Secret Brother

  “I know what it is,” I said, smiling. It felt good to smile. I knew it was part of what would bring me back, even though a bigger part of me wanted never to come back. That part wanted to stay with Willie.

  “Good. So . . . you’ll return to school on Monday?”

  “I guess so. My friend Lila has been helping me keep up with the classwork.”

  “Best thing you can do, although I know it won’t be easy, maybe not for a long, long time. Whenever I saw you two together, you were more like a mother to him than an older sister.” He paused and shook his head. “Of course, you would be, having lost your mother, but other girls might have withdrawn completely into themselves. You’re a great kid, Clara Sue.”

  I nodded. I knew Uncle Bobby meant it all as a nice thing to say and not to get me crying again. I could see, however, that he had something else on his mind. He had the look of someone debating with himself whether he should speak. He looked away and pressed his lips in and out.

  “How’s Grandpa?” I asked, as a way to help get him to talk. “I didn’t see him this morning.”

  “He’s Grandpa,” he said, smiling. “He won’t show it, but I know he’s struggling. You have to wonder how I could be his son. There I was when I was your age, bawling like a baby at the sight of a dead butterfly. It still makes my eyes tear to see beautiful things die. Your grandfather is just one of those guys who cry on the inside and not on the outside. He’s also one of those guys who use anger to overcome sorrow.”

  “Getting his revenge,” I said, nodding.

  “Right.”

  “Has he said any more about the poisoned boy?” I could sense that this was really what he was holding back.

  He nodded. “Thing is, he received a report from the private detective concerning him.”

  “He’s going home?” I asked quickly, hoping this was the end of it.

  “No. The detective has apparently run into a dead end.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “My father’s exact words were ‘Whoever the man was, he had dropped the boy off like a bag of plague and then hightailed it into the shadows like a ghost.’ There wasn’t even a decent description of him. He wore some kind of hat and kept his collar up. His height and all that were too vague to draw a picture. Not much to go by. The boy had nothing on him that would identify him. Basically, my father’s given up on the private detective for now. Of course, the police are still involved.”

  “But he’s still visiting him every day, isn’t he? That’s probably why he leaves so early.”

  Uncle Bobby nodded.

  I thought about it. “Isn’t there some kind of child protection service that takes over?” I didn’t want to tell him that I had asked Lila to ask her father about it. Her father was a corporate attorney for a company that had something to do with supplying the Navy with things, but I thought an attorney was an attorney and should know something about other legal things. He didn’t know all that much, but he had mentioned a government agency.

  “That’s just it. Dad doesn’t want this little boy to get ‘lost in the system,’ as he puts it. I waited to see if he would tell me that my mother had whispered in his ear, just what he had told you, but he didn’t mention it. Shows how he trusts you, cares about what you think, more than he does me.”

  “Well, what’s he going to do now?”

  “He’s still looking after the boy’s medical needs. He’s even hired a psychiatrist to work with him. The boy remains in serious condition, something to do with his motor skills.”

  “Motor skills?”

  “His legs, mainly. Your grandpa says he’s improving, but he has a ways to go yet. I’m just telling you all this so that you’ll know he’s still deeply involved,” he added quickly. “As I said, I think it helps him to care about someone that helpless.”

  I wanted to say that I was helpless, too, and that Willie was beyond helpless, but I didn’t. I just nodded.

  “You know your grandfather,” Uncle Bobby continued. “When he gets on something with any determination . . .”

  I nodded again. I remembered my grandmother saying that when Grandpa made his mind up about something, he looked like a bulldozer couldn’t move him. “I swear,” she had told me, “sometimes I believe he has tree roots growing out of his soles.” She would get angry about it and tell him he was as stubborn as a corpse, but I remembered that most of the time, she was proud of how determined he could be whenever he decided to do something he thought was right, especially something good for the family. She said he made her feel safer and more secure than anyone she had ever known, even her own father and mother.

  “Whatever strength this family has now,” Grandma Arnold had told me sometime after my parents had died, “comes from those roots coming out of his soles. Don’t tell him I said so,” she’d whispered afterward. “He doesn’t need to have his ego blown up any more, or he’ll be even more impossible to live with.”

  She had laughed just the way someone who declared she would swear off chocolate would, knowing in her heart that she would violate her own pledge. No one could brag about or compliment my grandpa as much as she did, and she knew it. Later she would confess, “You don’t stop eating chocolate, no matter what oath you swore.”

  “Anyway, don’t spend any time worrying about it, Clara Sue,” Uncle Bobby said now. “Everyone has his or her own way of grieving. Let it play itself out. I know I’m going to dance harder, work harder. What I mean is, don’t let the grieving overtake you and prevent you from being who you are. I know you take pride in everything you accomplish in and out of school. Now you can tell yourself you’re doing it all for Willie, too.”

  “Okay.” Those all-too-familiar tears were returning. Would they always be there, just appearing willy-nilly? Who would want to be around me?

