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The Brass Obelisk

The morning dew squeaked on the soles of my shoes, squeegeeing the grass as I chased Robbie through the cemetery. I could hear his Oscar Mayer Wiener Whistle blaring at me, his secret code, but he never let me in on it. He was up to something because when I called, he didn’t answer, just whistled: Thweeee. Brushing a leaf off my face and tripping over a tree root, I was getting mad and cold. The tombstones looked like a parking lot full of mini-Stonehenge boulders, my fingers stinging from touching ‘em, but I stopped when I spotted great-great-grandfather Thomas’ obelisk, a mini-version of George Washington’s monument. Thweeee I heard, and I ran to it.
“Boo!” Robbie shouted, jumping out from behind the obelisk and right into my face.
“Stop it,” I said, my breath steamy. He just snickered, his sly giggle. That meant he was really up to something, and it had to be weird, had to be trouble, and I had to stop him. “Come on, let’s go back. Everyone’s planting flowers and they’re wondering where you’re at.”
Patting his pockets, he paced the edge of the grave and said, “I need my wrench.”
“A wrench? For what?” I asked, exasperated. “I know you like taking things apart and putting things together, but in a cemetery? That’s just plain weird.”
Robbie whipped a wrench out of his jacket, plopped down on the grave at the base of the obelisk, and began tapping a metal plate. “Something’s inside here,” he said, “and we’re gonna bust it out.” He began unscrewing a large nut on the side of the monument. His fingers looked skeletal, his knuckles white as he fought the rusty bolt and autumn air.
Peering over slick granite monuments, I said, “Do you know the kind of trouble we’re gonna be in if someone catches us? This is called desecration, and I’ll probably get a year’s worth of grounding for it.” My hands were shaking, my stomach a ball.
He groaned as he turned the wrench, his tongue poking out of his mouth, his breath wild from panting. “Or maybe you’re just scared of ghosts,” he said, curling his eyebrow at me, his taunting expression.
I jumped off the grave, my heartbeat a little behind me and said, “No, but I’m the one who’s gonna get punished because they say I know better than you. So come on, retighten that bolt and let’s get outta here.” I slapped the wrench out of his hand.
“No,” he shouted, leering at me. He picked it out of the wet grass and his fingers churned away at the bolt until it popped off and rolled onto great-great-grandma-Elisa’s side of the tomb. “Something’s inside this metal plate. And I’m not gonna stop until I get it out.” His breathing was hard, the wrench sapping his energy.
I knew Robbie. When he was that determined, nothing would stop him. “Okay, I give up. But you’re the one who’s gonna take the heat for this, you hear? I’m gonna tell them I tried to stop you.”
Another bolt ejecting to the grass he said, “Okay, nothin’ll happen to me anyhow.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Your parents never punish you for anything.” They never did, and that’s why my dad’s side of the family says he’s not normal, but wild. “Why’s this so important to you?” I asked, in between watching him and scanning to make sure no one was coming for us.
Then we heard the sound of someone crying and moaning, as if they just found out they were dying. Stopping everything, Robbie peered around the obelisk as I crept up alongside him. “Mom! What’s she doing there?” I asked. She had her head on her arms and was sobbing on a tombstone. “That’s not Uncle Charlie’s grave.”
“Sure isn’t,” he replied. We craned our necks to get a better look. “It’s a few rows away from Charlie’s. Whoever’s buried there died awhile back.”
We were too far away to read any names or dates. “I’ve never seen my mom cry that way.” A cloud of gnats rolled between us as sunshine poured through the trees. I swatted them away from my nose and eyes, trying to scatter them, but I couldn’t do the same for my worry. “Who the heck could be buried there?”
“Dunno,” he said.
My mother fell to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and moaned. Her cries pierced right through me, making my shoulders quiver.
“No McCartens are buried there,” he said, twirling the wrench through his fingers. “It musta been someone real important to her though.”
I stared as my grandma ran to her and began patting her on the back. “I wonder what happened,” I said as we scooted back and Robbie continued loosening nuts and bolts. He lived in Lakeside, so he came to the cemetery more than we did to plant flowers and pull weeds. But this place was also a gossip site on holy ground. “Do you remember your parents saying anything?”
He unfastened another bolt, peered at me, and took a deep breath, “Nope.” Then a sudden burst of excitement welled in his eyes as he and said, “But I did hear my parents talkin’ about something once.” He gulped down air. “That’s why I’m doin’ this.”
“What?” My heart raced when I saw a screw and nut pummel the ground.
“My dad said money’s in the family somewhere. I’ve checked everywhere. But no luck. So money, or treasure, has to be in this place. I’ve been casing this obelisk for months.” He tapped the metal plate with his wrench, and the ting-tang rang in our ears.