“I won’t,” I said.
Then he took the book back.
It was the last time we went outside for a few days, except when we went out to the Small Barn for Quintus Sertorius and the Big Barn to milk and to lift weights, wearing just about everything warm that we owned—including the long underwear. The weather turned even colder, the kind of cold that froze the inside of your nose as soon as you stepped out of the house, and the sound of your foot on the snow was a crunch, and you half closed your eyes against the freezing, and you held your coat tight against you. Still, there’s something about coming into a barn full of warm cows, their sweet breath, the scent of the dry hay, and the sounds of their shuffling and snuffling. With the lanterns hissing, it all glows. And like I said, leaning against a warm cow during milking is fine.
The cows were always glad to see us—maybe because they had nothing else to do, closed up in the barn for the winter. Dahlia would look around and sometimes she would wink. Really. And Rosie? Now Rosie mooed whenever she heard Joseph coming into the barn. She waved her rump in delight. When he milked, she thought she was giving just for him.
And when he milked, Joseph talked about Madeleine. And when we lifted weights, Joseph talked about Madeleine. And when we carried bales of hay to Quintus Sertorius, Joseph talked about Madeleine. At supper, he talked about Madeleine. At night, in the dark before sleep, he talked about Madeleine.
How the first time he danced with Madeleine was during a snowstorm. He knew he was going to have to walk seven miles home and the snow was already darkening the afternoon. But it was warm inside, and he was warm inside, and they touched hands, and Madeleine laughed, and she began to hum. How they held each other and danced to Madeleine’s humming, and she had her eyes closed but Joseph watched her—he didn’t want to close his eyes. He didn’t ever want to close his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a second.
How one wintry day they dueled with long icicles that had dripped down from the roof, and how she hit his icicle again and again and clipped it down to a little nub, and how she stabbed him in the chest with her icicle and he fell down like he was dead, and suddenly she got all scared and yelled at him to get up, don’t do that, get up, and he did.
How Madeleine liked to watch movies eating popcorn with cinnamon—but never butter. How Madeleine liked to read poetry and how he pretended that he did too but she knew he really didn’t. How Madeleine wanted to go to MIT someday and become an engineer and travel to places that needed her, where she would dig deep wells so that no one would ever have to go without fresh water again. How Madeleine loved going barefoot. How Madeleine’s teddy bear was named Bunny Beau—for no reason.
How they could be quiet with each other.
How holding her hand warmed everything in him.
How he sometimes still felt her hand.
I guess that night at the pond, while my father and mother and I got colder and colder listening to Joseph, I guess that night unfroze him.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE morning, after milking, my father and Joseph and I took a couple of bow saws and an ax just in case and headed up into the hills to find a tree—not too far, since we had to drag it back. My father and I usually argued back and forth about which one to take, but we didn’t this year. For Joseph, this was the first Christmas tree he’d ever had, and when he looked at one and touched its branches and smiled—number five, sort of—it didn’t seem right to argue. It was a sweet fir that cut easily, and Joseph and I each took a side, and we carried it back home and put it up in the front room.
Like every year, the smell of it meant Christmas.
My mother had brought the boxes of ornaments down from the attic, and we waited while my father fussed the lights on, and then we opened the boxes.
Every ornament, a story. The old ones from when my mother was a kid. The handmade ones from my first grade, and second grade, and third grade. The red glass bulbs my father bought my mother one Christmas. The twelve golden angels—including this year’s new one—one for every year of my life. The glass bluebird with spread wings. The carolers with knitted mufflers. The silver trumpet, the cockeyed teddy bear with his red and white scarf, the tiny sled packed with tinier toys.
When we were almost finished, my mother went out into the kitchen and brought back a small box. “This one’s for you,” she said to Joseph, “for your first Christmas with us,” and she handed him the box.
Another golden angel.
