Part 10 (1/2)

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waited. I listened to the shrieking yelps of laughter as other kids were discovered. I felt smug, congratulating myself for finding such a good hiding spot. I heard the singing of crickets. Still, I waited. Twilight was descending, and the sky turned indigo; I could see the evening star. Soon, the cries of other kids faded, and my chest began to feel tight with panic. Where had everyone gone? I wondered. Why hadn't Benji found me? Why hadn't I heard the game called? I stood up, and my legs shook from kneeling for so long. I started walking, but shortly realized that I wasn't moving toward the barn. I became disoriented and frightened. The cornfield went on for acres, and I couldn't see in the gathering darkness any longer. Tears began to fall from my eyes, and I couldn't catch my breath. I was so scared, I began to run. Suddenly, Nate was there.

”Hey, Squirt! Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes scrunched with worry. ”I've been looking for you forever.” I just shook my head, sobbing now, and Nate picked me up, even though I was too old and far too big to be picked up. Then he carried me out of the maze of corn. ”It's okay, I found you,” he said. I buried my head in his neck and cried and breathed in his scent, suddenly relis.h.i.+ng how safe I felt. How loved.

Now, I sink to the floor, holding up one of Nate's T-s.h.i.+rts to my face, clasping it to my mouth and nose. It was almost five years ago when I first started to miss him, when he first went away from me, when he marched off to eighth grade, grew

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some hair on his lip, and became a giant jerk. When Nate stopped being the brother I had always known and wors.h.i.+pped, the brother who used to take me down to the creek, balanced on the handlebars of his bike. The brother I used to follow bravely, happily, anywhere.

Squirt, which he had always called me with affection, became a weapon, inflicted with a spike of malice. ”Get out of my way, Squirt,” came to be the best I could expect from him. That turned into ”Get out of my way, loser” Then just ”Move.”

When he died, I felt like someone had taken a softball and punched it through my stomach -- my gut -- because I knew then that the older brother I used to idolize would never, ever come back.

I set the T-s.h.i.+rt down on the floor beside me and begin to dig deeper, moving boots and sneakers, which do not smell nice, out of the way. At the back is a cardboard tube. I draw the plastic cap from one end and crawl out of the closet. I hold the tube up to the light, peering into it, trying to see what its contents are. There are several papers rolled up inside it. Probably more posters, but I snake two fingers down into the tube, tapping on the other end, to try to shake them out, anyway.

Finally, I manage to snag them, and slide them out slowly. The paper is grainy and rough, not poster material. With shaking fingers, I unroll them and let out a low whistle when I see the delicate blush of pigment. Subtle splashes of color and

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fine black lines. It is a series of watercolor paintings, of tree branches, birds, flowers. And Nate's spidery signature marks the lower corner of each piece.

Not in a million years, not in ten million years, would I ever have expected this. He was great. He could have been truly great.

I gather all of the drawings and the watercolors and the wooden box of pencils in my arms and move to the door. The k.n.o.b is warm and cool at once. I pause and look around the room. Could it be? Could he be here with me? Not since he died have I ever had the sense that he was nearby. I don't know if I believe in heaven or any kind of afterlife. But I do know it makes me very sad to think Nate is just lying in the ground, being eaten by worms and maggots. But not sensing his presence makes me sad, too, and so usually I try not to think about it. Yet, with a doork.n.o.b feeling hot and cold at the same time, I start to wonder if maybe Nate is here and, if he's here, maybe he's glad I've found his artwork, glad his secret is finally out in the open, and that I can finally know who he really was.

As I poke my head out into the hallway, I can hear my mom's voice coming from the den. She is probably yelling at my dad about me. And my father is probably just sitting there, taking it. Silent. Absent.

I smuggle all of Nate's things into my room, hide the drawings and paintings under my bed, and tuck the pencil box away

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into one of my desk drawers. I pull out my history book and get ready to do the a.s.signed reading before I go to bed. The Civil War. It used to feel like a civil war was being waged inside the walls of this house when Nate was alive. At first, my parents tried to cajole Nate into behaving. As he grew more reckless, more angry, more defiant, finally, they took to screaming at him, doing battle with him every chance they had. And Nate almost seemed to relish in fighting back. Their sparring would usually drive me into my bedroom, to take cover under my covers. It was b.l.o.o.d.y. And it was awful.

Now, my mother ceaselessly tries to engage my father, but he is unwilling to be drawn into a fight. The house is much quieter, but the silence is worse.

I snap the book closed, I can't concentrate. All I can think of is Nate and how angry at him and at my parents I am. How sick of all this anger I am. It's poison. My body feels like it is humming; I can't sit here any longer. For the second time tonight, I check to see if either of my parents is up and moving around the house. The hallway is silent and empty. Suddenly, I feel possessed by a wild recklessness. I don't care if they do catch me. I am going out, and no one is going to stop me.

I fling open the garage door and run outside. The air is cool and clean. I hop on my bike and start pedaling fast. Faster. I am soaring down the streets of Lincoln Grove, onto the county road, and letting my body lean into each curve, I make my way in the growing darkness to the creek. When I reach the spot, I

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throw my bicycle on the ground and sprint to the weeping willow tree. There, I fall down, hugging the tree's broad trunk for support.

”I can't do this.” Sobs are filling my throat, filling the night. ”I can't do this anymore. I can't.”

What a waste. What a terrible waste. He died and I never really got to know him. I never got to know what he did, what he could do. He will never get to show everybody what he could do. I don't even think he knew what he could have done. My gut burns with the same fiery pain I felt on the night he died.

A tempest is raging inside of me, outside of me, and I feel the sky might fall down, come cras.h.i.+ng about my head. The ache inside of me keeps me rooted to the ground, to the base of the willow tree.

What was the point of your dying when the rest of the world keeps going? We have to keep living without you, Nate! We have to live and go to school and eat breakfast and live without you. Julie is making out with other guys, and this stupid world keeps spinning, even without you in it! What is the point? What is the point of any of it? I want to scream at the heavens.

No meaning, no point.

And if the whole world can crumble to pieces at any moment, why should we struggle to make it through the days and months? Why should we pour our hearts into paintings and stories and families and love if the sky could fall down at any moment? Terrifying, terrifying.

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The sun is setting, and the sky is a milky violet, the first star twinkling in the eastern horizon.

What is the point?

As if in response, a strange silvery light falls across the ground where I lie. When I glance up, the moon has risen and hangs low in the heavens. It is a big full moon. As I gaze at it, I can make out the gray eddies of crater and mountain, a whole landscape up there, suspended in the sky. The enormity of the moon sings to me and quells my rage. I feel the singing of the moon in all its h.o.a.ry beauty like a balm. Yes, I am in the world now.

The singing rings and sings in my ears, and I stare out at the land around me. There, just at the edge of the creek bed, stands a slender white bird. Slender and white like a crane. It seems to have simply appeared, and, oh, what an elegant figure it makes. The neck is long and slim and plunges into a curved back in a single, flowing line. White downy wings are tucked tight to its body, and in the moonlight, the bird seems to glow with an ethereal light.

The bird wades into the water, dipping its pointed orange beak below the surface. Its neck arches and bends in one fluid movement, and lifts, its stark whiteness standing out against the darkening trees and rocks and gra.s.s. The bird c.o.c.ks its head, one eye staring curiously at me. I have never seen such a beautiful creature.