by Megan Hart
“Gabriel. Are you finished with your work?”
Gabe shows Mrs. Moser the unfinished map. “I need crayons.”
“What happened to yours?”
Andy broke them all up and mixed the pieces together, then put them in the oven to melt into a “supercrayon.” Gabe shrugs, the truth not worth saying. Mrs. Moser clucks her tongue.
“You should be more careful with your things, Gabriel. Your father—” she says it like fazza “—he works hard.”
Gabe feels his entire face wrinkle like a raisin. “I need them for school! It’s not my fault Andy broke them! I’m tired of everyone blaming me for stuff that’s not my fault! I hate it!”
Crash goes the chair. Bang goes the table when he slams it. Slap go the papers when he shoves them to the floor. Mikey looks all goggle-eyed, his upper lip pink from the punch Mrs. Moser let him have with his snack, because milk gives him a bellyache. Andy looks scared.
Gabe is a dragon, he’s a bear, he’s a dinosaur. His fingers hook into claws. He roars and stamps, and it feels good, letting all this out. Making noise. It feels good to watch his brothers cry and squirm away from him. It even feels good to run away from Mrs. Moser, because she’s too old and fat to catch him.
He’s still running around the table when Dad shows up in the doorway. Gabe runs right into him. Dad’s solid, like a mountain. Gabe hits and bounces off, lands on his butt so hard tears fill his eyes from the pain.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What’s going on in here?”
Andy and Mikey start up with the wailing while Gabe struggles to get to his feet. Mrs. Moser tries to explain, but Dad reaches down to grab the front of Gabe’s shirt and haul him upright. Dad smells like sweat and dirt and cigarettes. He shakes Gabe, hard.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I was just playing.”
“Playing like an idiot. Jesus Christ.” Dad wipes his face with one big hand. His eyebrows are big and bushy. His breath stinks like the peppermint candies he’s always sucking. He shifts one now from side to side, clicking it against his teeth.
When Dad lets him go, Gabe stumbles. His butt still hurts, bad. His back, too. It will hurt for almost a week, and when he twists to look in the mirror later, a huge bunch of bruises will have blossomed there.
“I don’t understand you, Gabe. I swear to God, I don’t.” Dad shakes his head. “Go to your room.”
“He hasn’t finished his homework,” Mrs. Moser says.
Dad looks at her. “Well. That’s his own damn fault, isn’t it? Go to your room. Where’s my goddamned dinner?”
Gabe goes to his room. He’s not tired, but he gets into bed, anyway. There’s nothing else to do. His teacher will be mad if he doesn’t do his work, but he can’t make himself care. He can’t finish the project without crayons, so what difference does it make?
He sleeps, finally. Wakes a little when Mrs. Moser brings the little boys up and oversees them getting into their pajamas, brushing their teeth, tucking them into their matching twin beds in the room across the hall from Gabe’s. He keeps his eyes shut tight, his face to the wall, so she doesn’t know he’s awake. He drifts back to sleep amid the whistling snores of his brothers, who both have colds.
He wakes again when the stairs creak, and once more keeps his eyes shut tight, his face turned to the wall. Maybe tonight those footsteps will move past his doorway and not come inside. Maybe not.
The floor also creaks. It makes music. It’s like the school chorus Gabe didn’t try out for, but had to participate in, anyway, for the Christmas show. Every voice blends together to make a whole song. Each step on this creaking, squeaking floor has a different voice, but most every night it sings the same song.
Tonight the footsteps don’t stop across the hall. They keep moving toward Gabe’s bed. His eyes squinch tighter, tighter, his fists clutching at the sheets. He doesn’t dare move or breathe or shift or so much as let his eyelids twitch.
A big hand brushes over his hair. Gabe braces himself, but the hand retreats. The floor creaks, the song changes. When at last he dares to open his eyes and look to make sure the bogeyman has indeed retreated, he sees something on the dresser that wasn’t there before. He has to sit up in bed to make sure. The light in the room is dim, so he also has to touch it. But when he does, he takes the offering into bed with him, lifting the lid and breathing in the best smell in the whole world, over and over.