Joseph took it out of the tissue paper. He hung it on the tree and pushed it a little with his finger. It turned and glittered with the lights. “Jupiter would love this,” he said.
We milked a little early on Christmas Eve afternoon, since Christmas Eve at night and Easter in the morning are the two times my mother is going to have us at new First Congregational “even if the Gates of Hell stand against us,” she said. That meant we ate early and scrubbed long—Joseph, too. Afterward she inspected us—especially the zombie blue patch on Joseph’s left cheek—and while she inspected, she asked Joseph if he’d ever been to a Congregational church service before, and he said he hadn’t ever been to any church service before, Congregational or not.
My mother looked at him.
“Never once?” she said.
He shook his head.
“Didn’t your mother—” And immediately she knew she’d gone too far, since Joseph backed up against the wall and looked down. “I’m sorry, Joseph. I’m being nosy and I hate nosy people. I’ll finish the dishes. You and Jack run upstairs and get ready. There are two pressed shirts for you on the banister. And, Jack, this year you can’t wear your work boots to church. No argument. Nope, don’t even try.”
I didn’t wear my work boots.
The night was cold and dark when we got to new First Congregational, and the stars were as thick as cream. Inside, the air was pretty thick too, filled with that sweet waxy smell of candles burning. We were a little late and the pews were mostly filled, so we sat up close to the front, where we could pretty much look right into the manger. Past the red and blue plaster figures, a pink baby lay mostly naked in the hay—as if anyone would leave a mostly naked new baby in hay. We sang “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful”—the ones you’d expect, I guess. But Joseph didn’t sing—maybe because he never sang, or maybe because he didn’t know the songs.
And then Reverend Ballou got up to tell the story.
About Joseph and Mary, two kids, really, not married, who found out they were going to have a baby. They were in trouble, and they knew it, and there was no one to help them, and plenty of people who didn’t want to help them. But angels came and told them not to be afraid because God would be with them. And the baby would be special. And Joseph wasn’t afraid anymore. He took care of Mary, and when they had to go to a faraway city and couldn’t find a nice place to stay—because, like I said, there sure wasn’t anyone helping them—Joseph found a place and that’s where they had their baby. And the star that shone over them that night led others to them, and they knew the baby was special too. And Joseph and Mary loved the child, and when they went back home, they remembered everything that happened and they treasured it in their hearts.
In the pew, Joseph didn’t move the whole time. Not a muscle.
When the service was over and we had finished “Joy to the World,” Joseph handed me the hymnal and I put it in the rack and followed my mother and father out into the aisle. But Joseph didn’t leave the pew with us. He was staring at the manger, past the red plaster Joseph and the blue plaster Mary, at the mostly naked child in the hay.
We waited for him while the church emptied out.
We were just about the last ones to leave. Reverend Ballou took Joseph’s hand to shake it, and Joseph said, “How much of that story is true?”
Reverend Ballou considered this.
“I think it all has to be true, or none of it,” he said.
“The angels?” said Joseph. “Really?”
&
nbsp; “Why not?” said Reverend Ballou.
“Because bad things happen,” said Joseph. “If there were angels, then bad things wouldn’t happen.”
“Maybe angels aren’t always meant to stop bad things.”
“So what good are they?”
“To be with us when bad things happen.”
Joseph looked at him.
“Then where the hell were they?” he said.
I thought Reverend Ballou was going to start bawling.
And that was the end of our Christmas Eve service at new First Congregational.
ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, it was snowing hard—again. We milked first—since cows don’t celebrate Christmas—and then came in to a breakfast of eggs and grapefruit and cherry babka and hot tea. And afterward, the presents.
The usual stuff. Wool socks for Joseph and me. And wool shirts. New jeans. New boots. A new Barlow knife for me, a new Buck knife for Joseph. Books—pretty good, except Joseph got a copy of Walden, which looked about as boring as wool socks.
When it was over and we sat back, Joseph reading the first page of Walden—probably to be polite—my father said, “Joseph, I think there’s one more thing.”
