Building Blocks

by Cynthia Voigt

  But how could a thing like that happen? If the Brann Brann was hadn’t traveled back in time, then the Brann he was wouldn’t have had his name. To be in either place, he had to be in both places. There was a hard-edged inevitability to it. Fate again.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

  Kevin Connell picked up the plane again, running his fingers over its cutting edge. “I don’t much care about that. Do you?”

  Brann threw his arms around his father and hugged him as hard as he could. He felt his father’s big rib cage and broad shoulders. “What’s that for?” Kevin Connell asked mildly, but he hugged Brann back and swatted at his backside affectionately.

  Brann winced but he didn’t draw away. “Because we’re friends. Aren’t we?”

  You didn’t really know somebody unless you knew him when he was a kid. Kids didn’t have so many walls built up around them, to hide behind and keep safe; kids hadn’t built all those walls yet. They had some—Brann had some, he knew that. But it was clearer with kids what they were really like. He could begin to know his father now.

  “I guess so,” Kevin Connell said. “I hope so.” He rumpled Brann’s hair.

  Brann’s father knew him, then, too, that way. Because Brann was a kid, his kid. Brann wondered what his father thought of him. He hoped his father respected him. He looked up at his father and stepped back.

  “Listen, Dad?” The idea seemed to have been taking shape in his mind for a long time, but it was just now finished. “I’ve got an idea. No, listen, it’s a good one.”

  “You sound like your mother.”

  “Well, I am,” Brann answered. “In lots of ways. Now look—this farm. What if, instead of selling the farm, we sold this house? We could move to the farm, and Mom could go to law school out there. Isn’t there a law school out there?”

  “Probably. There’s the University of Pittsburgh.”

  “Is it a good school?”

  “Good enough. It’s not New York good, I guess. But that’s not Harvard good either, so who cares? And who knows, anyway? What do we know about stuff like that?”

  His father was only half-listening, Brann knew, but he kept talking: “We could farm for a living, and the money from this house could send her to law school and Sarah to college too. Would there be enough?”

  “Maybe. But what about you?”

  “I keep telling you. I’m twelve, and that’s too young to being worrying about college. Besides, Mom’s so smart, she’ll be through law school and raking in the money by the time my turn comes around.”

  Kevin Connell laughed. “Crafty. You’re a crafty kid.”

  “Could we? Dad? Pay attention—could we do it?”

  Kevin Connell studied his son’s earnest face. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Unless—you know Will Whitcomb?”

  “Sure, Billy’s father.”

  “I ran into him on the train one day—his car was in the shop or something. I was drawing something, I can’t remember. He said—I ought to send the drawings to a publisher. He said publishers need people to do drawings and he thought mine were good enough.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. What could I say?”

  “And you didn’t do anything either, did you? You never even told us. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Kevin Connell shrugged. “People say things they don’t mean. How could I tell about him? And I didn’t want your mother on my back about that, too. It was quite a while ago. And he might be wrong.”

  “But if he did mean it and he isn’t wrong, would that mean we could get along on that farm?”

  “It might. I don’t know anything about it, Brann. But if . . . Lord, I could quit that job. I thought I was there until I just died at my desk. I can’t imagine not sitting at that desk.” Brann’s father smiled quietly. Then the smile faded. “It’s a grade-A idea, son. But I can’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Your mother has her heart set on the New York law school and she’s right, the least I can do is sell the farm for her.”

  Brann thought about this. If it was him, and there was something he wanted, really wanted, like his mother wanted to be a lawyer—but he wouldn’t want his father to be unhappy unless there wasn’t any other way. He guessed his mother might feel the same way he did. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed; and he was pretty sure all of a sudden.

  “That’s not necessarily true,” he told his father. “The least you can do is give her a chance to decide. C’mon, Dad, you can’t give up on it without trying it.”

  “What if she says she doesn’t like the idea.”

  “Tell her it’s fate.”

  “She won’t buy that.”

  “Try her, Dad. Just try her. You can’t tell, can you? Not until you try.” Brann looked straight into his father’s eyes, trying to persuade him.

  Fate isn’t what either of us thought it was, Brann said to himself, the idea going off inside of him like a sparkler. Fate wasn’t a smothering pillow, and it wasn’t a steel sword blade. Fate was possibilities, all the possibilities, even the impossible ones.

  “Maybe,” said Kevin Connell. “OK, I will. Right now. Might as well get it over with. But you’ve got to come stand behind me. It’s your brainstorm after all.” He led the way upstairs.

  They found Brann’s mother in the den/bedroom/TV room, sitting at the desk, reading. They stood quietly until she looked up. Kevin Connell kept his hand on his son’s shoulder, but whether it was to remind Brann to wait or to keep himself feeling brave, Brann couldn’t tell. That was OK, Brann thought. He had this kind of courage in abundance.

  When his mother looked up, he spoke quickly. “What if we sell this house and live on the farm?”

  She shook her head and sighed.

  “Then you could go to law school in Pittsburgh.”

  “I don’t know anything about Pittsburgh,” she said. “I’d have to commute.”

  “Dad’s done that for years,” Brann pointed out to her.