A box of brand-new crayons.
* * *
Gabe thought of those crayons, that fresh and brand-new box of crayons, when he saw what the old man had left him on the kitchen table. He poked it with a fingertip, his lip slightly curled. Couple packs of cigarettes, his brand.
“What’s this for?” he asked from the living room doorway.
The old man didn’t even look up from the TV. “Had Andy bring ’em home for you. What, you don’t want ’em?”
It wasn’t that Gabe didn’t want the cigarettes. Smokes weren’t cheap, and if his father wanted to gift him with a couple packs, he wasn’t going to complain. But the old man’s gifts never came without a price, and Gabe wanted to know what it would be before he accepted.
“What do you want?” he asked evenly.
His dad still didn’t look at him, another sign he was working up to something. “Nothing. Why do I always have to want something?”
“Because you always do.” Gabe came into the room to look him over. “Shit, old man. You stink. Why don’t you take a shower once in a while?”
“Why don’t you shut your pie hole,” the old man muttered, shifting in his recliner. The flickering light of the television reflected in his eyes for another few seconds before he finally looked at his son. “I need you to take me to the doctor tomorrow.”
Gabe didn’t say anything for a long minute, during which his father shifted uncomfortably.
“What time?”
“I have an appointment at four.”
“Jesus.” Gabe sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “You couldn’t have asked me this a week ago? A couple of days, even? How long have you known about it?”
“Language,” the old man reprimanded. “I knew you’d say no, that’s why.”
Gabe rubbed his tongue against the back of his teeth until it ached. “I didn’t say no. What’s the appointment for?”
His father gave him a shifty glance. “It’s private. I just need to go. Can you take me or not?”
“I have two jobs going on tomorrow. I can maybe juggle the second one, yeah. But you know, you have to ask me this stuff ahead of time so I can make it work. I can’t just be at your beck and call.” Gabe paused, eyeing him. “You sick?”
“No.”
“So what’s wrong with you, then?”
“I got piles, okay?” The old man scowled. “Hurting something fierce. Is that what you want to hear? Fine, I’ll tell you!”
Gabe laughed. “If you got off your ass once in a while, maybe you wouldn’t have that problem.”
His dad raised a trembling finger, his lower lip pooched out. “You can just shut your mouth. Disrespectful son of a bitch.”
It was an old insult, one that no longer stung. Gabe shrugged. “I’ll take you. Thanks for the cigarettes.”
He pocketed both packs and went out back to smoke. Light spilled from the Decker house next door, golden and somehow warm even in the frigid January chill. From this angle he couldn’t see inside, but shadows moved in the square of light from the kitchen window. Janelle, he imagined. Washing the dishes, maybe. Standing at the sink, looking out into the snow-covered backyard.
The light upstairs went on, snaring his gaze. From here he couldn’t see inside any more than he could into the kitchen, but more shadows shifted up there. He imagined her pacing. Unpacking a box, making the bed.
Dancing.
“When I dance,” she says, “I feel like I can do anything.”
A shudder rippled along his spine that had nothing to do with the cold outside. Gabe drew agai
n on the cigarette, but it made him cough unexpectedly, burning his throat and the inside of his nose with smoke and frigid air. Above him, a figure appeared in the window. Staring down at him? Maybe, if only at the cherry tip of his cigarette. Surely she couldn’t see the rest of him, tucked away in the shadows. Still, he dropped the butt into the coffee can of sand on the porch railing and stepped back from the edge, making sure there was no way she could even glimpse him.
The swing of lights in the street alerted him to Andy’s return. His brother laughed as he got out of the car that had brought him home, and he was still laughing when Gabe met up with him inside the house. Andy waved a fistful of lottery tickets in Gabe’s face.
“Got the winner this time, I know it.” He pinned them up on the corkboard next to the fridge, where they kept the calendar and his work schedule and messages from Michael.