Joseph looked at him.
My father pointed to the tree.
There was an envelope underneath Joseph’s angel.
Joseph stood up and took it. He opened it slowly. He unfolded the paper. He read it, and then read it again, out loud.
“‘We’ll help,’” he read.
“Help with what?” I said.
“We’ll call Mrs. Stroud tomorrow and see if we can set up a meeting,” my mother said.
Then I knew.
But I think Joseph knew what they meant right away.
He put the paper back into the envelope. He slipped the envelope between the pages of Walden. And no kidding, watching him, I thought he was going to start bawling, just like Reverend Ballou.
He walked over to my mother and she put her arms around him and he put his arms around her and he leaned into her—the way he did with Rosie.
Then my father came up behind him. He put his hand on Joseph’s back.
Christmas is the season for miracles, you know. Sometimes they come big and loud, I guess—but I’ve never seen one of those. I think probably most miracles are a lot smaller, and sort of still, and so quiet, you could miss them.
I didn’t miss this one.
When my father put his hand on Joseph’s back, Joseph didn’t even flinch.
six
IT stayed wicked cold all through Christmas vacation. Ten or twelve below zero every morning, and when it warmed up to zero or so in the afternoon, it snowed. Joseph and I shoveled by the house and the barns, and shoveled and shoveled and shoveled, and we had to throw the snow higher and higher to make it over the drifts. Every day after Christmas, it was more snow. And when we went outside on the first day of the new year, again, we had four or five new inches to shovel off the paths—except this time, when we were almost all done and I was throwing one last full load, I suddenly felt a shovelful scatter across my back, and when I turned around, another shovelful across my chest and in my face, and Joseph was smiling and laughing.
Joseph was smiling and laughing.
Number six—not even sort of.
So, what would you do? I pulled a shovelful from a drift and threw it at him—and missed. So another shovelful, and I chased him until we got almost to the Big Barn—he was laughing so hard, he was doubled over—and I threw it onto his back. And then of course he had to get another shovelful and I had to get one and . . . You can figure out the rest.
We spent a long time shoveling out in front of the house and barns—again.
The cows were annoyed when we came in a little late for milking. Dahlia stepped on my foot, and when cows do that, they mean to.
But it was the first time Joseph had played.
And laughed.
It was worth an annoyed cow.
Supper was fine that night. Chicken, carrots, and sweet potatoes, bread pudding with homemade vanilla ice cream and homemade chocolate sauce. We were all laughing about the snow, and how it was coming down again, and how there would be a lot more shoveling tomorrow and maybe we’d have to do it twice again.
Joseph had played!
Then the phone rang and immediately everything stopped.
Since Christmas, my parents had been waiting for the call about Jupiter.
Joseph, too.
He stood frozen. His chair fell back and he bent down to pick it up but he looked at my mother the whole time. And she looked at him.
She got up and answered the phone.
It wasn’t Mrs. Stroud. And it wasn’t about Jupiter.
It was Joseph’s father.
“Hello, Mr. Brook,” said my mother.
Joseph backed up against the wall.
My mother listened for a long time. She wasn’t listening happily.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said.
She listened again for a long time.
“Has Mrs. Stroud been informed? We won’t allow this unless—”
More listening.
“All right,” she said. “Not before four o’clock. Yes, four o’clock.”
More listening.
“All right,” she said. “If that’s what’s been decided. Yes, he’s right here. I suppose you can talk to him.”
She looked at Joseph and held the phone out. He came away from the wall and took it.
“Yeah,” he said.
My mother sat down at the table. “Joseph’s father has hired a lawyer,” she said.
“Okay,” said Joseph.
“He’s somehow gotten visitation rights. I don’t know how, since . . .” She looked at me and stopped. “Anyway, he says he’ll be here on Monday to see Joseph.”
“We’ll need to talk to Mrs. Stroud first,” said my father.
