I took a sheet off the bed and tied it to the bedpost and let it out the window. Then I climbed out the window and shinnied down until I touched the ground. Then I ran to the garage, quiet, and I got a couple of shovels and I ran to the empty lot. It was hotter than ever. And I started to dig, and all the while I dug, the Screaming Woman screamed …
It was hard work. Shoving in the shovel and lifting the rocks and glass. And I knew I’d be doing it all afternoon and maybe I wouldn’t finish in time. What could I do? Run tell other people? But they’d be like Mom and Dad, pay no attention. I just kept digging, all by myself.
About ten minutes later, Dippy Smith came along the path through the empty lot. He’s my age and goes to my school.
“Hi, Margaret,” he said.
“Hi, Dippy,” I gasped.
“What you doing?” he asked.
“Digging.”
“For what?”
“I got a Screaming Lady in the ground and I’m digging for her,” I said.
“I don’t hear no screaming,” said Dippy.
“You sit down and wait a while and you’ll hear her scream yet. Or better still, help me dig.”
“I don’t dig unless I hear a scream,” he said.
We waited.
“Listen!” I cried. “Did you hear it?”
“Hey,” said Dippy, with slow appreciation, his eyes gleaming. “That’s okay. Do it again.”
“Do what again?”
“The scream.”
“We got to wait,” I said, puzzled.
“Do it again,” he insisted, shaking my arm. “Go on.” He dug in his pocket for a brown aggie. “Here.” He shoved it at me. “I’ll give you this marble if you do it again.”
A scream came out of the ground.
“Hot dog!” said Dippy. “Teach me to do it!” He danced around as if I was a miracle.
“I don’t …” I started to say.
“Did you get the Throw-Your-Voice book for a dime from that Magic Company in Dallas, Texas?” cried Dippy. “You got one of those tin ventriloquist contraptions in your mouth?”
“Y-yes,” I lied, for I wanted him to help. “If you’ll help dig, I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Swell,” he said. “Give me a shovel.”
We both dug together, and from time to time the Woman screamed.
“Boy,” said Dippy. “You’d think she was right under foot. You’re wonderful, Maggie.” Then he said, “What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“The Screaming Woman. You must have a name for her.”
“Oh, sure.” I thought a moment. “Her name’s Wilma Schweiger and she’s a rich old woman, ninety-six years old, and she was buried by a man named Spike, who counterfeited ten-dollar bills.”