by Betsy Byars
At the top of the hill Matthew was turning his bicycle around. He eased one leg over the seat as carefully as if he were getting on a strange horse. “I’m ready,” he called down the now empty hill.
No answer.
“Where are you, Josh? Don’t you want to see me ride my bicycle?”
No answer.
“All right, then, you’re going to miss it. Anna, watch! I’m starting. Joshua, you better look if you want to see me.”
He pushed off. His start was ragged. His front tire dug into the earth like a plow. He was glad Joshua hadn’t seen that. He lifted the bike out of its rut and pushed. The front tire began to roll. “Here I come!”
His voice rose as the bicycle picked up speed. “I’m really coming! Look, Josh, look!”
The front wheel struck a rock and wobbled, causing the bike to weave from side to side. “Whoa!” Matthew cried. His feet found the pedals and, forgetting there was no chain, he began to pedal. “Yikes!” He held his legs out at the sides. He pushed first with one foot and then the other. The bicycle picked up more speed.
“Josh, it works!” he yelled happily.
Behind the bush Joshua was ready. His eyes shone with pleasure. He shifted nervously. He was intent on one thing—his brother weaving down the hill on that bicycle.
He duck-walked forward two steps. Matthew’s happy yells came closer. “Look, Joshua!” He was yelling, pleading now. “Look at me!”
“I’ll look all right,” Joshua said, smiling to himself.
The bicycle was almost at the bush now. With a gasp of anticipation, Joshua jumped out, screaming. He was directly in front of the bicycle, in a crouch, his arms outstretched. He was as ready as a lineman for the Pittsburgh Steelers.
“Yannnnnnnnngh!” he cried.
He had a moment of intense pleasure as he saw Matthew’s startled expression. The bicycle hit a rock—Joshua hadn’t known that would happen—things were getting better and better. His eyes gleamed as the bicycle swerved to the right and wobbled back and forth on the rocky ground.
“Hah!” he cried triumphantly.
He was planning to add a second, “Hah!” but suddenly the bicycle was no longer wobbling. It was coming straight for him. Over the handlebars he saw Matthew’s face white with alarm.
“Hey, watch out! Look where you’re—”
Joshua broke off. He struggled to get up and failed. He scrambled backward. He stumbled. He threw up his hands to protect his face and then, in a crouch, took the impact of the front wheel directly in the chest.
He screamed. He fell backward, kicking out like a Russian dancer. Then he was thrown onto his back. He twisted sideways to save himself, but the bicycle came after him. It was like an enraged bull.
“Aiiiiii,” he screamed as the bicycle caught up with him and rode over his head. Chainless, it poked fourteen holes into his scalp.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii …”
The bicycle swerved to the right then and crashed into the dead kudzu vines. Joshua’s scream went on and on in the still, cold air.
Matthew came up out of the dead vines, slow and mad. He had no idea of the damage the bicycle had done. He thought it was another one of Joshua’s tricks. Joshua was always pretending to be hurt worse than he was.
“What’d you do that for?” he yelled at his brother. “You made me wreck, you stinking—”
He did not finish his insult because at that moment he saw his brother. Matthew stood, drawing in one long breath, his hands clasped over his mouth.
Joshua was twisting like a beached fish, throwing himself so violently from side to side that he was sliding down the hill. His hands clutched his head. Blood was streaming from each of the fourteen holes, running through his fingers, down his trembling hands.
Matthew began screaming then, too, but his was a quiet in-and-out sound. He was used to the sight of blood—they both were—but not this much, and not from the head. Matthew could not move. He had not known a head could hold so much blood. He had thought there was nothing up there but brains.
Finally he got his voice. “Mommmmmmmm!” He turned and began to run down the hill. His knees were so wobbly that he jerked along like a puppet.
He saw Anna coming out the back door, and he changed his cry to “Annaaaaaaaa!” She ran toward him. Behind her was Mr. Glory.