“Okay,” said Joseph.
“You bet we will,” said my mother.
“I’m okay,” said Joseph.
“No,” said Joseph.
“Okay,” said Joseph. “Okay.”
He hung up the phone and sat down.
“You all right?” said my father.
Joseph nodded.
“Joseph, if you don’t want . . .”
Joseph stood up. “I’m going to check on Rosie one more time,” he said. “I don’t remember if I filled her hay bin.”
“We did,” I said.
“I’m just going to check,” said Joseph.
He went down the hall. When he opened the back door, a cold wind blew in.
That cold wind stayed with us as we waited for Joseph to come back inside. And even after he did, it stayed with us the rest of that night. And it stayed with us the rest of Christmas vacation. Joseph didn’t play anymore. We didn’t talk about his father coming, but it was like that feeling you have in dreams, when something is on its way and there’s nothing you can do about it except to hope you wake up before it comes.
Sometimes you do.
Joseph was waiting for me after school on Monday. It was a blue day, a few high clouds, somewhere in the low teens—almost like a thaw. Joseph said he was going to walk home, and I said I’d walk with him, and he didn’t say I was being a jerk. He hunched his coat together and we started off. When the bus passed, Ernie Hupfer, John Wall, and Danny Nations and his ear buds were watching out their windows, and Ernie Hupfer was shaking his head—like I really was being a jerk.
We stopped at old First Congregational and threw snowballs up at the bell. It doesn’t sound the same as a good clang with a rock, but Joseph wanted to throw a bunch up there, and we did. Then we walked out to the Alliance bridge and threw snowballs into the river through the broken slats. And then Joseph said it was getting colder and I said I was still okay but he said we’d better go, and we did.
We got home a little after four o’clock.
A van was parked in the driveway. BROOK PLUMBING, it read on the side.
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And a car. STATE OF MAINE * DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND HUMAN SERVICES, it read on the side.
We went into the house, me first.
My parents were there, standing. And Mrs. Stroud, standing. And Joseph’s father, sitting.
“Hey, stud,” he said.
“Hey,” said Joseph.
Joseph looked down at the floor as he walked across the kitchen and laid his backpack on the counter.
“It takes a lawyer to see my own son,” said Mr. Brook. “But I finally got one. A good one.”
“Okay,” said Joseph.
Mr. Brook stood up.
“Let’s go talk,” he said.
Joseph nodded.
“The living room’s free,” said my father. He pointed. “Right in there.”
“I’m taking my son for a drive,” said Mr. Brook.
“Nope,” said Mrs. Stroud. “You’ll stay here in the house.”
“Like hell we will.”
Mrs. Stroud took out her phone and began hitting numbers. “I’m about to end this visit right now, Mr. Brook. Your choice.” She held her finger over the last number and looked at him.
Mr. Brook looked back at Mrs. Stroud, then walked over to Joseph and put his hand on Joseph’s back and shoved him a little toward the living room.
You know what happened when Mr. Brook put his hand on Joseph’s back?
Joseph flinched.
But he went into the living room with his father anyway.
Mrs. Stroud put her phone back in her purse. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I’m really very sorry. I advised against it, but he’s right—he’s got a good lawyer. Well, not a good lawyer. A persistent and threatening lawyer. And unfortunately, those are the ones who get exactly what they want.”
“What does he want?” said my father.
Mrs. Stroud shook her head. “I think it’s money.”
“He’s here for money?”
“He’s complicating any adoption for Jupiter,” said Mrs. Stroud. “His lawyer claims that since Joseph is a minor, he had no parental rights to sign away. His father, his legal guardian, has those rights. And it seems that Mr. Brook won’t sign away anything until a large check arrives at his house with Madeleine’s parents’ signature on it. Of course, there’s nothing in writing that says all this. But everyone knows that’s what he’s waiting for.”
Orbiting Jupiter Page 6