  Uncle Bobby came over to hug me and kiss my cheek. “Maybe you can come see me in one of my shows,” he said. “There’s a good chance I’ll be back on Broadway this coming year. You’ll be able to stay with me, and I’ll show you around New York. How’s that?”

  “If Grandpa lets me. Sometimes I can even hear the chains rattling.”

  He laughed. “I know. We’ll get Myra to agree first, and if necessary, we’ll invite her along,” he said.

  He started out but stopped, thinking for a moment in the doorway. Then he turned back to me.

  “Look after him, Clara Sue. He’s more lost than you think,” he said, and left.

  Was he right? I could only think back to how my grandfather had acted after my parents were killed and then after Grandma Arnold’s passing. Both times, he was the one taking care of everyone and everything with such authority. I did feel safer. Was the loss of Willie greater to him than I thought it was? Perhaps he’d had high hopes for Willie and even envisioned the day when he would begin to work in the business, something Uncle Bobby never did. Now that was gone. What did he have left? Millions of dollars? A beautiful estate? A thriving big business?

  And memories captured and locked away in pictures. How often must he look up at Grandma Arnold’s portrait in his office and ache? How empty were his nights? Nowadays, I was tempted each morning to stay in bed forever. How did he manage to get himself up? Where did he find the energy and the desire?

  I decided to be less intolerant of the attention he was giving the poisoned boy. I didn’t like it any more than I had yesterday, but perhaps once he saw to it that the boy was restored to health, he would surely move on to other things. He’d probably help find a new home for him. I was used to the idea of my grandfather having influence on many things besides his own business interests. He knew so many politicians. There was once talk of him running for mayor of Prescott. He could even call the governor if he wanted.

  I sat at my desk again and continued my letter to Willie.

  Uncle Bobby just left. I miss him already. I love everyone here, but
Uncle Bobby is special. You know that, too.

  I still can’t believe you’re gone, Willie. Even after all we’ve gone through and all the people who’ve tried to comfort us, I still expect you to come barging into my room and annoy me when I’m on the phone or trying to get some homework done and study for a test. I know you hate to be alone and want me to watch television with you or play one of your games.

  I’m sorry now for every time I snapped back at you. You know I ended up being with you anyway. People always say Myra and My Faith spoil you, but you and I know that I spoil you the most. Or did.

  I have to tell myself that you’re not alone now, that you’re with Mommy and Daddy, and the truth is that you feel sorrier for me than I do for you.

  When I die, will you still be a little boy when I see you again, or do people grow older in heaven? You have to be in heaven. You didn’t get a chance to do anything very bad, not that you would have.

  Uncle Bobby was right about my getting back to myself, but I can’t help being afraid of going to school again, seeing the faces of my classmates, who I know will all be thinking about what happened and waiting for me to break out in tears at any moment.

  People are afraid of people who are in mourning. They don’t know how to talk to them, and they worry that they will say something that will get the person crying or running off. They’ll feel just terrible about it, so the best thing to do is avoid them.

  I’m so afraid that will happen to me, especially next week when I return to school.

  I even think that might be why Grandpa is leaving the house so early these mornings. He’s hoping I’ll get all my crying done before he comes home. One look at him told me not to cry in front of him anymore. He would just call for Myra and rush away to his office, closing the door behind him. Then I’d feel even worse.

  I didn’t want to put this in a letter to you, Willie, especially not one of the first ones I wrote, but I think there’s going to be more and more about him over the next few days. I’m talking about the poisoned boy. If you were here and had seen him, I know you’d be as interested in him as Grandpa is, and I would be, too. But if I was to count the minutes Grandpa has spent thinking about you and the minutes he is spending thinking about the poisoned boy, I think I’d find that he’s spent more on him than on you.

  Maybe Uncle Bobby is right. Maybe Grandpa is afraid to think about you and thinking about this strange boy helps him avoid it, but I don’t have to like that.

  Sometime next week, after school, I’m going to ride my bike to the cemetery and talk to you, Willie. I promise.

  Mostly, I promise I will never forget you.

  I’m going to write to you all the time, because I believe as soon as I finish a letter, Mommy will read it aloud to you and Daddy.

  Forever.

  I put my pen down, folded the paper, and stuck it into one of my personalized envelopes. Then I put it in the bottom left drawer of my desk and went downstairs to see what My Faith was going to make us for dinner. Actually, I just wanted to talk to someone. I didn’t want to play my radio or watch television. It seemed wrong to do any of that so soon after Willie’s funeral, but I was having trouble with my loneliness.

  Lila had wanted to stay home from school and be with me every day, but her mother didn’t think she should, and besides, how could I get the schoolwork if she was home, too? At least I had something to look forward to in the afternoon, and although I didn’t want to ask or admit it to her, I was interested in what the others in our class were doing. It bothered me when I thought about these things, because I thought I shouldn’t, not yet, but I couldn’t help it just as much as I couldn’t help taking another breath.