“What is it? What have you boys done now? I told you I wanted some peace this morning. I told you I needed to think. You—”
As Anna passed Matthew, he pointed up the hill to where his brother lay. “Joshua,” he gasped. “Joshua’s scalped!”
Anna’s Search
ANNA STOOD AT THE window with one arm around Matthew’s shoulders. They had been standing there ever since Mr. and Mrs. Glory had left for the hospital with Joshua.
“It’s my fault if he dies,” Matthew said glumly.
“Joshua’s not going to die.”
“How do you know that? You’re not a doctor.”
“I saw him. I was the first one there, remember? I helped Mom wash his head.”
Matthew was silent for a moment. Then he said, “His eyes … that’s what makes me think he’s going to die.”
The memory of his brother being carried to the bus came back to him. Joshua’s head had been wrapped in a pink bloodstained towel, his face had been a small, pale circle, his arms dangled at his sides.
His eyes had been rolled back into his head. That was what really scared Matthew. It was as if Joshua were trying to see how much damage had been done inside his head.
Those sightless eyes had made Matthew feel bad enough to be taken to the hospital too, a second patient. “This one was run over by a bicycle,” his parents would tell the doctors. “This one is just plain sick.”
Anna turned away from the window with a sigh. She felt she needed to do something to take her mind off Matthew. Her glance fell on her father’s desk. It was then that she remembered the letter.
“Where are you going, Anna?” Already Matthew missed the comfort of her arm.
“Just over here.”
She walked to the desk and pulled open a drawer. She looked through the contents and slammed it shut. She opened a second drawer.
The noise caused Matthew to turn around. He watched with growing alarm as he saw Anna going through their father’s desk. This was something so forbidden that even he and Joshua had never done it.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for something.” Anna did not glance up. She shuffled through some papers.
“What?”
“A letter.”
“Dad will be mad at you for going through his things.”
“Who’s going to tell him?”
She looked at Matthew then, hard, over an open drawer, and he turned away with a sigh. “Not me,” he said tiredly. Suddenly he felt as if it should be bedtime. He actually wanted to go to bed for the first time in his life. “What time is it?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“At night?”
“Matthew, look outside! It’s broad daylight!”
“Well, I’m tired. I feel like—”
He glanced down and saw that his pants were covered with drops of his brother’s blood. When had that happened? He pulled up his pants legs. His sneakers too. He could not remember when he had been close enough to Joshua for—Oh, yes, when his parents were carrying Joshua down the hill. He had helped them, or tried to, until his father told him to get out of the damn way. It was the first time Matthew had ever heard his father curse, and he had gotten out of the way immediately. He had run ahead and opened the kitchen door.
“Do you think Josh’s going to die?” he asked Anna. His interest in the desk search was gone. He stared at the empty road.
“No.”
“I do.”
“Matthew, scalp wounds always bleed like that. A boy in my room hit his head on the pencil sharpener, a little wound, no deeper than that, and he bled all over the whole school. And Joshua had about a dozen wounds like
that. Anyway, I had a good look at him when we were washing his head, and they were just punctures.”
She slammed the drawer of unpaid bills shut, saw that two letters had fallen to the floor and picked them up. “It’s got to be here,” she said, discarding them.
“What?”
“The letter!”
“Oh.”
Matthew felt as tired and confused as an old person. He felt like Grandpa Glory, who couldn’t keep anything straight. Grandpa Glory had never even understood that he and Joshua were twins—he thought they were just one boy who was real active. “Here you are again,” he was always saying.
“Listen, Matthew, maybe you can help me. Last night Dad got a letter, and it made him furious, and he wouldn’t tell me who it was from.” She straightened. “I have a right to know what’s going on in this family. You do too. We have a right to see that letter!”
“Not me.”
Matthew had had all the trouble he wanted for one day. He looked back at the road. All he wanted was for Joshua to come home and for it to be bedtime.