There were a few there now. He called every other day on the house phone to talk to their dad, though he couldn’t be bothered to visit more than a few times a year. Somehow, the only person this seemed to bother was Gabe.
“What would you do with that money if you did win, anyway?” Gabe asked.
Andy looked thoughtful, then shrugged. “Take you and Dad and Michael on a trip. He went on that cruise, remember? He said it was fun. Maybe I’d buy some new video games.”
“What if you won really big?” Gabe looked over the tickets. His brother spent hours analyzing the numbers, certain he could figure out the next big hit. “Wouldn’t you want to get out of here? Wouldn’t you want to leave?”
Andy had been rummaging in the fridge, but now turned. “Where would I go?”
“Nowhere,” Gabe said with a shake of his head. “Never mind.”
FIVE
JANELLE HAD NEVER wept when Bennett started school, not even kindergarten. And Bennett hadn’t been one for tears, not even as a baby. Today, with his breath puffing out in the frigid northwestern Pennsylvania mountain air, his cheeks red and lips already chapping, he looked as if he might break down, and that was enough to send Janelle’s heart surging into her throat.
“I’ll be okay, Mom.”
“Sure. It’s going to be a great school for you.” She nodded firmly. “I know it won’t be like the academy, but it’ll be great.”
“Don’t cry,” Bennett warned.
She’d always driven him to and from school. Montrose Academy had limited bus service, and Bennett’s after-school activities would’ve meant she needed to pick him up, anyway. Music lessons, sports and art classes, in addition to what the academy provided. No dance lessons; he’d never been interested in that. She’d spent hours ferrying him from one class to the next. Thousands of dollars, all to make sure he had every possible opportunity.
“And you get to ride the bus,” she told him. “That’ll be fun.”
His expression told her he didn’t believe her. The bus appeared at the end of the street and stopped at the intersection. For a moment it looked as if it would continue without turning onto Dippold Street. The first day of her senior year of high school, Janelle had had to run for the bus. She’d lost a ballet flat, had to go back. Everyone had been laughing at her when she got on the bus, red-faced and panting, the carefully tousled hairdo she’d spent an hour fixing a mess.
This time she’d called the school four times to make sure of the stop location so they’d be at the right place on this first day, but her heart still pounded uncomfortably until the bus made the lumbering turn and headed toward them. It screeched to a stop on the opposite side of the street with that distinctive braking noise. The lights flashed and the red sign flipped out to prevent the nonexistent traffic from passing. Bennett headed for the bus without a backward glance.
“Wait!” Janelle cried. “Do you have your...lunch money? Your gym clothes?”
She should’ve driven him to school, just this first day. Walked him to the office, made sure he had everything he needed. Switching from private to public school was a difficult enough transition without a cross-country move, including a climate change on top of it.
Bennett didn’t even look back. Janelle stared at the faces peering at her from the bus windows, and kept herself from running across the street after him. The bus driver waved. She waved back. The bus drove off.
That was it, then.
Her teeth were chattering and her fingers numb. The house would be warm, but before going inside she took the time to look up and down the street. Not much had changed.
Those Tierney boys, Janelle thought, turning to look at the big redbrick house next to Nan’s. It sat higher on the hill than hers. An intricately constructed railroad-tie wall had replaced the cinder blocks that used to keep the yards distinct. The same concrete walk led to the back porch door. It had once been lined with flowers, but now butted directly against the wooden ties.
And... Oh. Andy. He stood on the front porch, bundled in a bulky red coat, the fur-edged hood hanging down his back. He waved at her.
“Hi!”
Janelle tucked her hands into her pockets and quelled her chattering teeth long enough to cross to the edge of the Tierneys’ yard. The new winter boots her mom had given her for Christmas were too big, too heavy. In California, Janelle lived most of the time in flip-flops or sandals. Slow and unwieldy, she felt like she was walking on the moon, without the bonus of being able to leap and float.
“Hi, Andy.” Janelle waved.
He’d gotten older, of course, the way they all had. Yet she knew that face. The slope of his chin, his nose, the hollows of his eyes and cheeks. The silver glinting in his dark hair came from age, but the thicker stripe of white along the part hadn’t. That was from the bullet.