  Maybe Lila can stay for dinner tonight, I thought. With Uncle Bobby gone, the table would seem so empty, and I was actually afraid of my grandfather talking about the poisoned boy, afraid that neither of us would mention Willie’s name, either now or ever, just the way Grandpa avoided talking about my parents.

  Unfortunately, Lila couldn’t stay. She hadn’t told me, but her parents were taking her and her older sister out to celebrate her father getting a major promotion at his company. I could see it was something she had known about for a few days, but she had been reluctant to mention good news. Like most people right now, she didn’t want to make it seem like everything was just hunky-dory for them while everything was horrible for me.

  “Everyone asks about you every day, especially Mr. Leshner,” she said to make me feel a little better.

  Mr. Leshner was our social studies teacher. Everyone agreed that he made the subject interesting. I had never gotten anything less than an A in his class, and he kept predicting I would be the valedictorian when I was a senior.

  “And, of course, Aaron,” she added.

  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t push him or the things we had all planned to do during the upcoming Christmas break out of my mind. Lila and I had been toying with the idea of having our own New Year’s Eve party and sneaking in some alcoholic drinks. Her parents were considering letting us use their house. Some of our other girlfriends would stay over, too, maybe even one or two of the boys.

  But that was all before.

  This afternoon, as we did some homework together, she made a few comments about people in school, but not once did she mention Willie, nor did I.

  Grandpa came home just before she left. He looked in on us. It was the first time he had done so this week.

  “Hello, girls,” he said.

  “Hi, Mr. Arnold.”

  “Joining us for dinner, Lila?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Her parents are taking them out to celebrate her father’s promotion,” I explained for her quickly.

  “Oh, great. I think I heard something about that. Congratulate your dad for me.”

  “I will.”

  He nodded, glanced at me, and walked on to his room.

  “Everyone wonders if your grandfather will ever remarry,” Lila said. It took me by complete surprise. “Do you?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. The whole idea seemed foreign, even a little terrifying to me.

  “I heard my mother talking to some of her friends about him. They all think he’s very handsome but also the most eligible bachelor because he’s so rich and successful.”

  “He’s not a bachelor. He’s a widower,” I said.

  “He’s not old,” she said, with an insistence that annoyed me.

  “He can’t love anyone like he loved my grandmother. Any other woman would be quite disappointed.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he can’t, but he can love someone enough to marry her, can’t he?”

  I didn’t reply. I looked at my math book instead.

  “I guess I’d better start home,” she said.

  “Have a good time,” I told her. I tried not to sound bitter.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you if it’s not too late when I get home.” She paused in the doorway. “Do you think you might want to do something this weekend?”

  “No,” I said sharply and quickly. She nodded. I knew she was bored with just coming over to spend time mostly in my room. “But you do something. Don’t worry about me.”

  “We’ll see. ’Bye,” she said.

  I tried to go back to the math homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. I slammed the book shut, went to the window, and watched Lila get onto her bike and start off. As she sailed down the driveway and out the gate, I realized that I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner of grief.

  The dining-room table was barren and bleak without Lila, Willie, Uncle Bobby, or my grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt Sally joining us. These past few nights were all difficult. I know Grandpa was trying to look as comfortable and happy as he could. This evening, My Faith had made something we both loved, her special meat loaf and incredibly delicious mashed potatoes. They were practically the only potato
es Willie would finish. Usually, Grandpa drank wine with his dinner, but he wasn’t drinking any tonight. We had yet to have a private conversation about our tragedy. Usually, Lila was here or he was at work right after dinner in his house office, but tonight I could feel it coming, the way you could feel an impending thunderstorm. My whole body tensed up, and even the little appetite I had was threatened.

  He didn’t start talking until we had been served our meal. He complimented My Faith, as he always did. Myra was having her dinner in her room. She was finally admitting to her aches and pains, and I imagined she was more exhausted than any of us, with the combination of grief and injuries.

  “I have survived our terrible share of sorrow, Clara Sue,” he began, “by making myself work harder and do what I could to avoid thinking about it all. We’re never going to stop hurting over Willie, but we’ve got to do the best we can so that everyone we’ve lost would be proud of us. Right?”

  “Yes, Grandpa.”

  “So, you’re going back to school on Monday?”

  “Yes.”

  He ate and thought, and I ate, avoiding looking at the chair where Willie would sit. I knew I was eating faster than usual just to get it over with and hurry out. Would I avoid every place in this house where I could envision Willie?

  “You don’t know,” my grandfather began again, “but one of your grandmother’s and my favorite charities is something called Angel View. It’s an organization dedicated to providing assistance to handicapped children. I mean, we do our share of charity contributions, but that one was at the top of your grandmother’s list. She even volunteered to work at their center in Charlottesville occasionally. I don’t think you knew that.”

  I shook my head.

  “She wasn’t one to talk about what she did for others. Unlike a lot of people I know, here especially, she just did it and didn’t ask anyone for any thanks or recognition. If anything, that embarrassed her and took away from the main goal—helping someone in need.”