Innocent by Eric Walters Page A

paused. “You also need to take care of him.”
    I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to do that.
    She added, “He’ll be fine, I’m sure. It’s just that sometimes strangers can be a bit off-putting. I know you’ll take care of it.”
    I wasn’t so sure, but I appreciated the vote of confidence.
    “And here’s Richie now,” Mrs. Meyers said.
    He still had on the same stained shirt and tattered pants and was carrying his shovel, but he was wearing a tie now. It was much too short and hung awkwardly around his neck.
    Mrs. Meyers straightened his tie. “You take care of Lizzy, okay?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    He was always so respectful to Mrs. Meyers. He started walking away, and I hurried to catch up to him.

    We came to the fence marking the edge of the cemetery. I could make out the headstones, stretching into the distance as far as I could see. It was a large cemetery. It had taken us less than fifteen minutes to walk here, and I was grateful, since we’d certainly been attracting a lot of attention. Cars slowed down so people could gawk at us—a large man carrying a shiny silver shovel, and a girl with two gigantic bouquets of flowers.
    Of course, it would have been much worse if they hadn’t been friendly. Dozens of people in passing cars honked their horns and waved or yelled, “Hey, Richie” from open windows. People on their front porches called out greetings, as did the few people we passed on the sidewalk. It shouldn’t have surprised me that everybody knew Richie. He’d lived here his whole life, and he certainly was distinctive, maybe more so because his family was so prominent.
    Richie hardly seemed to notice the attention. A couple of times he awkwardly waved a hand in response, but mostly it was as if he didn’t notice. I tried to fill in for him, smiling or nodding and waving a bouquet of flowers in reply. I was feeling uncomfortable enough for both of us.
    I also got the idea that he hardly noticed me. I tried to start a conversation, but he didn’t seem to want to talk at all. I even asked him about his pigeons—which was usually good for a long conversation—but he didn’t bite. And as much as he didn’t seem to want to talk, I wanted to. I wanted something to ease the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, which seemed to be getting worse as we walked. I was past nervous. I felt scared. Not scared like I was a kid going to a spooky cemetery. It was something more. I felt like I should have had more time to prepare—but prepare for what?
    I kept looking to the side, through the fence. There were so many headstones, so many people who had passed on. Richie stopped, as did I. We stood at the gates. The plaque on the post said Cataraqui Cemetery . I wondered why we had stopped. Richie had his head down, his eyes closed, his lips moving slightly. He was praying again.
    Richie said, “Amen,” and we walked through the open gates. Suddenly, my feeling of unease became a gigantic knot in my stomach. I didn’t want to follow him any farther.
    Richie kept on walking, not noticing I wasn’t with him. Finally I ran after him, not stopping until I was right beside him. He looked over and gave me a little smile. It wasn’t much, but it was reassuring. I wasn’t doing this alone. I just wished I was with Mrs. Hazelton or Toni or Joe or, I guess, any of the girls. Of course, that wasn’t possible.
    “The prime minister,” Richie said.
    I looked around. I didn’t see anybody, and I couldn’t imagine why the prime minister would be here. Then I saw that Richie was pointing at a tall headstone behind a small black fence.
    “A prime minister is buried here?” I asked.
    He nodded.
    “Which one?”
    “Sir John Alexander Macdonald. Born in Glasgow, Scotland, January 11, 1815. Moved to Kingston at age five with his family. First prime minister, serving from 1867 to 1871. Second term from 1872 through 1873. Third and fourth terms from 1878 to 1887. Formed his fifth and sixth governments from 1887