“You know me?” Andy rocked back and forth on his heels. In contrast to his heavy winter clothes, he wore bedroom slippers on bare feet. His ankles stuck out a few inches below the bottom of his flannel pajama pants.
“Yes. Do you remember me?”
Andy’s brow furrowed. “No.”
His lack of memory didn’t surprise her, but her disappointment did. Thick as thieves, that’s what they’d been once upon a time. Janelle and all three of those Tierney boys. She didn’t let even a toe prod the frosty grass of his yard.
“Janelle Decker. We—”
“Mrs. Decker lives next door.” Andy jerked a thumb at Nan’s house. “She makes the best cinnamon buns. But she hasn’t made them for a while.”
Nan did make the best cinnamon buns, that was true. Janelle smiled. “Yep. We used to go to school together?”
She let the statement lilt at the end, though it wasn’t a question. They’d done a lot more than go to school together, but their adventures had been of the sort you didn’t just quote casually on a January morning after half a lifetime. Andy cocked his head.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”
“That’s okay. It was a really long time ago. I’m Mrs. Decker’s granddaughter,” Janelle said, wondering if that would spur any sort of recognition.
No light appeared in Andrew’s eyes. No miraculous recovery. She ought to have known better, but was still disappointed.
Andy’s hand crept up to stroke along the white strip. His expression clouded. “I don’t... There are lots of things...”
“It’s okay, Andy. Really. You don’t have to remember.” Impulsively, she hopped over the invisible boundary between grass and cement and up the small hill to the porch. Her boots gave her plenty of traction so she didn’t slip. She put one on the bottom step and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you. Again.”
Andy took her hand gently. His fingers didn’t curl all the way around hers; his grip was well-intentioned but weak. “Meetcha. What are you doing next door?”
“I’m going to be staying with her.”
“For a visit?”
Janelle paused, then shook her head. “No. For a while.”
“You’re going to take care of her because she’s sick.” Andy nodded as though it all made sense, as if he’d just put together
the pieces of a puzzle and could see that the picture matched the one on the box. “She has cancer in her brain.”
Janelle swallowed. “Yes. She does.”
“Will she die soon?” Andy said this so matter-of-factly, so calmly, that all Janelle could do was gape. He gave her that look again. “I almost died once. Did you know that?”
Her mouth was dry, but she managed to say, “Yes. I did.”
Andy’s mouth tipped on one side. He’d once had a brilliant smile, just like both his brothers—wide and bright and infectious. When Andrew Tierney grinned, he did it with his entire face. Or had, until things had gone bad. Now only one-half really moved.
“But you’re here now. You’ll take care of her.”
Janelle nodded. Her shivering had stopped with the uprush of emotion heating her from inside. Her cheeks felt flushed, her armpits sweaty.
“Good. I was worried about her. We used to play cards all the time, but not since she went to the hospital. I haven’t gone over since she got back, because Gabe says she probably doesn’t want to be bothered. I would help her, you know. But this—” he knocked a fist against the side of his head “—makes me stupid. I’m stupid now.”
Janelle wasn’t sure what to say. Nan had never mentioned playing cards with Andy. She hadn’t said a word about any of the Tierney boys in years, not since she’d called to tell her about the accident. Janelle suddenly felt dumb. Of course, Nan wouldn’t say anything about them to her, but that wouldn’t mean she didn’t see or talk to them. Or, apparently, play cards with them. They were her neighbors, after all, and in a town the size of St. Marys you didn’t ignore your neighbors unless you had some reason to feud. Nan would have no reason for anger.
And Janelle didn’t, either, did she? Everything that had happened was long past, and the man in front of her had paid a far greater price for it than Janelle ever had. There’d be no sense in holding any grudges, and it was obvious Andy wasn’t capable of it, anyway.
His brother, on the other hand, obviously was. Gabe glared, first from the window, then the front door. His gaze skidded over her, then went to his brother.
