Free No Dark Valley by Jamie Langston Turner

hers. It wasn’t exactly full of antiques. There wasn’t a single thing of Grandmother’s Celia could ever remember wishing she could have—no table or chair or piece of jewelry or set of books. Not even a knickknack. Eighteen years ago she had been only too glad to wipe the dust of that cramped little house off her feet and get out of the crummy little town of Dunmore.
    She didn’t even want the bed she’d brought with her when she moved in with her grandmother. It hadn’t been worth much, really—just a cheap one her parents had bought through the want ads. There was a bad gouge along the top of the headboard now where she had thrown her hand mirror one day after Grandmother had once again come into her room and turned the radio dial to the Christian station in Roswell.
    The only thing from her childhood that she still had was her mother’s cedar chest, which she had taken to college and kept ever since. She had it in the living room of her apartment now and used it for storing blankets and sweaters. She thought of the furniture in Grandmother’s house, all of it unmatched secondhand stuff. She’d hate to fall heir to any of it. And she’d also hate to be the one stuck with the house itself, to have to put it up for sale. Maybe a deaf person would consider buying it. Or maybe somebody who worked for the railroad. Maybe they could get the train to slow down as it passed the house so they could hop on and off and thereby have a free ride to and from work every day.
    She knew Al was wishing she would go ahead and get into the car so they could be first leaving the cemetery. With all these cars, there was sure to be a bit of a bottleneck getting out. Walsh’s Funeral Services had furnished only two black limousines, which hadn’t begun to accommodate the family. So most of them had driven out in their own cars and parked along the little single-lane road that wound through the cemetery.
    But she really wanted to tell Aunt Beulah good-bye before she left. It surprised her that she wanted it so badly. Then, amazingly, in a development as luckily timed as those in all of Frank Bledsoe’s bad stories, Celia saw her aunt Beulah break from the graveside crowd and head straight toward her, hanging on to Uncle Taylor’s arm, pulling him along and waving a hand. “Celia, honey! Wait! I need to see you before you leave!”
    Celia left the shelter of Al’s umbrella and walked back to meet her aunt. She heard Al heave a sigh behind her.
    â€œI have something for you,” Aunt Beulah said. “Sadie told me to give it to you after the funeral was over. She was real particular about that part. She said it had to be after it was all over.” Aunt Beulah’s eyes were red, and she patted at them with her handkerchief, then smiled. “Your grandmother always did have things planned out a certain way, you know, and you couldn’t do step two before step one, or she’d get real upset.”
    Celia nodded and fell into step beside Aunt Beulah. Nobody had to tell her about Grandmother’s insistence on doing things a certain way. Uncle Taylor tried to extend the umbrella to include her, but the mist seemed to be swirling up from the ground. Celia could feel that her bangs had gone limp, could see them drooping into her eyes. She looked down at her feet and scolded herself again for wearing her new shoes that had cost far too much. The suede trim was going to be ruined, of course. She should have thought about the possibility of tromping through a muddy cemetery.
    Al had already gotten into the car and started the engine. No doubt he had the heater turned on full blast. She could see him rubbing his hands in front of the vent, trying to thaw out. As they approached his car, Aunt Beulah stopped and opened her large pocketbook, which was made of a woven strawlike fabric more suitable for July than January. From it she took a book-size package, neatly