“What are you looking for?” Angel said. She came into the room, brushing her hair. She was getting ready to wash it and then roll it again. Sometimes Anna asked her, “Why on earth do you roll your hair at night when you’re going to wash it the next morning?” But Angel never explained. Anna had plain brown hair, and Angel felt she would not understand.
“I want to see that letter!” Anna said. She opened the top drawer again and slammed it shut. “Remember, I was telling you last night that Dad got a letter?”
“Oh, that. It’s in his jacket.”
“His jacket? How do you know?”
“I saw him reading it this morning, and then he goes and stuffs it in his pocket. You’re practically sitting on it right now.”
“This jacket?” The jacket was slung over the back of the chair. Anna patted the pockets until she heard the rustling of paper. Her eyes gleamed as she pulled out the letter. “Aha!”
She smoothed the letter over her knees. “It’s from Uncle Newt!” She began to read to herself. “Guess what?” She read a few more lines. She was moving her lips now. She glanced up. “No wonder Dad was upset.”
“You better put the letter back,” Angel said. “The bus is coming.”
“The bus is a million miles away, in the hospital parking lot. Guess what?”
“What?”
“Uncle Newt’s getting out of prison!”
“It is the bus!” Matthew cried at the door. “I see it!” He pressed his face against the glass. “Only I don’t see Josh. Maybe Josh died. Maybe—”
Anna stuffed the letter back into her father’s pocket and stood up quickly. “I’m glad you two have good hearing. I’m beginning to think I’m deaf. A teacher in second grade did tell me I needed to have my hearing checked.”
“They always tell me that too.” Angel moved to the door to watch with Matthew.
“There he is!” Matthew screamed. “He’s alive!”
Relief flooded through his body so fast it left him weak. He held onto the doorknob.
“He’s sitting up!” He made it sound like a miracle. “And he’s eating something! Ice cream!”
His joyful screams filled the house. He spun around. “Ice cream!” He flung open the door and filled his lungs with cold November air.
He stood, grinning, as the bus rolled up beside the worn chinaberry tree and came to its usual shuddering stop.
“They’re home!”
As Matthew crossed the porch, hopping with excitement, he suddenly paused. He wondered if Joshua would remember the last words he, Matthew, had said. His smile faded slightly. He wrapped one arm around the post. He ran his foot back and forth over the warped floorboards.
This had happened when his parents had been carrying Joshua to the bus. Matthew had run along beside them. He had been crying, and he really loved his brother for the first time in his life.
Choking with love and fear and remorse, he had cried, “You can have the bicycle. It’s yours!”
He wondered if Joshua had heard that. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t remember. Head injuries sometimes caused amnesia. He didn’t want Joshua to have amnesia, of course, but he did hope Joshua hadn’t heard him.
Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was wrong, but he wasn’t through with the bicycle yet. He liked that bicycle. And, after all, if Joshua hadn’t gotten in the way with his big head, he would have ridden all the way down the hill on it.
Anna passed him, running toward the bus. She took the steps in one leap. Matthew broke into a grin and followed.
The Phone Call
Oh, we’re climbing, climbing, climbing
Every day it’s one step more.
Higher, higher, higher
Than we’ve ever been before.
Looking, looking, looking
For that heavenly shore
That will lead us to the
Kingdom of Love.
THE GLORY FAMILY WAS singing in the living room, learning a new song, while Anna fixed supper in the kitchen.
The worst thing that could happen to a person in this family, Anna decided as she waited for the water to boil, was not being able to carry a tune or beat time.
Anna lifted the lid on the pot. “Boil!” she told the water. She slammed down the lid.
There were lots of people who didn’t fit into their families. Anna reminded herself of this all the time—the dumb one in a family of brains, the ugly one in a family of beauties. But no one—Anna was sure of this—felt as left out as she did when her family sang together.
“Joshua, you’re not in rhythm,” Mr. Glory said. “Pay attention!”