  Anger flashed into her eyes. Well, it was true, he thought. The hand tightened on his shoulder, but he ignored it. “He has, and he never complained.”

  Her head bent down over the book and she put her fingers into the hair at the back of her head. When she lifted her face again, tears were on it. Kevin Connell put his other hand on her shoulder, but he didn’t try to comfort her.

  “You’re right,” she said to Brann. “I know that. Oh Brann—I shouldn’t have talked that way this morning, and I’m sorry.”

  Brann knew what it took for her to say that. “It’s OK. I understand.”

  “It’s just that—I feel as if I have to choose between living a life that will make me happy and the one that will make your father happy.”

  Brann’s father started to protest, but she stopped him. “You know that, Kev. You know what I mean.”

  Kevin Connell spoke to Brann instead: “I’m not much help to her.”

  Before Brann could say anything, she answered: “But you are—in your own way. And we really do love each other,” she said, then turned back to Brann. “I won’t ever talk like that in front of you again, I promise.”

  He knew he could believe her.

  “I just get so frustrated,” she said. Then she told herself, “That’s no excuse.”

  “Yes, it is,” Kevin Connell said. “Brann understands.”

  Brann did, of course. He knew the kind of anger that makes you lash out one minute and then walk away the next. “Listen, if we sold this house and moved out there we’d have the extra money. Don’t you see?”

  “Of course, I see that, and if your father knew how to farm, but you don’t know, either of you, how fast money goes and—”

  “If you want it, if you want to go to law school, it’s a way. A way where Dad wouldn’t have to lose the farm. Because he really doesn’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to be a farmer’s wife.”

  “What about what Dad wants?”

  “Beside
s the money we’d need just to live on. It’s three years, Brann. This house isn’t worth all that much. I’m sorry, but—”

  Brann interrupted to explain about what Mr. Whitcomb had told his father. So he thought she should think about it, really think about it.

  “Kevin. Is that right? And he liked it? And you never told me.”

  Brann’s father nodded.

  “But why didn’t you tell me? You know I’ve always thought you were really good. How long ago was this?”

  “Months. Last winter or maybe fall.”

  “But weren’t you even pleased? I am. I think it’s absolutely wonderful.” Her eyes flashed green lights, brightening the whole room. “You should have told me. Kevin? You should have. Why didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry Di. I didn’t think—it’s nothing definite. It’s just a chance and not even a good one. There are lots of people who can draw.”

  “I don’t mind taking chances, Kev. You know that. Honestly, sometimes—”

  Brann interrupted again. “Let’s stick to the point here. What about it, Mom?”

  She wasn’t even looking at him.

  “What about selling this house and living on the farm,” Brann said patiently, explaining his idea all over again. “It would make Dad happy,” he concluded.

  “Would it?” she asked her husband.

  “I don’t know, Di. It’s so risky, depending for an income on farming and drawing. I don’t know whether I can—”

  “But do you want to?” she demanded.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  Brann couldn’t believe his father was backing down now.

  “But if it doesn’t work, if I can’t make enough, if nobody is interested in my drawings—I couldn’t take being blamed for ruining everything, Di.”

  Brann’s mother took a deep breath. “You have my word,” she promised him. Then she turned to Brann: “Your father—has a way of seeing home truths and looking them in the eye,” she said—said proudly.

  So she knew that too; Brann should have guessed.

  “We could look at a map and see just how far it is from the farm to the university,” he suggested.

  When they had seen the map and Brann’s mother had decided that with the money from this house they could afford a used car for her to commute in, she raised her final objection: “What about good schools for Brann?”

  “I don’t care how good the schools are. For Pete’s sake, leave me alone not to care about what I don’t care about. OK?”

  “OK,” his mother said. She held up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “OK. OK.”

  Kevin Connell moved fast, once his wife had said the idea was fine by her; that, in fact, all things considered, she thought it might prove a workable arrangement. “You’ll make a great lawyer talking that way, everything so careful,” he remarked as he picked up the phone to call a real estate agent.

  “What if I flunk out?” she asked suddenly. Brann looked at her in alarm. He hadn’t considered this possibility. “Well?” she asked him.

  He shook his head at her, wondering if she was teasing. But she looked like she was testing him, not teasing.

  “You won’t,” he said. He didn’t even want to think what it would be like if she did. He made himself think about it. “But if you do, or if you change your mind—”

  She whooshed out a mouthful of air to show how impossible that was.

  “—then it’ll be up to me to establish the family fortunes,” Brann concluded.

  “What about me?”

  “It’ll be all right, Dad won’t mind and neither will I.” Brann eyed his mother thoughtfully, considering the possibilities for her. “And you can learn to can tomatoes and put up preserves and milk the cows.”

  “I better not fail then,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Brann agreed.

  • • •

  Two months later they were living in the neglected farmhouse. Harry was back at college and Sarah was going to stay with her best friend’s family for her senior year. (“I’ll never make a hayseed,” she said. “But it’s what you all want so go ahead and do it. Really. I’ll come for Christmas and check it out.”)

