kitchen door, rubbing the imprint of Mom’s kiss from my cheek. I had my hand on the knob when she called out, “There you are!”
I turned to see her pointing at the sky.