“I can’t!” Joshua wailed, letting his drumsticks drop to his sides. “My head hurts!”
Joshua had had forty-two stitches put in his head the day before, three to close each puncture. Now his head was ringed with gauze, and some of the black strings from the stitches stuck out the bottom.
“Let him go lie down,” Mrs. Glory pleaded from the piano bench.
“Those stitches cost me sixty-four dollars!”
“I know that, dear.”
Mr. Glory had been in one of his “moods,” as Mrs. Glory called them, for two days. Anna knew it was because Uncle Newt was getting out of prison. She had been waiting for his mood to lift so she could bring up the subject.
“I think you boys try to be bad,” Mr. Glory said.
“I don’t,” Matthew said.
“Let me tell you there’s enough evil in this world without you two adding to it. I read the other day that there’s kids in New York City sucking coins out of subway slots. They make a living out of that. And a woman in California is feeding her kids cat food while she eats T-bone steaks. And I—”
Joshua, recognizing the start of a long monologue, interrupted with, “I don’t try either.” Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
Joshua was used to not getting sympathy. Usually when he came in, hurt and crying, Mr. Glory would say, “Well, that’s what you get for chasing a Coca-Cola truck.”
But yesterday—the sight of himself in the hospital mirror—they had had to bring the mirror to prove to him he had not really been scalped. And as he had looked at himself, his forehead painted yellow, a path shaved through his hair, his head ringed with black stitches, he had felt so sorry for himself that he had cried like a baby. Now he felt fresh sobs shaking his body. His drumsticks clattered to the floor.
Mr. Glory relented. “All right,” he said, “go to bed. Take a pain pill.”
“Thank you,” Joshua said tearfully as he crawled out from under the drum set.
“Can I have a pain pill too?” Matthew asked quickly. “My knee still—”
“No! And these accidents have got to stop! You’ve had your last stitch, Joshua, you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care if you split yourself wide open. You too, Matthew.”
“Me? He’s the one that’s got the stitche
s. He’s got ninety-one! I’ve only got forty-two!” He could not keep the sense of injustice out of his quivering voice.
“Matthew!”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right now.” Mr. Glory ran his hands through his limp hair. He needed another body permanent. “Now, Angel, after we sing the chorus, you—”
The phone rang, interrupting him. “Get that, Anna,” he called.
“It’ll be for Angel,” Anna said, putting the lid back on the pot. “Some stupid boy. ‘You don’t know me, but I saw you in the blah … blah … blah.’” She came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her jeans.
In the living room Mr. Glory nodded to his wife. “Maudine, let’s try it again.”
Mrs. Glory began the introduction. She had been playing the piano since she was four years old. She never had to look down at the keys.
“‘Oh, we’re climbing, climbing, climbing.’”
Anna picked up the phone in the hall. “Hello.”
“‘Every day it’s one step more.’”
“What?” Anna asked.
“‘Higher, higher, higher.’”
“Wait a minute, let me close the door. Now, who is this?” she asked.
“‘Than we’ve ever been before.’”
Anna said, “Oh,” as if she’d been stuck with a pin. Slowly she lowered the phone and held it against her chest. Then she lifted it and said, “I’ll get my dad, Uncle Newt. Hold on.”
She opened the door to the living room. A chill of dread caused her to shudder slightly. “Dad?”
“‘Looking, looking, looking for that heavenly shore—’”
“Dad,” she said louder.
“Keep going, Maudine,” Mr. Glory said as he walked toward the hall. Mrs. Glory began the second verse with a ripple of chords. “Who is it?”
Anna let out her breath in a rush. “It’s Uncle Newt. He says he wrote you a letter and he hasn’t heard from you and he’s getting out of prison and needs to know if—”
Mr. Glory spun around as if he were looking for someone to strike. Mrs. Glory stopped playing the piano. Angel’s high note trailed off.