  Brann’s father couldn’t put crops in that late in the year, but he had bought some chickens and expected an apple harvest. Their lives formed a pattern. In the mornings, after early chores, Kevin Connell retired to a studio he had made for himself up in the attic, where the light was good for drawing. In the afternoons he worked at fixing up the house, windows, wiring, plumbing, bookshelves. Brann’s mother had enrolled in law school and was just waiting to begin. To fill up the time before she started, she scrubbed down walls and applied fresh paint. As long as she could go to school, she said, she didn’t care where she lived—especially if Kevin was happy.

  Mostly, Brann thought, they were happy—in their own way, of course. But then, he was beginning to think that people could only be happy in their own ways, and there was no point in trying to change them. There were still fights, most of them Level One. His mother was a fighter, he guessed. That wasn’t necessarily bad. She still hammered on his father, like when Kevin Connell thought some pictures weren’t ready yet to send away to a publisher, although he couldn’t say what it was he wanted to do to make them better. His wife gave him an earful about if he was going to drag her out here he had to try and keep trying, that was the deal, and he had to keep up his end of it.

  Brann figured once his mother started school and knew what kind of people were there and what kind of work they’d expect of her, she’d feel easier and not have time to fret about how much work was accomplished each day. He hoped he himself would feel easier, once he’d started school and knew what he’d gotten himself into.

  They’d only had one Level Two fight, and that was about his mother’s car. Kevin Connell wanted his wife to buy a new car, which would cost thousands of dollars. She wanted to get an old VW bug she’d found in a used car lot. She said he’d never been able to manage money, and it was her decision. She said if he was going to foist off the financial affairs on her then he couldn’t step in and mess up her arrangements. She said, she wished he’d learn to keep his nose out of business where he knew he wasn’t of any use. Kevin Connell sat and agreed with her and apologized.

  Brann stuck around for the fight, making himself remain quietly at the table. He didn’t take sides. He didn’t even want to. He thought, to himself, probably his mother was right and they couldn’t afford a new car.

  “I understand, Di,” his father said.

  His mother’s angry voice burst over the table. “No, you don’t. You don’t want to be bothered, and I don’t blame you. But really, Kev, you have to be realistic about something.”

  “I am being realistic,” Brann’s father said. “You’re going to be commuting almost a hundred miles a day, tired, and in bad weather too. I want you in the safest possible car,” he said.

  “But—”

  Kevin Connell interrupted her. “I’m not going to give on this one, Di. You matter too much to me.”

  Brann’s mother looked down at her clenched hands. Brann studied his glass of milk. He thought maybe his father was right about this, after all.

  “I don’t see how we can afford it,” his mother said. Her eyes were shooting out warm green lights.

  “You’ll figure out a way,” her husband promised her.

  She shook her head, doubting, but didn’t stop smiling. “There goes your new bike, Brann.”

  Brann hadn’t thought of that. He took a quick breath, swallowed, and said, “That’s OK. I can wait.”

  • • •

  Brann’s days slowly piled up, one after the other, making a design he couldn’t yet figure out. He helped his parents when he could and stayed out of the way when he couldn’t. He spent a lot of time alone. He wandered around the farm, savoring the solitude and spaciousness of the acres of woodland, farmland, and orchard. The hills rolled one after the other, like waves f
rozen in mid-swell. The fields, which had been abandoned for so long, had made their own crops, sword grass and Queen Anne’s lace, and bobbing black-eyed susans. Brann learned to drive the tractor and mowed down the grass that was choking the orchard, where the green apples had grown to the size of apricots. He worked on the vegetable garden, ripping out the overgrowth, turfing over the soil. He fed the chickens and remembered the picture he’d seen taped to Kevin Connell’s bedroom door.

  Brann spent hours, too, down by the river, just looking at it. Because the Ohio River was cleaner now than when he’d seen it last, thirty-seven years ago, two months ago. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t finished yet, but it had really started. That, he couldn’t believe. The water was deep blue-green, and fish and turtles were living in it. Clean little waves lapped cheerfully at the steep banks. In all those years, the Ohio River had gotten better, not worse. It wasn’t possible, but it had happened.

  Cynthia Voigt has received countless accolades for her books for young readers, including the Newbery Medal for Dicey’s Song and a Newbery Honor for A Solitary Blue. The American Library Association has named five of her books on their list of Best Books for Young Adults. In 1995 she received the Margaret Edwards Award for excellence in young adult writing. A teacher as well as a writer, Ms. Voigt lives in Maine.

  BOOKS BY CYNTHIA VOIGT

  Dicey’s Song

  Winner of the Newbery Medal

  A Solitary Blue

  A Newbery Honor Book

  The Callender Papers

  Winner of the Edgar Allen Poe Award

  Homecoming

  Tell Me If the Lovers Are Losers

  Building Blocks

  The Runner

  Jackaroo

  Izzy, Willy-Nilly

  Come a Stranger

  Stories about Rosie

  Sons from Afar

  Tree by Leaf

  Seventeen Against the Dealer

  On Fortune’s Wheel

  The Vandemark Mummy

  Elske

  Bad, Badder, Baddest

  Bad Girls

  Bad Girls in Love

  It’s Not Easy Being Bad

  Orfe